AllFreeNovel
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How can it?
I’ve got the smell of cinnamon in my nose, the memory of that slick cunt on my fingertips.
So, yeah, I can come.
But it doesn’t do shit to relieve the ache in my balls…in my heart.
Asshole with a conscience, all right.
I sigh and grab the bottle of body wash, go through the motions of cleaning up then shampooing and conditioning my hair.
Something Knox likes to give me a hard time about.
A high-maintenance pretty boy who conditions his hair and gets oiled up on photoshoots.
Both of which are true, but I think I’m far from high maintenance.
I just…like what I like, and I want to do shit my own way.
What’s the problem with that?
“Nothing,” I mutter, cranking off the water and reaching for my towel. “Absolutely fuckingnothing.”
I dry off, get dressed, and hole up in my room as I review a few more contracts, book a couple more dates for meetings and shoots and sit-down lunches with potential advertisers who want to “put some feelers out and see if we’re a good fit.”
This is usually a sign of it being a pain in the ass for me, but money is money, and who knows how long I’m going to be able to play hockey.
I have to prepare for the future.
But hockey is still the bulk of my life now, which is why I have a game on in the background—a weird early start weekend game that I hate playing in myself because it messes up my routine, and if there’s one thing that hockey players—and professional athletes, in general—have in common, it’s a fondness and strict adherence to our pregame rituals. From a certain workout or food to unwashed socks (I’m looking at you, Knox) to taking a nap at a certain time, we all have our quirks.
Early games fuck that up.
But, they’re also part of the life—so I’ve learned to deal.
Still have the lucky underwear, though.
So long as a tiny demon dog doesn’t eat them.
I grunt and narrow my eyes at the screen, not wanting to think about Steve or Nova or what happened in the kitchen, so I force my focus on the game, knowing we’ll be playing both of the teams in the coming weeks. I always like to check in on my opponents, to see who’s really hitting their stride, what lines are working, who’s on a hot streak. It’s also helpful to see what type of goals are going in, the shit the refs are calling, and yeah, the video coaches can pull all of this for me if I ask, but also, there’s a reason I play hockey.
I love it.
I love the speed and intensity. The way I feel like I can do fucking anything when the puck is on my stick.
There’s nothing like skating into the offensive zone all by myself, just the goalie between me and fuckingglory.
There’s nothing like lining up and laying out an asshole, crushing him with an open-ice hit.
Especially if he’s been harassing our goalie or one of the smaller guys.
Because. Fuck. That. Shit.
I’m lucky. I’m big. I’m fast. I’ve got good hands, a wicked shot, and I can body most anyone off the puck. I can take my own back—and have had to plenty of times over the years—and while dropping the gloves isn’t my favorite thing (I would rather save my hands for actual hockey and not punching fuckers from the other team in their hard ass heads), I do it as necessary.
I’m the player everyone hates to play against but loves to have on their roster.
Because I make a difference in games. Because I score and hit and fight and pass.
