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“Good.” I get moving, Banks pushes it back over the blue line into their end. And I follow. I block a couple more attempts on our goal before my shift is up, then I’m back on the bench.
I spit and then squirt water into my mouth. Coach and the boys give me a slap on the helmet before Jenny, one of the team’s orthopedists, checks out my side.
“How’s the pain on a scale from one to ten?” she says, prodding my side.
“Two?” I say. It’s probably closer to a six, but I doubt anything is broken.
“You gotta lie better than that, at least give me a four or five. The bruise alone tells me you’re hurting.”
“Yeah, it hurts, but I can play. I’m fine.”
“Okay, see me in the locker room before third period,” she says, laying my pad back down.
“D-man playing goalie.” He laughs. “Kap is never gonna live this down. Hope it makes the highlights tonight.” A clap hits my back. “Way to go, bud.”
I nod but feel a pang of sadness that there isn’t any family to watch it on ESPN if it indeed does make the highlights. I would have loved for my parents to see that. For Anna to see it, we’d probably laugh about it, and she’d give me a hard time. Well, the old Anna would. I shake off the somber feelings and get my head back in the game. That’s the mental stuff that will mess with my energy tonight.
During second intermission, I head over to the med office so Jenny can inspect theinjury. That word seems to be a little generous, it’s just a big welt.
“Shit, this is going to be one ugly bruise. I don’t know how it didn’t break your rib,” she says, pressing her hands along my side. She prods a few different areas, asking if it hurts. A few spots are somewhat tender, but nothing serious.
“I can give you something for the pain to get you through the rest of the game, but you’re going to want to go easy on it for a bit, and I want you to go in for an x-ray when we get back home.” She pauses and side-eyes me. “Don’t look at it until after the game.”
It must be ugly. “Are you going to let Coach know I can play third period?”
“Yeah, but I’m going to have him limit your shifts.”
At least I get to play.
During my first shift in third period, I’m checked into the boards by Duchamel, the same prick that threw the slapshot into me. I’m too busy defending to throw gloves. And I don’t want Coach to think I’m out here picking fights for the hell of it, or lose even more ice time. After my last shift change, I hit the bench and take a breather.
There are a few unwritten rules about hockey. One of them is when you do something bad, you pay the consequences. If a player crosses the line between physical and dirty, he must answer for it, and ninety percent of the fights are usually one player having his teammate’s back. I’ve played enough hockey to know the sound of a stick thrown on the ice. The noise grabs my attention, and when I look up, Banks’s gear slides across the ice while he charges barehanded for Duchamel, who shucks his gloves.Oh fuck.
It’s no secret Banks is our enforcer. The boys on the bench whack their sticks against the boards as he takes swing after swing for me.
Aw, I’m touched.
All jokes aside, the warm feeling hits me in the chest. First, Lonan was eager for me to make the highlights reel, and now Banks is out here beating the shit out of some guy for checking me into the boards. Meanwhile, Jenny’s checking my bruise again, like a den mother, making sure I’m not hurt.
They’ve claimed me as one of theirs; this team is my family. It will never be the same as having my actual parents here, or Anna sober enough to watch my games, but having this—this kind of support—is a close second best. They have my back. I was always putting everyone else on a pedestal, but now I’m feeling like I’ve earned my spot on the ice with them.
* * *
Back at my apartment, I drop my duffel and hang up the expensive-as-fuck suit. It’s the nicest outfit I own. Thankfully the Lakes have a small team of people in public relations to make sure we all look put together and meet the dress code. One admin, Holly, insisted she take my measurements herself. Barrett Conway told me to keep my wits about me, and he wasn’t wrong, considering how many times she had to “check my inseam.”
There’s only one woman I’m interested in these days. And I’d much rather spend my money on her than fancy suits, like bribing her for bread-making lessons. Which might have been one of the best investments I’ve ever made. Though, a dangerous one. I’m not sure where this leaves us. It was one thing when she was on my laptop screen, but it’s another now that my dick knows how good the inside of her fucking esophagus feels.
The guys want to go out tonight, so when I get out of the shower, I put on jeans and a Henley. It’ll be a while before they get to Top Shelf. I flip through television channels to pass the time, stopping at ESPN when I see they’re rolling hockey highlights.Sonofabitch.The next one up is me taking a puck to the side. My hand rubs over the tender bruise—it’s a good thing Jenny told me not to check it out during intermission. It’s gruesome, but it looks worse than it feels. After getting bored with sports, I go back to channel surfing. There’s nothing on. I’m scrolling through a list of movies to stream when my phone dings.
Brit O’Callahan: We’re downstairs. Wanna beer?
Me: Down in a minute.
The second I walk through the doors, my eyes find her. She’s chatting with a group of women sitting at the bar—looks like a MILF convention. When she moves to the other side to help a new customer, my eyes catch on her ass in a mini skirt.
Freya. Maneater. McCoy.
I’m not the only one who notices. About eight other men and one of the MILFs have also noticed her assets.
