Chapter 105: Focused, My Ass...

KNOX’S POV

"Look at this tape, Sheridan," Coach Brennan barked, jabbing a laser pointer at the projection screen at the front of the film room. "Number twenty-four on Boston. Colin Oliver. He doesn’t play the puck. He plays the collarbone."

The projector flickered in the darkened room, showing footage from Boston’s game against Clarkson last weekend.

On screen, Oliver came flying across the neutral zone, completely ignoring the loose puck, and launched his shoulder directly into the numbers of a defenseman who had already turned toward the boards.

The glass rattled violently on the video as the ref’s whistle blew for boarding.

"They lead the ECAC in penalty minutes for a reason," Brennan continued, pacing along the whiteboard in front of the twenty silent players crammed into the tiered leather seats. "They play border-line dirty hockey. They headhunt. And on Friday night, they are going to come after our top pairing from the opening puck drop."

Brennan stopped, his sharp gaze cutting straight to me where I sat in the center of the second row.

"Chicago and Montreal are sitting in Section 104 on Friday," Brennan added. "They aren’t just looking at your breakout passes or your point shots, Sheridan. They want to see if you keep your composure when a guy like Oliver tries to take your head off behind the play. If you retaliate and take a five-minute major, you hurt this team, and you hurt your draft stock. Do you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Coach," I answered calmly, leaning back against the seat with my arms crossed over my chest.

Beside me, Bear leaned over, muttering under his breath through a crooked grin. "Don’t worry, Cap. If Oliver takes a run at you, I’ll put his helmet into the third row."

"You’ll stay out of the penalty box, Kowalski, or you’ll run sprints until you puke," Brennan snapped without looking away from the screen. "Meeting adjourned. Go get your lift in."

The lights clicked on.

Chairs scraped against the linoleum as the guys stood up, grabbing their gym bags and shaker bottles.

"You’re awfully quiet today, Sheridan," Jake said as we walked down the carpeted tunnel toward the varsity locker room. "Usually after getting chewed out, you’re pacing the floor like a caged pit bull."

"I’m focused," I replied smoothly, popping the snaps on my practice track jacket.

"Focused, my ass," Bear snorted, shoving through the double doors ahead of us. "The man is glowing. Literally glowing. He missed morning film yesterday, ran off with his tutor, and showed up to practice today with a smile so cocky it ought to be illegal."

Bear spun around in the locker room aisle, pointing a finger at me with an obnoxious grin. "I’m telling you, boys. Bennett worked a miracle. The ice king has thawed."

"Shut up and get to the weight room, Bear," I chuckled, tossing a roll of shin-guard tape straight at his broad chest.

Bear caught it with a laugh, heading toward the squat racks with Jake and Milo.

I checked the digital clock mounted above the training room doorway: 3:15 PM.

Forty-five minutes until four o’clock.

I stripped out of my gear, took a quick, scorching shower to wash the sweat from my skin, and pulled on a fresh black henley, dark denim jeans, and my worn leather jacket.

I grabbed my backpack from my stall, double-checking that my binder and folder were inside.

My shoulder still had a faint, tender purple mark near the collarbone where Nora’s teeth had clamped down yesterday morning.

Just brushing my fingertips over the bruise sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated heat straight through my gut.

Yesterday morning in my bed. The soft, shuddering gasps she swallowed into my mouth. The desperate arch of her hips against my fingers while the rose pulsed against her. The raw, beautiful look of total surrender on her face when she finally let go.

I hadn’t slept a wink last night.

Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Nora looking up at me, cheeks flushed pink, thighs trembling with sweet aftershocks.

And now, I had to sit across a table from her in a tiny, enclosed library room for an hour and pretend I cared about aggregate demand curves.

It was going to be pure, exquisite torture.

The university library was quiet when I pushed through the revolving glass doors at ten minutes to four.

The scent of aged paper, industrial carpet, and espresso from the ground-floor café filled the lobby. A few students glanced up as I walked toward the elevator banks, but I kept my eyes straight ahead, taking the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor.

Study Room 4C was tucked away at the very end of the silent study wing.

As I approached the frosted glass door, I saw a familiar silhouette sitting at the small maple study table inside.

I pushed the door open.

Nora was seated with her back partially to the door, highlighters and neatly tabbed notebooks lined up.

She turned around at the click of the latch, and the air evaporated from my lungs.

She was wearing my oversized grey Briar hockey hoodie, the hem draping halfway down her thighs over a pair of fitted black leggings. Her chestnut hair was pinned up in a loose clip, leaving the curve of her neck completely exposed.

A camisole peeked out from beneath the loose neckline, and her skin carried the faint, intoxicating scent of vanilla and lavender that drove me insane.

"You’re late, Sheridan," Nora said, her hazel eyes dancing with playful amusement as she looked up at me. "By exactly two minutes."

I didn’t say a word.

I stepped into the room, reached behind my back, and clicked the deadbolt into place.

The metallic snap echoed loudly in the quiet space.

Nora’s lips parted slightly, her breath catching as I dropped my backpack onto the empty chair beside her.

"You actually wore it," I said, my voice dropping into a low, raspy rumble as I stepped toward her.