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“Wow,” she whispers. “This is stunning.”
I stand behind her, turning my head to the side and narrowing my eyes. Trying to appear like maybe I’m sophisticated enough to be here. Even though I’m not.
The painting is a mixture of darkness with light. I guess it’s art, but to me, it just looks like a bunch of paint smeared. But to her, it’s more. Though I have no idea what.
I put my hands on her shoulders, and she puts her hands on top of them.
“I’ve always wanted to come to this museum, but never taken the time.” Craning her neck, she kisses my cheek. “Thank you. This is…incredible.”
I know I’m asking for trouble. Continuing to do these things that mean so much to her. But I can’t help but do it anyway. Because the smile on her face, it makes me forget that, eventually, this is going to be impossible to keep doing.
At some point during my time with Bria, her happiness became my happiness. And that’s fucking terrifying.
She’s right about something. We need to take a break from having sex. A permanent one.
19
Bria
Seeing someone in their absolute element is a pretty fascinating thing. And having the ability to capture it forever? Even cooler. And with every game I get to shoot, the more at home I feel. This is my third one since I was given the opportunity, and I’m already excited for the next.
Guilt strikes me for a moment as I think about Tate at home, alone. A few days ago, when she and Link had a huge falling-out and split, I offered for her to move in with me. I’m not one who wants or needs a roommate, but Tate is sweet. And I put myself in her shoes, imagining living with someone who just dumped me, and I knew right then that I couldn’t let her go through that. Besides, she’s one of Brody’s good friends. Which means she’s mine too now.
Since I was in high school, I would take a camera to Kye’s football games to capture important moments. I loved it, sure. But hockey is different. After my first game as the team’s official photographer, I was hooked.
Each player contributes to make the team what it is. A feared lineup. It’s so entrancing to watch that it’s hard to believe they are just ordinary men in uniforms. All are talented, but some are graceful and almost make it look like art, like Cam Hardy, who floats across the ice effortlessly.
And Link Sterns pours every ounce of himself into his time in the arena. He tries hard, and it shows. No stone will be unturned if he’s on the ice.
But watching Brody is like watching a guard dog who has eyes everywhere. His number one job and concern is to protect. And, yeah, he does it well. Even the way he carries himself on the ice, he’s tense and ready to attack. I guess it could be said he’s the same in everyday life. His body language is even intimidating, and from what I’ve heard, he’s one of the biggest shit-talkers on the ice.
Watson Gentry, the goalie, carries the weight of the team on his shoulders. When I took his individual picture, he was like a giant teddy bear. But on the ice, he’s intense, focused, and he doesn’t miss a beat.
Cade Huff moves with a certain calmness that could be easily mistaken for arrogance. But I don’t see it that way. I think he’s trained himself to never let his opponent know when he’s feeling the pressure. He remains relaxed, keeping his poise at all times.
One of the most noteworthy players has got to be a winger, Hunter Thompson. During time-outs, he checks in with the other guys, seeing how they are doing. He gives a pep talk when they need it or a fist bump to let someone know they did good. He’s the picture of a team player. And he doesn’t show off because, frankly, he doesn’t need to.
Watching these men has become better than watching an addictive soap opera. And they are all better-looking.
Though I know, deep down, the only one I really have eyes for hasO’Brienwith a number seven on the back of his jersey. Because I’m so in love with Brody that it actually hurts.
Brody
“Yo, Greenly, where’s your mom at?” I drawl, skating next to Hector Greenly on the other team. “She said she was coming to watch me play tonight. I’m surprised I haven’t heard her screaming as loud as she was last night.”
“Fuck off, O’Brien,” he hisses. “Are we five fucking years old?”
“No, man.” I grin. “You were still sucking her titties when you were five. Now, I’m the one sucking on them.”
Is it immature to talk about someone’s mother? Hell yes, it is. Does that stop me from doing it? Fuck no. I love to get under their skin. And talking about their mother? That’ll do it. Every. Single. Time.
This guy’s a little shit. He mouths off to the refs. Takes cheap shots at my guys. I’m going easy on him, only talking about his mother. Though the countless body checks I’ve delivered to him and his teammates are probably a little excessive. But right before every time I’ve run one of those fuckers against the wall, they did something to piss me off.
“Dude, anyone tell you you’ve got some serious flow going on?” I nod toward the hair peeking out of his helmet. “Now, you’ve got some pretty hair to match that pussy between your legs.”
The puck goes back into play, and he tries to break away from me to get free, succeeding just long enough for his forward to send the puck his way. Quickly skating in front of him, I capture the puck before hitting it off to Hardy. In true Cam fashion, he takes it down the ice like a banshee, headed for the goal. And when he gets to the end, he sends Thompson a blind pass, and he back-doors it. Putting us ahead by three goals with only a few seconds left on the clock.
The crowd begins to cheer, chanting, “It’s all over.”
