It sailed just under his arm and hit the back of the net.
The lamp lit, the crowd thundered, and I shouted in victory as Axel pounded on my back in congratulations.
“Nice goal!” he shouted.
“Nice assist!” I countered.
I skated toward the family seats and noted with a grin that Persephone sat in the front row, not up in the box seats some of the others favorited. My girl liked to be close to the action. I pointed straight at her, and she smiled, shaking her head and clapping for me.
She looked every bit the part of an NHL wife, from her designer jeans to her tailored Reapers Jersey that fit her like a fucking glove. Her hair was down, framing her incredible breasts, but I knew the best part was the fact that my name was on the back of the jersey. I hadn’t even seen it before I left for the game this afternoon, but I would have bet my bonus on it.
I halted just in front of her and twirled my finger with a smirk.
She cocked an eyebrow at me, but turned around, no doubt thinking about how much it turned me on to see Price on her back.
But it was her turn to surprise me. She’d had it custom made with my number, but it read, “Mrs. Price.” She turned back around and threw my own smirk back at me.
“So fucking hot,” I said toward the glass, knowing she would read my lips.
Her grin was heart-stopping, and I pounded at my chest to let her know it.
“For fuck’s sake, Price!” Coach yelled from the bench, and I took off for fear that we’d get a penalty for too many men on the ice if I stalled much longer.
“Sorry, Coach.”
He smacked my helmet. “Make googly eyes at your wife on your own time, Price. Not mine. That being said, it was a damn fine goal.”
We finished the game five to one, and I left the ice feeling like I hadn’t just secured a victory against the team that had traded me when my PR issues were too much for them to handle—I’d won against the Cannon I’d used to be back then, too.
I returned a text from Lillian, showered, and went through the post-game nonsense. I answered a few questions from the reporters brave enough to walk over and ask them, but I left most of that spotlight shit to Axel as our captain, and the guys who liked the attention.
Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I walked out of the locker room with Sterling.
“You did really well tonight,” I told the kid as we made our way through the small crowd of reporters, staff, and really fucking bold puck-bunnies.
“I let that one in,” he argued, shaking his head, as we cleared the crowd.
“Look, I played with Brian for years. The guy leads that team in scoring for a reason. It says a lot about Coach McPherson’s confidence in you that he let you out there tonight. Don’t beat yourself…holy shit.” I paused mid-sentence at the sight of the middle-aged man headed our direction.
The guy was a living, breathing legend. Sergei Zolotov was one of the best goalies the game had ever seen. Even though he’d been retired, the guy still held a shit ton of records.
“Fuck,” Sterling muttered, adjusting his bag on his shoulder.
“No, shit, right? What the fuck is he doing here?” Not just here, but walking straight for us, his eyes narrowing on Sterling.
“Making my life miserable,” Sterling answered, clenching his jaw in a way I’d never seen.
Zolotov barely glanced my way as he pinned Sterling down with his stare. “It was easy to see that he’d take you glove-side. You’re weak glove side. You don’t anticipate or react fast enough.”
What the fuck?
“You fly all the way out here to tell me that?” Sterling fired back.
“I flew all the way out here to see if the rumors were true, that you would be the one to watch in the coming seasons, but I see the reports were mistaken. You carry the same flaws you did in college, but on this stage, they’re even more obvious.” He crossed his arms over his chest, straining his suit fabric.
My gaze darted between the two. Same height. Same posture. Holy shit, they even had the same exact eyes.
“Well, you can head on home to the wife and kids, just as disappointed as always,” Sterling snapped.
“Don’t be an ass, Jansen.”
“Don’t act like you’re my dad, Father.”
Whoa. I’d stumbled into the motherload of family drama. I so wasn’t qualified to help him handle this shit. Where the fuck was Logan? Or Axel? Those two were way better on the emotional stability charts.
“Don’t call me that in public,” Zolotov sneered.
“Then don’t show up at my games. Easy.” Sterling shrugged.
Zolotov’s shoulders sagged slightly. “Jansen.”
“Just leave me the fuck alone, would you? It was easy enough for the first twenty-two years of my life to ignore my existence. Don’t come around just because I made it to the NHL, because I did that shit without your help.” Sterling pushed past his father and headed deeper into the arena, farther from the crowd.