I shouldn’t have sucked her cum off my fingers in the library. It’s all I can fucking think about. One taste, and I want more. I want it all.
I can’t let it distract me, though, no matter how badly I want to abandon this game, strip off my pads, throw her down and eat her out until my name is the only one to pass her lips. It’s tempting, so fucking tempting, but I can’t let pussy, no matter how fucking sweet, come between me and the game.
It’s the start of the second period against the Flint Flames. I’ve already done my stretches and cat-scratched my crease with my skates. I clink my stick off my left post, then my right then my left again, suck in a cleansing breath, breathe out my lingering stresses and distractions, then lean forward, crouching between the pipes.
My life outside this rink might feel like a hot mess express, but in here, in this crease, no matter whose barn we’re in, I’m the emperor supreme.
This is my domain.
Some of our outskaters are having a sucktastic game, though. And if I thought I could find a way to beat the shit out of our captain,Justin Ashe, with his own fucking stick and get away with it, I’d do it.
I dunno where his head is right now, but it’s not in this goddamn game. He knows it too, he keeps muttering out loud and cussing himself out every time he passes my net. At least he better be cussing himself out. If he’s cussing me out, I’m going to beat him with my stick, Coach be damned.
When the centers slow to a stop in front of the ref, the crowd quiets, tension already rising around the arena. The Flames are strong. We lost to them last night, and we’re all going to need to pull together if we’re going to walk away from this game with a W. And I really want the fucking win.
Spoiler alert: we don’t win. We don’t even come close.
My first period shut out is short lived as Talbot from the Flames gets lucky with a rebound. Less than thirty seconds later, he’s back peppering me with shots, and while I’m good, great even, if I do say so myself, there’s only so much I can do by my fucking self.
I stopped forty-one shots on my goal tonight. Forty-one shots. At some points it felt like I was the only one on the damn ice.
Everything hurts. Everything fucking hurts, right down to the marrow in my bones. I’m exhausted. I’m dehydrated. Sweat is streaming down my face and trickling down my back under my pads. And all I want to do is kick Justin Ashe’s ass. He’s the captain, the one we all look to, to take charge, to lead, to pick up our spirits when shit gets tough.
His presence was noteworthy on the ice for all the wrong reasons tonight, and we all know it. Dude needs a slap.
The old me—troublemaker me—the guy not afraid to fuck things up because his father would clean up the mess for him, he wouldn’t give a shit. He’d be only too willing to throw down with Cap. But this me… this me is on hockey probation for a coach who doesn’t give a fuck who my dad is? This me has to play nice. I can’t afford to get benched again, or worse, get kicked off the fucking team altogether.
The embarrassment alone would be too great; for me, for the “family”… my brothers would kick my ass, then Papá would start about the money. For a man with so much money he could wipe his ass with hundreds for the rest of his life and have millions left over to play with, he sure is a miser. He never lets me forget that it’s his money that’s bankrolled and continues to bankroll my entire life.
I’m grateful, of course I am. Parents aren’t supposed to keep score, or a fucking tab. I’m convinced he’s going to produce a bill on my graduation day and demand I start repayments.Cabrón.
So, instead of picking a fight with my captain even though he deserves it, I strip, have an extra quick shower, and take myself out of a situation where my sour mood might result in me getting summoned back into coach’s office for anotherdiscussionabout my hockey career and place on this team.
Not least of all because Hayes has gotten pretty good, pretty quickly. And I don’t want to be replaced on the starting line-up. The more I watch him, the more we train together, the more I think he might be able to take my place.
Tonight was another game where I gave it my all, and no one even noticed. Hauling my kit bag out to my car, I tug my ball cap down over my face. It’s not like the oversized duffle bag won’t give me away as a hockey player, or a murderer I guess, but maybe people will leave me the hell alone if I make myself smaller and unapproachable.
I’m about six feet away from my car when Coach calls my name.
“Yeah, Coach?” My stomach is on the ground somewhere as I turn to face him, I might shit myself. Wouldn’t that be the icing on the sucky cake today?
“Good game. Tough break.” He nods at me and walks off.
I stand staring after him. Hockey coaches aren’t exactly known for being warm and fuzzy, or for handing out praise, so for Coach Bales,good gameis pretty fucking high praise.
I blow out a breath, relief trickling through my muscles, but they’re tight. Maybe I’ll see if I can pick up a shift and dance off some of this crappy mood, and I’ll feel better in the morning.
As I drive past Bitches Brew, I spy Eloise’s car. I don’t want to get my stink on her with this shitty mood, or worse, say something to upset her, but I haven’t left her any hot cocoa in a while. The tingle of mischief makes my nose twitch, and I can’t help myself.
She might catch me, but at this point I don’t really care if she does. I had this whole elaborate plot concocted around these damn packets of hot chocolate. I was going to plant the idea in her head that she had a secret admirer and convince her that she needed to date me to make whomever it was jealous and show himself.
Then, after a few fake dates with me, she’d hopefully have seen that I’m not a complete asshole, at least not all the time, and she’d agree to a real date like it was all a happy coincidence.
As it happened, I didn’t need to do any of that. And looking back, I realize how far I was willing to go to manipulate her into being my girlfriend. That’s something I’ll need to bring up with my therapist, I’m sure.
Turns out, I needed to be myself and let her take a peek at my brokenness. She didn’t run, she didn’t pity me, and in fact, she seemed big fucking mad when I called myself stupid. She gets cute nose wrinkles when she’s pissed.
I pause on my way to Eloise’s car and sneak a glance through the coffee shop window. It’s easy to spot her pink hair amid the evening crowd. She’s with Tori. Eloise’s face is side on to the window I’m looking through, and she looks happy. She throws her head back and laughs at something Tori says, waving a hand like she’s asking her to stop before wrapping an arm across her stomach.
