Pucking Strong: An MM Workplace Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 4)

“Oh, yeah … that’s it. That’s the fucking spot, right there. Don’t stop.”

I still my thumbs on the back of Novy’s calf.

“Hey, I said don’t stop—”

“What was our one rule?” I say over him.

He pushes up on his elbows to look at me. “Oh, come on. Those weren’t sex sounds. I was just talking.”

“Yeah, in a weird, growly sex voice.”

Chuckling, he flops back onto his stomach. “My sex voice isn’t weird.”

“I beg to differ.”

All around us, the other guys head to and from the showers. DeGraw, the starting goalie, is up on another table getting stretched out.

“I told you’d I’d give you a leg massage,” I go on. “It’s my first day back, and I’m willing to be a team player. What I won’t do is go and get myself punched in the head by your jealous partner because you can’t control your smart mouth. Now, am I finishing this leg in silence? Or are you limping your old ass to the showers on those rusty, crusty joints you call knees?”

Novy glares at me. “I think I liked you better as the intern.”

I cross my arms. “Right. Well, I think we’re done here—”

“No!” He grabs the hem of my T-shirt as I try to back away. “Come on, Doc, please. I’ll be so good for you. I won’t say another word, I swear.”

I grimace. “See, it still feels like you’re talking about sex—”

“Well, what can I do?” He sits up. “You wanna gag me so I can’t talk? Would that make you more comfortable?”

I narrow my eyes. “You hear it, right? When you say the words, you’re hearing it?”

“The seagulls on the beach can hear it,” says DeGraw. He’s a young Australian guy, new to the team this year. He’s super handsome, with a tanned Mediterranean complexion, whiskey-brown eyes, and a mop of unruly, dark brown curls.

“No one asked you,” Novy snaps at him.

I sigh. “Look, we’ll try again another day, okay?”

“Nooo,” he whines.

“That wasn’t your last massage. But I do have to do my actual job. And I told you I’m working with the injured list this year. So, unless you want me to break that leg …” I leave the threat hanging in the air.

“Don’t fucking tempt me,” he mutters.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” I turn to leave and nearly crash right into Karlsson. He’s wearing nothing but a little white towel around his waist, his hair still dripping wet from the shower. His chest and arms glisten with droplets, showing off his cut muscles. As he steps around me, I get hit with a scent cloud of his body wash. Oh, fuck me, he smells so good. Like the beach on a winter morning, all windswept and fresh, with just a hint of sea salt.

“Excuse me,” he says.

“Yep. All good. Not a problem,” I ramble, backing away from him with my hands raised like he’s walking poison ivy.

He ignores my antics, making his way over to his stall in the changing room. Most of the guys have already cleared out. A few linger, taking their time getting dressed or messing around on their phones. Rock music plays softly from the speakers, something classic with long guitar riffs.

I give Karlsson his privacy while he changes, only glancing over my shoulder when I’m sure he must be safely dressed. He sits on the bench in a fresh pair of shorts and no shirt. Unlike most of these hockey guys, he has no ink. Not even the Olympic rings. And he played for Sweden in the last Winter Olympics. They took home the silver medal.

I might have watched a few games.

Or every game.

“Hey, Teddy. Put these on the shelf for me, bud?”

Jolting, I turn to see the head equipment manager, Caleb Price, standing by a laundry cart. My god, six years and the man hasn’t aged a day. He still looks like he’s hiding a broody secret behind his dark eyes. I may have had a crush on him for a week or so back when I was an intern … before I clocked his unrequited yearning for Jake. He holds out a stack of white towels, nodding to the empty shelf behind me. “Can you reach?”

I blink. “What? Oh—yeah, of course.” I take the towels and place them on the shelf.

“So, you’re back then?”

“Yeah, assistant rehabilitation therapist. They gave me a ten-month contract. You know, while Rachel goes on maternity leave.”

He raises a brow. “Maternity leave, huh? Already?”

Shit, did I just step in something here? “Yeah, uhh … you didn’t know?”

He just shrugs, handing me another stack. “My wife knows her own limits. I’m done trying to get her to slow the fuck down.”

Before I can respond, a bone-chilling cry nearly has me dropping the last stack of towels. I search for the source of the sound, and my gaze locks on Karlsson across the locker room. The other guys quickly take notice too. There’s a flurry of confusion as someone mutes the rock music.

“Karlsson?”

“Fuck, what happened, bud?”

He lets out a wail that pierces my very soul. His expression crumbles as the phone drops from his hand, clattering to the floor. Then he falls forward off the bench, catching himself on the floor with his hands, shoulders wracked with sobs.

Fumbling the towels into the laundry cart, I cross the room to his side.

“Henrik, what happened?” Paulie asks again.

chest and arms glisten with droplets, showing off his cut muscles. As he steps around me, I get hit with a scent cloud of his body wash. Oh, fuck me, he smells so good. Like the beach on a winter morning, all windswept and fresh, with just a hint of sea salt.

“Excuse me,” he says.

“Yep. All good. Not a problem,” I ramble, backing away from him with my hands raised like he’s walking poison ivy.

He ignores my antics, making his way over to his stall in the changing room. Most of the guys have already cleared out. A few linger, taking their time getting dressed or messing around on their phones. Rock music plays softly from the speakers, something classic with long guitar riffs.noveldrama

I give Karlsson his privacy while he changes, only glancing over my shoulder when I’m sure he must be safely dressed. He sits on the bench in a fresh pair of shorts and no shirt. Unlike most of these hockey guys, he has no ink. Not even the Olympic rings. And he played for Sweden in the last Winter Olympics. They took home the silver medal.

I might have watched a few games.

Or every game.

“Hey, Teddy. Put these on the shelf for me, bud?”

Jolting, I turn to see the head equipment manager, Caleb Price, standing by a laundry cart. My god, six years and the man hasn’t aged a day. He still looks like he’s hiding a broody secret behind his dark eyes. I may have had a crush on him for a week or so back when I was an intern … before I clocked his unrequited yearning for Jake. He holds out a stack of white towels, nodding to the empty shelf behind me. “Can you reach?”

I blink. “What? Oh—yeah, of course.” I take the towels and place them on the shelf.

“So, you’re back then?”

“Yeah, assistant rehabilitation therapist. They gave me a ten-month contract. You know, while Rachel goes on maternity leave.”

He raises a brow. “Maternity leave, huh? Already?”

Shit, did I just step in something here? “Yeah, uhh … you didn’t know?”

He just shrugs, handing me another stack. “My wife knows her own limits. I’m done trying to get her to slow the fuck down.”

Before I can respond, a bone-chilling cry nearly has me dropping the last stack of towels. I search for the source of the sound, and my gaze locks on Karlsson across the locker room. The other guys quickly take notice too. There’s a flurry of confusion as someone mutes the rock music.

“Karlsson?”

“Fuck, what happened, bud?”

He lets out a wail that pierces my very soul. His expression crumbles as the phone drops from his hand, clattering to the floor. Then he falls forward off the bench, catching himself on the floor with his hands, shoulders wracked with sobs.

Fumbling the towels into the laundry cart, I cross the room to his side.

“Henrik, what happened?” Paulie asks again.

“You sick, man?”

“You hurt?”

“Everyone, get back,” I shout, dropping to my knees.

The guys all step back, casting worried looks and shrugs at each other.

I place a hand on Karlsson’s shoulder. “Hey, can you tell me what happened?”

He lets out a grief-stricken cry and a string of words in Swedish I can’t understand. Then his arms are around me, face pressed to my shoulder. All I can do is hold him, my hands splayed across the warm skin of his back.

Caleb stands sentinel at my shoulder. “Does anyone know what the hell happened? Did he say anything?”

“Nah, man.”

“I think he was on the phone,” someone says.

Woody steps up next to Caleb. “You know Karlsson, Cay. He never says a word about anything.”

The new forward—I think his name might be Tremblay—picks up Karlsson’s phone. “Hey, he was listening to a voicemail,” he announces to the room. He holds the phone up to his ear. After a moment, he frowns. “The guy’s talking in Swedish. I can’t understand him.”

There’s a flurry of talk before a tall blond steps up, holding out his hand. “Give it to me.” I recognize him from the night I haunted the team roster. His name is Christian Lindberg. They just traded him in from the Golden Knights. Like Karlsson, he’s a forward. And he’s Swedish.

He puts the phone to his ear. As I watch, his expression changes, shifting from curiosity, to concern, to horror. Slowly, he lowers the phone, muttering something in Swedish that sounds like a curse.

“Well?” Caleb presses. “What happened?”

Lindberg locks eyes with me. I already know the news is bad. Feeling protective of Karlsson, I splay my hands wider across him as I try to cover him. But I can’t keep him safe from this. The damage is already done. All we can do now is try to help him pick up the pieces.

“The voicemail is from a hospital in Stockholm,” Lindberg announces.

Paulie steps in closer. “What happened?”

Lindberg’s gaze is solemn as he looks down at Karlsson. “There was a car accident last night. His niece is in critical condition.”

“Oh, shit,” someone mutters.

“Fuck, man. I hope she’s okay,” says another.

But I’m still looking at Lindberg, studying the somber expression on his face. “There’s more.”

He looks from Karlsson to me. Then he nods.

“Just say it,” I murmur.

Lindberg holds my gaze, tears rimming his eyes. “His sister is dead.”