“Dick,” I say, and flop all the way onto the mattress.
He grabs my hand and hauls me back to seated. Then, with careful fingers, he grabs the hem of my shirt and starts to lift it. I don’t fight him. I’d lose that fight and it’s not one I want to win anyway. I want to be undressed by him. I want him to have his way with me. And most of all, I want to live a life where I can have that.
“What’s this?” he says, his fingertips lightly probing my ribcage. He dips his head slightly down to get a closer look.
I lift my arm and look down to where he’s touching. There’s a decent-sized dark-purple bruise there.
He shakes his head. “This looks like it was made with a stick handle. Did you take a hit to your ribs today?”
I look at him and bite my lip. “Maybe.”
“Where else did they get you?”
“I’m not sure.” He frowns and eyes my torso as he runs his hands up my arms. He stops when he gets to the small bruise on my jaw from yesterday’s brawl. I smile at him, hoping to settle the concern I see washing over his features. “You already knew about that one.”
“I don’t like how rough they’re being with you.”
“It’s hockey. That’s part of the game.”
“It is,” he agrees, raising one of his shoulders before he turns me slightly so he can check my back. “But not like this.” He turns me back around and gestures at my pants. “Can I count on you to take those off yourself?”
I lean back on the bed, supporting myself with my hands. “I’d like it better if you did it.”
I swear a low growl escapes his lips as he eyes my pants. “Wecan’t,” he says and throws my sweatpants at me. “I’d like to. But we can’t.”
“I know.”
He keeps his gaze on me and takes a deep breath in. On the exhale, he closes his eyes. When they open again that hint of loneliness I’ve always seen in him is back. This must not be as easy on him as he makes it seem. The stakes of the Olympics, of the remainder of the regular season, of a possible playoff push are all on the line. It’s our careers we would be risking. We’ve worked our entire lives to get here. And while it would feel good right now to give in to our impulses, in the long run it will lead to nothing but regret. And that’s if we’re lucky. Because for me, there’s a bigger disaster this will lead to. Heartbreak.
I’m already feeling the beginning pangs of it as he closes the bathroom door behind him.
EIGHT
Gavin
Thank God we have a day off tomorrow. It’s been a week of long, tough practices and the team can use a rest and recover before we take off for Milan in two days. Connor could use it most of all. He’ll never admit it, but I can tell he’s tired, and it has nothing to do with the on-ice workload.
After seeing the bruise on him a few nights ago, I’ve been sneaking glances at the end of each practice before he hits the showers. That bruise is starting to fade but others are appearing in its place. It’s distressing to say the least, to see him getting this beat up by his own teammates. It’s like everyone is going extra hard on him and concealing cheap shots.I thought, as a team, we were coming along. I thought we were better than this.
Maybe they’re just being competitive, but it feels different to that. And it’s only gotten worse now that practice has been opened to reporters and also Connor’s father.
God, that guy is an asshole. I’m honestly surprised his presence hasn’t gotten the guys to lighten up a bit on Connor. He’s had the opposite effect. Which is surprising as we’ve all seen parents like Connor Sr in the past while playing in youth hockey leagues.Overbearing and yelling at their kid through the glass. There was one kid I played with back in Alaska who could barely conceal his panic attacks in the locker room after a poor practice. He ended up quitting before he even turned thirteen.
I was lucky. We may have been broke and I may have had to get all my gear second hand or through donations, but at least my dad was never an asshole about how I played. He’d attend every game and practice he could when he wasn’t out on a fishing run, and he’d always sit in the same spot in the stands. Top row, center, so he could have a bird’s eye view of the ice. If it was a game day, he’d treat himself to a shitty ice-rink hot dog and wash it down with a shittier cup of coffee lightened with powdered cream. He had hopes for me, obviously. He wanted me to beat the Alaskan odds. But most of all, he loved watching me play.
That’s not the impression I get from Connor Sr. He stands behind the glass with his arms crossed and critiques Connor every chance he gets. He undermines Coach Chris and I wonder how Coach hasn’t punched the daylights out of him in Chicago if he’s been putting up with this ever since Connor joined the Broad Wings. He also doesn’t hide his disdain for our teammates. He sneers at them and makes it clear he doesn’t think any of us should be sharing the puck with his son. Most of all, me.
Which is why when Coach blows his whistle for us to take a break, I send a flying slap shot into his direction. He’s lucky the glass is there as it collides with a loud thunk a few inches from the center of his face. He jolts in surprise, and I wink at him as I skate by. That would have been one hell of a shiner.
“That guy’s a real prick,” Bouchard says from his net a few feet away from me.
“You noticed, huh?”
“We’ve all noticed.” He holds up his water bottle that he keeps above his net during practice, offering me a squirt from it like he does when we’re on our home ice in Buffalo.
I hold my mouth open. “Thanks.” After I swallow and wipe my mouth and sweaty forehead with the back of my gloved hand, Imove to stand beside him and rest against his net. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can, but you’re probably not going to like my answer.”
