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And really…isn’t that the definition of true love?
Brendan
Charlotte Spalding, one of the new hire ice girls, looks up at me with her bright brown eyes wide and her barely covered chest protruding forward, “Am I doing this right, Bricks?”
Is she doing what right exactly?
Dangling herself like a baby bunny begging to be eaten by a wolf or—to stay in theme with our mascot—a dragon?
Because if that’s the fucking question then without a doubt.
She is definitely doing that shit right, just like she’s definitely making it crystal fucking clear to me why there is a strong no fraternization policy in these walls.
The ice girls—the chicks that clear the ice during the game, hype up the crowd, and behave like cheerleaders without the pom poms—are respectfully…insanely. Fucking. Hot.
Every single one of them.
And because Harlow knows what the fuck she’s doing, she got them in all colors and sizes.
Okay, not actually all sizes, they’re all roughly in the same athletic shape category, but even within that there’s a surprising amount of diversity. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. Curls. Straight. Bobbed. Blue eyes. Green. Brown. There’s even one girl who has two different colors. Some have tits. Some have more ass. Some have thighs that belong ear muffing dudes out here. We’ve got White females, Black, Hispanic, Asian, and this season they hired this Israeli chick who looks like a fucking Gal Gadot stunt double. As for careers—because this shit really is just a hobby for most of them—they’ve got a wide range from dental hygienists to city librarians to a fucking solar consultant.
Basically, our ice girls are a pack of Skittles.
One that our team clearly wants to taste.
Self-excluded.
Now, if I wasn’t the happily married bastard that I am—and I really the fuck am despite how hard Geoffrey finds it to believe—I wouldn’t be the exception to the situation.
I’d be finding ways to help myself to several handfuls.
These women are…tempting to the unsatisfied bro.
Like…the whole Eve says eat the apple, you consume the whole orchard level of tempting.
Again, I absolutely fucking get why the no fraternization policies exist and why there are literal teams arranged to keep them separate from the players whenever necessary.
“You missed a few spots,” Craig casually informs and points back out at the ice.
She hits me a girly pout, flutter of the eyelashes, and skates away with her shovel.
“Crew has their work cut out for them this season,” my boss mumbles under his breath while we resume watching the unofficial practice in session.
“I’ll say.”
A small beat passes prior to him stating, “Girls need their skates sharpened by end of the week.”
“It’s already on the scheddie for me to start tomorrow.”
An impressed grunt slips free. “I see you’re getting the hang of shit.”
“Trying to.”
“Keep it up. Boys need that level of dedication in the barn.”
Nodding in agreement is easy.
They do need that shit.
And that’s why I’m glad I’m still here.
I mean I would’ve gone back to bartending if I had to, but fuck me, am I thankful I didn’t have to. I love my job. Am I out here fighting fires or rescuing babies from wild animals? No. But my shit still has purpose. Meaning. Faulty equipment could cost someone their life whether people think about that shit or not. Concussions. Head injuries. Bleeding out on the ice because of fucked up protection. There’s a lot more that goes into this gig than sharpening skates and ordering buckets or biscuits. It’s been interesting to learn. The challenges of tasks have pushed me in ways I would’ve never expected. Plus, it’s fun to “study” with Harlow who’s basically a walking, talking, fucking—pun intended—hockey dictionary.
Although, I prefer putting the dick in dictionary.
Huh.
That was like a pervy dad joke.
I gotta work on my non pervy ones for the twins.
“This shit will fucking work!” Page shouts in his captain’s face, summoning my attention that direction.
“It’s not gonna fucking work with real bodies, blocking real shots, PP or not!” Eeyore hollers back.
“I’ll fucking prove it!”
“You will not fucking waste game time trying to pull trick shit that could get us fucked over!”
“I’ll prove it right fucking now!” He whips his head to where we’re lingering and points. “Bricks, get on the fucking ice!”
I wanna say no.
I wanna tell him to get bent.
That I’d rather fucking skate with the ice girls who are having their torsos measured for enough skin to be showing as they exit the rink than be a trained chimp in his circus.
But I don’t get to say no.
A “Rink Bitch Rule” is what Page calls that when overhead isn’t around to hear.
Guess he’s still a bit bitter about having to greet all the players under the Dragon banner in cut off jean shorts, bikini tops, and cowboy hats.
Hey, a bet’s a bet.
You’d pay up in Vegas if you lost, and I play by Vegas rules.
Afterall, I hit the physical embodiment of the jackpot last time I was there.
