“We’re fine,” Wolfe says, speaking for the whole team like he normally does.
Hawke shoots a look at Cox, who mouths, “I’ll tell you later.”
Hawke lifts a brow, obviously curious, but Cox shakes his head.
Ridgeway cuts in, “Everyone is gay, and most of them are fucking guys on other teams, which probably should be alarming, but since you’re fucking one of your players, you can’t really have an opinion.”
Hawke opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then scrubs a hand over his face. “How many… No—who is—no!Don’t tell me.” He presses his eyes closed like he’s really going through it. “I’m starting to regret every decision I’ve ever made,” he finally mutters.
Cox leans in. “Don’t worry. I’ll blow you later, and you’ll forget all about this.”
Hawke squeezes his clipboard then just turns, walking out.
The entire team erupts in laughter, and we finish getting our stuff together before heading out.
I catch Cox leaving the locker room.“Thanks for doing that,”
“They were all being hypocrites. I can’t let that pass.”
I nod. “No one likes to be left out. They act all macho, but they really are just a bunch of gossipy bitches.”
“That’s for fucking real.”
“Let’s get on the ice guys,” Coach Hawke calls in to the locker room.
“You think he’ll be mad if I punch Mark in the face during the first play?”
“Maybe don’t do that,” Wolfe says. “I’d like to at least be a couple goals out before you get ejected.”
“Your need to win is really inconveniencing my personal life.”
“I thought you wanted me to get a good draft spot?” he replies a little bitchily.
“I thought I was more important than hockey?”
“You are, Angel, but I am also trying to get you the best WAG spot.”
I narrow my eyes. “We are not married.”
“Not married yet…” Wolfe corrects.
“I don’t even think you can get on your knees.”
“Don’t fucking challenge me!”
“On the ice, you two!” Hawke cuts in.
FORTY-FIVE
WOLFE
Icollapse into my stall after the second period, closing my eyes to maybe get a power nap in before we go out for the third. This game will far exceed how many shots on goal I’ve experienced.
We’re tied 0-0, I’ve blocked at least thirty shots, and we’ve still got a period to go. The guys are tired. Everyone has to be. Part of our strategy against the Monsters is to skate the fuck out of them, taking them back and forth as many times as possible to wear them out. They don’t have the depth in the bench we do to rotate guys in and out, so it gives us the advantage, as long as Seaborn is handling their star center, Ktytor.
“Someone DP me,” I say when it’s clear my brain won’t shut off for a power nap. I hold my hand out, and a cold can is pressed into it. Without opening my eyes, I crack that bitch open and sip. “Fuck. This might save my life.”
“Your NHL coach is going to slap that can out of your hand if he sees it,” Hawke mutters.
