It’s hard to concentrate on practice, but somehow, I pull my thoughts away from the blonde bombshell consuming my mind.
As good as Ares de la Peña is, I can almost always slip the biscuit in the basket around him at practice. At least once. Oftentimes more. But today? Today he’s a wall.
And he knows it.
“Goal’s this way, amigo,” he chirps at me. “Have you forgotten how to score?” He leans his elbows back on the crossbar gloating, like even without his stick on the ice he could stop me from scoring.
If only he knew.
I haven’t gotten laid in weeks. Not simply because Pitstop might overhear my bedroom endeavors, but also, I’ve lost the taste for getting laid.
That’s not true. I want to get laid. I want to get laid very much, but the woman who I want to go to bed with, might cut off my dick if I tried, so I’m kind of stuck.
My dick’s pretty raw from all the jacking off I’m doing, though it’s not providing any relief. And my dreams of my fingers tangling in her hair, my fingers sinking into her curves, and the memories of how her kiss tasted on my lips aren’t helping either.
Practice goes by in a blur. Again, not a common occurrence for me. I like to study the game during my time on the ice. I study myself, my teammates, Ares in the net, what makes him come out of his crease? What doesn’t he move for?
But today? I can’t remember shit. Nothing.
It’s not good.
When I’m pulling my skates off, the de la Peña twins invite me to lunch with them and Scott. For a moment, I consider the fact this could be an intervention due to how shitty I played during practice.
But there are guys on the team who have played far shittier than I did today, and for far longer. So I press down the panic welling in my chest, get changed, bag up my pads and head over to the Sacred Cow for wings.
As soon as we step inside the tavern, I catch a glimpse of Penelope. What are the fucking chances?
So when the guys move to a table toward the back of the restaurant, I encourage them—almost aggressively—to move closer to her.
They’re looking at me like I’m unhinged.
She catches my eye as we sit, but she doesn’t say anything, or acknowledge my existence. She’s sitting with a really attractive guy, and two other women. Is she dating him?
An uncomfortable feeling rolls through my body that I don’t want to give a name to, not now, or ever. I don’t do jealousy. I don’t do commitment. I’m committed to the game, to NHL, to my future. Not sassy, smart-mouthed women who want to shank me with a steak knife.
Ben—our favorite server and long-time hockey fan—comes over with a smile on his face. He rolls his sleeves up, grabs his notebook and pen, and stands like he’s ready to run a race. “Alright. Hit me. What’s it going to be?”
At least two of us don’t bother looking at the menu. We order buffalo chicken loaded fries, spinach and artichoke dip, Cajun elote wings, two pounds of chicken wings, and a sausage and pretzel board.
Scott adds a bowl of dill pickle soup to the list of food we’d like, and my stomach churns. My dude needs help. That’s the grossest thing I’ve ever heard, and while I’m fine with trying new things and even eating weird things, I will never come to terms with dill pickles. They’re just... wrong.
“Is that everything?” Ben purses his lips.
Apollo grunts. “For now.” He pats his stomach. “Gotta save room for the skillet cookie.”
Ben laughs. “I’ll keep checking with you to make sure you don’t need an extra pound of chicken or something.” He winks. “I know what y’all are like.”
Artemis smiles. “We can certainly put it away.”
Ben shakes his head. “You certainly can.”
I can’t help staring at Penelope as she actively avoids meeting my gaze. She’s doing it on purpose, I can tell because she’s looking everywherebutat me. It’s almost a game now.
“Who is she?” Scott’s voice is so close to my ear that I yelp when he speaks.
The twins laugh, Scott chuckles, and Penelope graces me with her gorgeous, menacing eyes for a brief moment—granted it’s to glare at me—but I’ll take what I can get right now.
Artemis whistles.
