Pucking Around: Chapter 23

The worst part about being a professional hockey player? The constant travel. People my size were never meant to live on airplanes. So, you tell me why I picked a career that has me traveling on a plane for a third of the year.

I move down the aisle, checking the seat numbers as I go. There are no assigned seats, but we all have our routines. Some might even call them superstitions. I’m a goalie, of course I have them. One of my habits is that I like to sit on the right side, window seat, row 20. Don’t ask me why. But this is flight one. I have to stake my claim, so the guys know not to take my seat.

My eyes narrow and I feel a growl rise in my throat. Someone is already sitting in my seat. It’s none other than the new doctor. Of course, she’s traveling with us. We always have our own medical staff at away games. Did she know this was my seat? How would she know?

I’ve avoided her all week. She’s been hounding me to complete my physical. She wants to check my range of motion, put me through stretches and balance tests. I heard from the other guys that she’s thorough. Just my damn luck that the team hires an eager new doctor that specializes in hips and knees when I’m doing everything in my power to keep this pain from getting worse. As soon as she starts jabbing her fingers at my joints, she’ll figure me out.

She hasn’t noticed me yet. Her eyes are downcast, fingers typing away on her phone. I have two options: give up my seat or draw her attention by asking her to move. I glance around. There are some empty seats further back. Or I could sit on the opposite side of the aisle. But Compton is already seated there with the equipment manager. I’d have to make them both move.

Goddamn it.

My palms are itching just thinking about sitting in a seat other than the window of row 20. Sucking in a breath, I clear my throat.

She glances up, her face flashing with a flurry of emotions before she settles firmly on annoyance. “Well, look at that, you are alive. I couldn’t be sure from the way you’ve been ghosting me all week.”

I grunt, putting my bag in the overhead compartment. “That’s my seat.”

She blinks up at me, lips parting slightly. “Excuse me?”

“You’re in my seat,” I repeat.

“There are no assigned seats, Ilmari,” she murmurs, her gaze dropping back to her phone.

Her use of my name takes me aback slightly. No one calls me by my name here in the States. It’s not a difficult name to pronounce, Americans are just lazy. The only time I hear my real name spoken is when the announcers shout it out at the start of each game.

I loosen my tie a bit. Surely, we can be reasonable about this. “There are other seats.”

“Great, go sit in one,” she mutters, not looking at me.

Why is she making this so difficult? A player would have moved already, no questions asked. I groan, looking around again. I’m officially holding up the line. Langley is behind me, peeking over my shoulder.

“I…can’t,” I admit.

She glances up at me, those pretty brown eyes narrowed. “You can’t go sit in another seat? You have to sit in this exact seat? The one I’m already sitting in?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not in the mood for more hazing, Kinnunen. And if this is you doing some kind of weird flirting, save your breath,” she adds, looking back down at her phone.

“I…” Wait—flirting? She thinks I’m flirting with her? “Mittä helvettiä,” I grumble. “I need this seat.”

“Ohmygod, Kinnunen, what is your damage?” Now she’s glaring at me.

“Everything okay?” Compton says from my left hip, shrugging his headphones off.

“Apparently, I’m in Kinnunen’s seat,” she says with a wave of her hand. “He’s telling me I have to move.”

“What’s goin’ on?” Langley calls from behind me.

Great, let’s all have a conversation about this.

Compton glances up at me. “You need that seat, man?”

I give him a curt nod.

To my surprise, he leans around me. “Sorry, Doc. Goalie says move, you move.”

Her eyes go wide, lips parted in surprise. “What?”

Compton shrugs. “Hey, I don’t make the rules, but I sure as hell follow them. Rule number one in hockey: never touch the goalie. Rule number two: never piss him off. He says that’s his seat, it’s his seat. You gotta move.”

“Unbelievable,” she mutters, unbuckling her seatbelt and shoving her soda bottle and her phone back in her bag.

I step back, letting her out.

“Here, Ilmari. Here’s your precious seat. You could have said ‘please,’ you know. Or used more than five words to explain why you needed me to move,” she adds.

She brushes against me as she slides out, the floral scent of her shampoo wafting up my nose.

“Thanks,” I mutter, sliding into the pair of seats and sitting down.

The moment I settle, she takes the aisle seat next to me.

“What are you doing?”

She shoves her bag under the seat in front of her, phone in hand again. “I’m sitting down. Or what—you need this seat too?”

I groan. Yes.

A few players and staff file past as I build up the courage to tell her to move again. I’m a big guy. I don’t like sharing a row. Taking a breath, I let it out. “Doc…”

She glances over at me, one brow quirked up. “Oh god, you do need this seat. You want me to move again. You want that seat and this one.”

“Yes.”

We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. Slowly, she crosses her arms. “Give me one good reason why I should respect you, when you clearly have no respect for me.”

“What?”

“You ghosted me four times this week, Kinnunen,” she snaps. “I worked with Tomlin to get you scheduled for a physical, and each time you were a no-show. You show up on time for every team meeting, every workout, every practice, every press event.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Notice a pattern yet? You respect everybody else’s time on this team except mine. And I can’t help but wonder why that might be.” She’s staring daggers at me.

“Doctor Price—”

“Is it because I’m a woman?”

“What—no! How can you think that?”

“Is it because you think I’m too young to be a doctor?”

“No—”

“Too unqualified?”

I groan, fists clenching on my knees. “No.”

“Then what, Kinnunen? Why are you ghosting me? I’m not moving until you tell me, And it better not be some bullshit answer about extra practices.”

Before I can reply, a flight attendant leans down. “Ma’am, you need to fasten your seatbelt. We’re about to push back.”

Doctor Price glances up at her. “Hold on. Apparently, I’m moving seats. Again.”

“No, ma’am, you’re gonna have to stay in your seat,” the attendant replies. “We’ve closed the cabin door. You can move once we’ve reached cruising altitude.”

I groan.

“Would either of you like anything to drink?”

“No,” we say in unison, and the flight attendant shuffles off.

“I need that seat,” I mutter hopelessly.

“Too damn bad, Kinnunen,” Price replies. “I’m the barnacle on your butt for the rest of this flight. And until you give me what I want and do your physical, I’m gonna be sitting in this seat for every flight from now until the Rays win the Stanley Cup. So, either get in my exam room, or get comfortable with me hogging all your air.” With that, her arm stretches over our heads, and she angles my air vent in her direction with an irritated huff.

As the plane begins to roll back, I consider my options. Let this doctor examine me, and most likely bench me for half the season…or let her sit next to me, shattering the comfort of my long-established routines and throwing off all my concentration with that wonderful way she smells.

Fuck.