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When I finally come, it shoots and flows over my hand. I don’t stop stroking, not until I’m pulsing and oversensitive.
Then I lie there for a while, panting pitifully in the hotel bed. One day, I’m going to have to find a way to bring Olivia with me to one of these things. I’ll have to whisk her away into my room, not letting anyone near.
Fuck hockey. Fuck the game. Fuck that team.
All that matters anymore is her.
42
REESE
The game is a fucking disaster.
My pre-game jerkoff fooled me into thinking shit would go smoothly. When I skated onto the ice, my team at my back and the enemy Detroit Torque ahead of me, I had all the confidence in the world. Chin high, chest out.
Then it all went to shit.
The Torque came with a fire that they shouldn’t have. We’ve beaten them every playoff for the last five years. Maybe that’s why they came out the gate intent on kicking our asses. And the worst part is, we’re handing them the game on a silver platter.
Everyone is fucking up. Even Marcus and Dante. Even me.
Missed goals. Losing the puck. Getting totally fucking steamrolled. The Torque came to win and their center, Fabian Crenshaw, doesn’t make shit easy for me. He’s a six-foot-four blonde prick with an attitude worse than Bastian’s. Every turn, he’s on my ass. That stupid, teeth-too-white-to-be-natural smirk gets thrown my way more than I care for.
Every time he knocks me down, the fire in me burns hotter. It makes me sloppy.
“You get your shit together, Dalton! Or you’re sitting on the goddamn bench!” Coach spits hellfire and brimstone at me. His anger pierces through the adrenaline haze.
“Aww. Dear little Reesie need a nap?” Fabian coos at me, tone babyish.
I’m gonna run this trash into the ground.
By the skin of my fucking teeth, I pull it off. That one last goal that puts us where we need to be to snag the win—barely. But it’s bittersweet and I don’t feel like I’ve just taken a victory.
What the fuck even was tonight?
We all slump our way to the locker room. A dejected air fills the space. No one looks at me. I can’t help but feel responsible. It wasn’t just the rest of the team that was getting their asses handed to them. Fabian came at me with everything he had, and I just barely held on.
Am I losing my touch?
Bastian, of course, storms up to me. “Hey, Dalton! What the fuck was that shit out there tonight?” He’s all huffs and puffs, like a raging bull in a china shop.
I don’t have time for his shit.
“I dunno if you were paying attention, but everyone was off it tonight,” I say. “Including you. So do me a favor and fuck off.”
Bastian rolls his eyes. “Nah, you’re not gonna play that shit with me. Not when you’re always going on and on about how the sun shines out your ass. Great, tough Reese Dalton, best center in the country, blah, blah, blah. Can’t even hold his own against Fabian fucking Crenshaw of all people!”
“Dude, chill,” Dante calls over. “We all sucked major ass tonight. Team-wide effort.”
“Yeah, they really wanted to win. It happens,” Marcus adds.
Bastian lets out a bark of a laugh. “You two would be on Dalton’s nuts like sweat. Fucker was slacking worse than the two of you?—”
“If I was slacking so hard, then why did we win, huh?” I step to him, chest to chest. “Listen, get your little panties in a bunch all you want, but what you’re not gonna do is talk shit to the rest of the team. Especially when you barely touched ice tonight.”
“Maybe we would have had more than a one-goal lead if the team fuck-up wasn’t the one leading the charge.” He spits on the locker room floor. “Maybe you should stick to the things you’re good at. Getting drunk and sloppy with women you’re not gonna remember the next day?—”
My fist makes contact with Bastian’s jaw before I even think about what I’m doing. It’s not even the insult itself that makes me snap.
