Spare Parts: Mom says why don’t we both do Thanksgiving with Dad tomorrow, and then have a do-over with her on Friday, together.
Me: Sounds good to me.
Spare Parts: So it is serious, then.
Me: I hate you. Plus, you’ve already met him, remember? He’s got your blood on his hockey stick.
Spare Parts: You’re the reason he called me, aren’t you?
Spare Parts: You are. That was weird as fuck. Makes sense now.
Spare Parts: See you both tomorrow, and no tonsil hockey please, I want to enjoy my Thanksgiving dinner without fear of vomiting on the Myers’ kitchen table.
Tate’s chuckling beside me.
“What?”
He jerks his chin at the phone. “He’s going to make so much fun of you having a hockey player boyfriend, isn’t he?”
I flash a wicked grin at my boyfriend. “Sure, right after he threatens to dispose of your dead and decaying body if you hurt his only sister.”
A couple hours later, we eke out a win. Barely. But we got the job done. Scott spent most of the game in the penalty box, and I know without opening my mouth the team is going to have a chat with him about what in the name of all the hockey gods just happened.
“Are you staying for a drink after?” Tori hooks her hand over her shoulder. The bar is nowhere behind her, only Eloise, but I guess that’s the standard symbol for are you coming with us?
Not even sparing a look behind me, I shake my head. “Thanks, but we’re going to head out.”
Tori makes a hole with her finger and thumb on one hand and pokes the index finger of her other hand through it. “Oh, you’re going to head alright.” She cracks up.
“Is this why you’re not usually at games by yourself? Because you get all worked up?”
She nods. “Raffi and Wyatt are doing some kind of father-son thing tonight. I’m used to the three of us coming to games, and now... after that.” She dreamy sighs, looking down at the ice. “Well. Now I need Raffi’s dick. Repeatedly.”
“Amen.” Eloise’s voice comes from behind Tori. “I don’t mean Raffi, obviously. But... well... yeah.” Eloise steps into viewas she stands up from her chair and fans herself. “I can see why you’re not going to the bar, too.” Little Miss Pixie isn’t as quiet as she first seems.
The ride home is silent, Tate’s stewing over the game, and undoubtedly over the role his absence played in the communication breakdown on the ice. That’s all it was. Passes going too long, too short, lines not being coherent. But there’s no point in telling that to Satan, he’s already blamed himself for every loss, and less than perfect game the Raccoons have ever had. Whether he was in college or not.
“Are you going to say anything?” I ask.
We’re back at my dorm room. Roomie’s out, again, and I figured he wouldn’t want to be surrounded by his teammates right now. Or rather, I don’t want them around him. Scott may end up with a black eye if Tate is allowed in his space today.
“I miss the ice.”
“You do?” I gasp, covering my chest like this is brand new information. “Why, Tate. You should have said something. No one had any idea you were jonesing for the ice like an addict who’s had their substance of choice taken away from them.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Strip.” I point at the bed.
“What?”
“Take your clothes off. If you’re going to stay angry and moody all night, I’m at least putting that frustration to good use. S-t-r-i-p. Now.”
Confusion twists up his pretty face, but he gets naked and lies back on the bed.
“Guess I’m helping myself.” Since I don’t want to look at his grumpy-assed face, I decide I’m riding that bronco with my back to him. Reverse cowgirl it is.
“Wait.” He holds up his hand as I’m about to get onto the bed. “You can’t fuck me in a Snow Pirates’ shirt. That’s where I draw the line.”
