Third Man In: An Enemies-to-Lovers Sports Romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romances Book 2)

score, registering one measly shot on goal. T.J. had been as ineffectiveas his teammates.
He was preparing to take the ice again when an assistantcoach placed a beefy mitt on his shoulder pad and leaned in close. “Take Mayout.”
T.J. flicked his eyes to Coach, whose focus was riveted tothe ice. “Coach says it’s okay?”
“Coach is down, but you didn’t hear me say that.”
T.J.’s insides fluttered with excitement. This would besweet. Take careof your own. Though the league had gotten softer in recent years,there was still that guy who sent a message for his whole team. For theEarthquake, that guy was T.J. He’d been called a goon, dirty, unsportsmanlike.That’s not how he saw it. Sure, he’d been suspended a few times, but he playedthe way the coaching staff expected him to, and he played his role well.
The team captain, Joe “Money” Monahan—the only other guywho’d heard the assistant’s order—gave T.J.’s shoulder a shake. “Wreck thatfucking hoser, Shanny.Teach him a lesson.”
T.J. bobbed his head. “He won’t know what train hit him.”
Time for a line change, and T.J. rocketed over the boardsand took the ice, his eyes on May. The arrogant bastard didn’t seem to notice, skatingto his bench like he didn’t have a care or a conscience. Not this shift,cocksucker, but I’ll get you.
His shifts seemed to start or end slightly off of May’s asthe game went on, as though some chess master was moving pieces around a board.But T.J. schooled his patience. Waited to get May in his sights. Finally, hisdiligence paid off when Coach threw him out against May’s line. May and hisboys were gassed, but they were pinned in their own zone on a penalty kill andcouldn’t get off the ice. T.J.’s legs were fresh, and he used them to chaseMay, chirping at him all the way. May shot him a smug look but wouldn’tengage—which only served to bubble T.J.’s blood at a more rapid roll.
T.J.’s chance came in a breathtaking instant. As May washeading off, he slashed the back of an Earthquake player’s leg. That player wasNelson, and Nelson pivoted and cross-checked May inthe chest. They exchanged a few shoulder shoves, then May grabbed a fistful ofNelson’s jersey, and the two men began a fighting dance. Nelson was aplaymaker, not a brawler like May. And May knew it. Was about to take fulladvantage of it.
A coil of blinding anger, fueled by frustration, whippedloose inside T.J. He skated at May, his vision bright white, his focus lasering in on the back of May’s helmet.
“May!” he yelled. May turned hishead, and T.J.’s gloved fist crashed down. May’s eyes rolled back in his head.He released Nelson and went down, his body thudding like a sack of grain.T.J.’s momentum carried him over, and he landed on May. T.J.rose, fist cocked and loaded. The world stopped spinning, suspended.May’s half-lidded eyes were glazed. Blood leaked from his nose and mouth. Thefrozen second erupted when bodies piled on, and T.J. threw out an elbow toshield May’s head, but it didn’t reach him in time. May’s helmeted head, nowturned sideways, was driven into the ice as more players pummeled each other ontop of him.
Shouting, elbows, fists, blood, whistles.
Utter chaos.
Bodies were hauled back as refs and teammates pried playersapart. Under the mass, beside T.J., lay May. Unmoving. Bloody. His slitted eyes glassy and vacant.
Heaving breaths, T.J. scrambled away when trainers swarmedMay. Boos rained down on him from the crowd. Players and coaches yelled at himfrom the opposing bench, their words a swirl of noise punctuated by the few hemade out clearly. Goon.Cheap shot. Fucking coward. He heard threats to separate his ballsfrom his body and stuff them in any number of places.
“Doing my job,” he yelled back. “No different from any of youfuckers!”
Like a bodyguard on ice, a ref skated him back to his ownbench. “Third man in, Shanstrom. You’re done.”
T.J. should have headed to the locker room, but he leaned againstthe boards instead, breathing hard, his eyes fixed on May’s skates. Just doing what my coachtold me. Doing my job, goddamn it.
“Move, you fucker! Move!” he gritted out under his breath.
A trainer yelled, and a gate opened. White-shirted EMTsrolled a stretcher onto the ice and collapsed it beside May.
The ref grasped T.J.’s arm and steered him toward a corridorbehind the bench. “Off, Shanstrom. Now.”
Angry fans leaned over the rails, jeering, taunting. A fullcup of cold, sticky liquid came crashing down on his helmet, and a wad of icehit him full force in the face.
He ducked and hurried toward the locker room. The otherteam’s staff made way, simultaneously glowering and gawking at him, while aninner chant looped through his brain. “May’s okay. May’sokay. May’s okay.”
It was drowned out by the fury of the crowd echoing in hisears—the crowd calling for blood. His.
.~* * * ~.
Laptop and a stack of files balancedin the crook of one arm, Natalie Foster inserted the key in the lock and pushedthe door open. Securing it behind her, she flipped on a table lamp, sighed, andreleased a long, cleansing breath.
Ah, sanctuary.
Her 1950s Denver bungalow only had two bedrooms and a bath,but it was the perfect size for her, and she loved it. It welcomed her, wrappedits arms around her, and pulled her in. If a house could embody Mom, this onedid. The modest living room, with a butter-yellow couch and two Caribbean-bluearmchairs, opened to a cozy but bright kitchen, where she’d perfected many abaking recipe.
Six months ago, she’d doubted her decision to upend her lifeand start again, but as she looked around, the sight of her quaint home warmedher. Hands down, she’d made the right choice.
The wood floor squeaked as she trod to the spare bedroomshe’d converted into her office. She gratefully deposited her load atop a tidyvintage desk. A moment later, she plugged in the computer and sorted the filesalphabetically, her gaze lingering on one. A frustrated sigh escaped her. Shewas losing this client, and already she felt the pinch in her bank account. Itwasn’t that she’d done a bad job. Quite the contrary.She’d done such a good job straightening their books and