Axel (Carolina Reapers 1)

I was going to bite that ass.

Just not tonight.

I tugged on the negligée until it fell into place, then rubbed where it had left a red mark under her arm. “Is that better, baby?” I asked.

No response.

“Baby?” I repeated.

She snored.

“And that,” I said, climbing off the bed to get one of my T-shirts, “is why I didn’t fuck you tonight,” I told my passed out wife.

I maneuvered her into the shirt, then sent my hands up her back, deftly undoing the corset back with quick yanks at the ties. Then I slid it down her incredible body so she could sleep comfortably and tucked her in.

I was never going to survive marriage to Langley.

* * *

“Fuck, you’re fast,” Lukas growled a week later as he finally hit the boards next to me after the drill.

“I’ve always been faster than you,” I answered with a shrug. “Besides, you know I’m used to a bigger sheet of ice.” It was the fourth set of blue line drills we’d had to run because no one would work together, and I’d fucking had it with all the whiny bitches on the ice.

Ice was for hockey, not for complaining.

“True,” he said, his chest heaving.

“Now that guy,” I motioned down the boards to Price, who shifted back and forth on his skates like he was just waiting for another whistle. “He’s fucking fast.”

“There’s a reason they call him Cannon. He’s the fastest in the league,” Porter agreed from my other side, his breathing labored. “Too bad he’s just as big of an asshole.”

Price turned slowly and raised a gloved middle finger.

“Right back at you,” Porter snapped. “Guy doesn’t give a shit about anyone or anything but himself.”

“I haven’t seen that,” I argued as Gage McPherson skated toward us. I’d always respected him as a player, so switching him to a coach in my mind was easy. I didn’t have a problem with authority as long as I trusted the guy giving the orders.

Maybe Price was the same.

“Watch any of his games,” Porter answered.

“Okay, break up and let’s scrimmage,” Coach ordered.

He divided the lines, putting me at center, flanked by Price at right wing and Lukas at left, then putting Connell MacDhuibh and Logan Ward on defense.

MacDhuibh didn’t take shit seriously from what I’d seen in the last couple of weeks, and Ward was intense, but in a good way. Pretty boy didn't seem to let his looks go to his head, which was always a plus in my book.

Puck dropped, and I won the face off. Didn’t hurt that I could fake out the rookie with one eye closed. Poor kid. No wonder they’d come looking for me in Sweden.

I shot the puck to Lukas, who fired it back when he met Porter on the blue line. I saw my chance—Thurston had his five-hole wide open. But Price had the better shot, so I sent the puck sailing toward him.

He caught it easily on his stick, deeked around Noble and shot it in. Clean shot, every time with that guy.

He nodded at Thurston and tapped the top of his helmet in support as he skated by.

“Next shift!” Coach called out, and we all headed for the bench so the other two lines could have a chance.

“You could have taken the shot,” Price growled as we filed into the bench.

“You had the better one,” I told him with a shrug. “My position isn’t about taking the shots, not like yours is. Mine is about seeing the ice and knowing you had the better shot.”

“Every other center I’ve worked with would have taken the shot,” he answered, his nearly black eyes narrowing.

“Guess that’s why they left the country to come get me, huh?” I shot water into my mouth and swallowed.

“Must be,” Price nodded. He held out his fist, and I bumped it.

“Fucking kids,” Lukas muttered from next to me when Chandler and Caine dropped their gloves. “Guess it’s drill number five.”

I was over the wall in an instant, shoving between the two. When Caine went back after Chandler, I grabbed the back of his jersey. “Say that shit to my face, Canadian!”

“Asshole, you’re both Canadian,” I growled, holding him back.

“Canadien,” MacDhuibh answered with a shit-eating grin as he held Chandler back. “This guy is a Maple Leaf, and the one you have is a Canadien.”

I threw Caine to the ice, letting his twenty-three-year-old ass fall. “You’re all wrong. Look at your fucking jerseys.” I pointed to the Reaper on my chest. “Maybe that’s what you were, but guess what? Now you’re a Reaper.”

“Last season—” Chandler started.

“Fuck last season!” I shouted. “I left my home for this! I left my ice, and my team, and my little brother, and my fucking country for this! For you! For this season, not for last season! Maybe you’re pissed that the expansion draft happened. Maybe you liked your old team. I honestly don’t give a shit. You play in the best hockey league in the world, so what the fuck are you whining about? What I care about is this team, this season. So if you two need to work your shit out, take it off the ice and work it out, because I’m not running blue line drills all day because you can’t act like adults!”