Free Losing an Edge (Portland Storm Book 13) by Catherine Gayle

ever met who’s had to share the ice with figure skaters.”
    “And every figure skater I’ve ever met who’s had to share the ice with hockey players complains about how bad our pads smell, so we’re even.”
    “If you say so.” I had to fight off a grin, though. It was true. Hockey pads stunk as bad as Cassidy’s diapers, only in a uniquely foul sort of way.
    He winked. “Fair enough. My complaining lips are sealed.”
    I finished tying off my laces and got up, stripping off the sweatshirt I’d worn to the rink. I tossed it on the bench and grabbed my iPod and speakers to set on the boards. “My music won’t bother you, will it?”
    “Please tell me you’re not playing Bieber.”
    “Nah. Michael Bolton,” I said to torment him.
    His eyes went wide.
    “It’s a mix of stuff. I won’t swear there’s no Justin Bieber, but I can promise a lot of variety. Rock, pop, rap, maybe even some country.”
    “You listen to country?” Levi climbed over the boards instead of bothering with the door. Typical hockey player move, and one that only emphasized how long his legs were compared to mine.
    “Tell me how I was supposed to grow up in a house with Cam and not be exposed to some Carrie Underwood and Florida Georgia Line.” I hit Play and headed out to the ice—using the door, like a civilized person.
    The mix started with “Lose Yourself” by Eminem, and Levi nodded appreciatively.
    I raised a brow and took off to skate.
    “I learn something new about you every day,” he called after me, heading toward the other end of the ice.
    “Only seven thousand four hundred and twenty-seven days to go before I even think about revealing anything you want to know,” I muttered to myself.

 

     
     

    “ HEADS UP!” HAMMER’S shout came only a nanosecond before the puck flew straight for both the bench and my head. I was smart enough to duck, but that left Drywall Tierney, our head equipment manager, right in the line of fire. That frozen piece of vulcanized rubber hit him in the jaw, which spurted blood almost immediately.
    The trainers rushed him down the tunnel to stitch him up, one of them holding a towel to Drywall’s chin as they scurried away.
    Bergy slapped one hand on my shoulder, the other on Hammer’s. “Get out there boys. Let’s keep the pressure on them.”
    We were in Denver playing the Avalanche, leading by a single goal in the third. The Avs weren’t the best team in the Western Conference by any stretch of the imagination. At least not this season, although they had some pieces in place for the future. Right this second, those pieces were on the ice, meaning they had some firepower up front that we didn’t want to face. Better to keep the puck in their end and not give their offense the chance to go to work.
    Hammer and I headed over the boards, and he tapped his stick on my skates to gain my attention. “I’ll pass it to you. You get the damn thing out of our zone. Clean fucking first pass, and we’ll let the forwards have at it.”
    I nodded and took my position for the face-off.
    Hammer had been my defensive partner for the last couple of weeks. He was still new to the team, but he definitely wasn’t new to either the game or the league. Our general manager had signed him right before Christmas since we had a lot of injuries on D . He might be getting up there in years compared to a lot of guys in the league, but Hammer was still a steady presence, and the two of us were learning to work well together on the blue line. He was more of a stay-at-home defenseman, playing solidly in our end but rarely showing up on the score sheet. I was penciled in as an offensive-minded, puck-moving defenseman. That was what they kept trying to groom me into being, at least, but so far in the NHL, I hadn’t done so well with that role. Still, I was the better of the two of us when it came to passing the puck to our forwards. We had a plan when we worked together, and we stuck with it.
    Koz lined up to