This morning, when I was supposed to be doing my trainer-prescribed meditation and silently reciting positive affirmations, all I could picture were her muscular legs sticking out of that too-short dress. I can’t believe Dom let her go out in that. I can’t believe she ignored my order to put something else on.
I can’t believe I felt her soft skin beneath my palms and her full breasts on my cheeks, or smelled the soft, feminine, faintly vanilla scent of the skin between them. Fuck, I’d wanted to nuzzle in closer, but surprisingly, I don’t have a death wish. Though I can still imagine the way she felt, and it does seem worth potentially dying over.
“Let’s do this!” Brody yells across the locker room, his hands clenched as he flexes, his eyes wild. He starts beating on his chest, the thuds echoing hollowly as he roars out some anxious energy. He’s hyped and trying to get the rest of us in the zone with him. A few of the guys do chime in, answering back with chest bumps and shouts of their own.
Bad mood aside, that’s not the vibe I prefer before games. No Viking rally cries for me. I’m typically quiet, tuning out everyone and everything, going introspective as I prepare for two and half hours of war, which is probably why no one has noticed my silence. Usually, I prep by visualizing the checks I’m gonna make, the fights I’m gonna have, and the win we’ll secure before the night is over.
Tonight, all I can think about is Penny, which is not only stupid but dangerous.
I consider asking Dom if he heard back from her last night, but don’t. He’s wearing headphones, his head bobbing lightly as he listens to the same playlist he always does before a game. By now, he’s probablyraging out to “Bodies” by Drowning Pool, and it’d take a solid tap to pull him from his routine.
He’s here, though. That’s answer enough to reassure me that Penny is fine. She must be, or Dom would be scouring the streets for his beloved little sister, and her parents would be on the news promising every cent they own to get her back.
Fuck, I’m so far gone it’s ridiculous.
For a woman who hates me. For a woman I can’t have. For a woman I don’t deserve.
I grind my teeth on my mouthpiece as I close my eyes, telling myself that the cheerleaders will be out there before the game starts. They’ll do their pregame performance, then line up to shake their pom-poms as we skate onto the ice. I’ll see Penny and then get my head right before the puck drops.
That’s the plan until a glove appears in my peripheral vision. I slowly turn to see who the hell dares to interrupt my mental prep.
Fucking Brody.
I lift a brow in question, and he moves his fist closer. “Come on, man, hit it. For luck.”
“You mean the way I hit your mom last night?” calls Howe. He mimes some ass-slapping to go with his hip thrusts as he grins devilishly at Brody. The two of them obviously haven’t gotten around to shaking hands and singing “Kumbaya” yet, but they won’t let it affect them on the ice. In the locker room, though? All bets are off.
I sigh but tap my fist to Brody’s in solidarity. He’s annoying, but he’s my teammate and I’ve got his back. He’d just better have mine and not get me into any unnecessary scuffles.
I chuckle to myself at the thought, because if there’s anything necessary in hockey, it’s fighting.
Finally, it’s time.
As we march closer to the rink, my heart thuds dully in my chest and the hallway gets colder. Eventually, I can hear the crowd gettinglouder and the announcers calling out stats for tonight’s game. Then I see the cheerleaders.
I do a quick search, having long ago memorized exactly where Penny stands in the lineup, and when I see her, the knot in my gut finally relaxes. I take a deeper breath than I have in what feels like forever. She looks different today, her hair curled and a full face of makeup. But mostly, the difference is in her smile. She always smiles when she’s cheering, like it makes her happy to the depths of her pretty soul, and she rarely smiles at me, only when she thinks she’s gotten one over on me.
Even now, as I pass, I see the edges of her lips waver like she doesn’t want to give me the gift of her encouragement, even though it’s her literal job to do so.
But she’s okay.
And now, so am I.
In the words of my teammate, “Let’s do this!”
The horn blares for the ending of the second period, and I’m soaked in sweat. We’re up one to the Beavers’ nothing, but Jack Off had to skate like a demon to get that point. I’ve already been in three mid-level serious scuffles, but nothing with lasting damage.
We reconvene in the locker room with a round of hoots and hollers, fist taps and chest bumps, celebrating the progress we’ve made so far and vowing to take the Beavers down, dam and all.
“Those Beavers are uglier than Brody’s mom, and I had to close my eyes when she sucked my dick.”
“Beav-ah, you make me wanna heav-ah.Huuurggghuh.”
There’s also some pointed comments about whether they shave their beavers, but before we can get too carried away, Coach motions us over for his version of a pep talk. “Good work out there so far, guys. Keepthe pressure on goal. Sneak it in on the left corner. That’s Mack’s weaker side, and it looks like he’s got some groin tightness there tonight.”
Coach is an eagle-eyed observer and catches everything on the ice, for the Hawks and the opposing team. I haven’t noticed the Beavers’ goalie, Mack, looking any worse for wear, but if Coach sees it, it’s there. It might be just an inch or a tenth of a second, but it’s there.
Having said his piece, Coach goes into his office, where he’ll watch plays from the first two periods and make any further notes for the last one.
