She clicks her tongue. “Deep and as nice as you’d imagine.” She sounds pained to have said that.
Jesus Christ, talk about an ego boost.
Her friend hums in appreciation. “I’m jealous.”
“Jealous?” Anna’s face twists in a grimace. “There’s nothing to be jealous about. He’s gross, he smokes, and he’s obnoxious. You don’t need that.”
My smile falls. I didn’t used to smoke, but I needed something to take the edge off. Anyway, it could have been worse. Icould havetaken up smoking crack.
“Come on, we need to hurry up. My shift at Clover’s starts at two.” Anna grabs a few other things and heads toward the sliding glass door that leads to my terrace all while my eyes gravitate to her ass.
Fucking hell, she’s got the roundest ass I’ve?—
“What are you looking at?” Marcello “Marc” Galante, my best friend and right winger, plops down on the cushioned chair next to me.
“Nothing.” I quickly shut off my phone, tucking it in my pocket. I take out my earbuds and place them back in the case.
He hums and gives a knowing nod. “Told you to stop watching porn on the bus. Wait until we get to the hotel.”
“Fuck off.”
He’s always saying the stupidest shit.
“You look guilty.” He shrugs, searching my face. “You still thinking about your cleaner?”
“Her name is Anna, and shut up. I’m done talking about that.”
Marc had been downstairs in the living room when Anna went off. He has not shut up about it since it happened, and he told our closest friends because he’s an asshole. And they’re just like him, so they’ve brought it up. A lot.
But it’s whatever. She’s just a girl. She means nothing to me.
Friday, December 6
I intercept a pass, taking possession of the puck, and quickly skate past Michigan’s defense. I stutter step the pass to Marc, giving me enough space to swerve before I wrap around the net and seamlessly shoot the puck.
The horn blares, the spotlights scatter around the arena, the marching band plays our anthem, and the sea of black, silver, and white goes manic, celebrating my second goal of the night.
“That’s right!” I wave my arms, amping up the already loud, rambunctious home crowd sporting our university colors.
As my teammates swarm me, I skate backward, dropping my stick as my back hits the plexiglass and I bounce back. I smirk as they corral me, spreading my arms wide.
“The Punisher strikes again!” my teammates call out, hugging me and slapping my helmet and shoulder.
“That’s right!” Marc bumps his chest with mine once the rest of the guys have peeled off me. “You did that, baby!” He hypes me up, slapping my shoulder and cheering.
We skate toward the bench, slapping our teammates’ gloved hands before skating back to the center for face-off.
The last few minutes of the third period go by too quickly and disappointing for Michigan with a 4-0 shutout.
After interviews and our showers, we’re still reeling from the post-game high. But it and the happiness I was basking inevaporates the moment Coach Viktor Ivanov utters the words “Christmas Auction.”
Marc snickers, knowing how much I dread this stupid tradition KYU insists on continuing every year. I don’t know exactly when it started, but it was decades ago.
Every December, the school’s male athletes are picked to be part of the auction. People bid on them, and the money goes to charity. I know I sound like a dick for complaining about it considering the money is going toward a good cause, but it’s the intention behind it that annoys me.
People bid thousands upon thousands of dollars just to show off that they can, using the guise that they’re doing this to build connection with the players while helping the community.
It’s laughable because most of the players here have connections and the means to bid—or at least outbid—on ourselves. But that’s not allowed and we have to participate whether we like it or not.
