Page 58 of Tough Guy and the Show Off

“Holy shit, no one is going to believe that we just ate suicide wings with Travis fucking Showalter,” I hear Lip Ring say as I walk away.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Klaussen laughs and shakes his head as I slide onto the stool next to him with my beer in hand. “What are we going to do without Beau around to rein you in?”

And just like that, my mood is right back in the shitter. I’m saved from having to answer what was probably a rhetorical question anyway by the Huskies-Magnets game starting.

Greene, the forward for the Mistone Magnets, takes control of the puck as soon as it drops and Beau starts strong, clearly determined to show the management here in Boston that they made a mistake by trading him. He shoulder checks Greene and steals the puck, passing it with a quick flick of his stick to Mercier to take down the ice. One practice with the Huskies and he’s already totally in sync with the team.

My chest lurches with conflicting feelings. I’m always going to root for Beau, but maybe a selfish part of me was hoping that he wouldn’t click with the team and he would hate it there.

Jimmy Henson, Mistone’s star defenseman, stops Mercier before he even gets a shot off at the goal, stealing the puck and slapping it down the ice to LaBelle, who ends up checked into the boards by Dimitrov, Chicago’s brick shithouse of a right forward.

Henson and LaBelle seem to have found a groove after a couple of rocky games earlier in the season. I’m surprised considering LaBelle has spent the better part of the last five years talking shit about Hen to the media any chance he gets. I wonder what finally turned things around for them. Maybe they’re just doing their best to play nice now that they’re on the same team.

Beau gets some good hits in and intercepts a few shots before they can make it to Gagnon before the period ends. He pulls off his helmet and shakes out his sweaty hair, and fuck, my cock twitches again. I wish I could bury my fingers in his sweaty hair and slam a hard kiss to his mouth.

“I hate to admit it, but Chicago’s looking damn good with Beau on their first line,” Klaussen says.

“Yeah,” I croak, then gulp down what’s left of my beer and wave to the bartender for another.

While I’m waiting for my drink, a woman sidles up beside me. I’m too busy watching some stupid commercial about allergy medicine, but really just thinking about Beau, to notice her at first. It’s not until she presses her tits right up against my arm and Klaussen nudges me and waggles his eyebrows that I register that she’s there.

“Hey, you’re Travis Showalter, right?” She bats her eyelashes, and I have to admit, she’s pretty damn cute. She’s curvy in all the right places with a tattoo sleeve down one arm and the distinct shape of nipple piercings poking through her t-shirt.

I realize she’s still waiting for me to say something, probably offer to buy her a drink or maybe skip the formalities and ask to take her home. A few months ago, I would have been all over that. Hell, part of me can see the appeal right now of forgetting my troubles for a while and drowning my broken heart between a pair of soft, warm thighs like hers.

“You a fan?” I ask, smiling the right way and swiveling on my stool to face her, but the words sound hollow to my own ears, like a script I’m reading because I’m supposed to. “You want a drink?”

“Yes, please.”

I get up so she can have my seat, and when the bartender comes back with my beer, she orders a rum and Coke.

“I’m Carrie, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Carrie.”

The game starts back up on the TV and it’s obvious that she knows a thing or two about hockey. She shouts right along with the rest of us when Greene trips Lavoie with his stick and the refs miss it.

“You know your stuff,” I comment.

“My dad coaches college.” She smiles, openly checking me out. “I think it broke his heart that I was a girl and my mom didn’t want any more kids. I played on some co-ed teams when I was a kid because it made him happy, and I guess he won after all because I still love the game even though I don’t play anymore.”

“That’s really cool. I mean, not the part about your dad being disappointed that you’re a girl…”

“Eh, it’s fine. It keeps my therapist employed, at least,” she jokes, and I laugh.

Damn, she’s funny too, and she knows about hockey. She’s the total package… except she’s not Beau.

On the screen, Beau assists with a goal, getting the puck to Dimitrov, who slaps it right into the five-hole, and I whistle and cheer.

Carrie takes every opportunity to lean into me or subtly drag her fingertips along my forearm, making it abundantly clear that she’s interested in more than just company to watch the game with.

I don’t even know where Beau and I stand. We’re not going to see each other for another month, and then who knows how long it will be after that before we’re in the same state again. This all happened so damn fast that we never had a chance to talk about if we’re dating or just hooking up, if we’re some kind of long-distance couple or if we’re going to be seeing other people. And, fuck, it would be so much easier to just take Carrie home, for things to just feel normal and easy for a little while.

Both teams play just as hard in the third period, but the Huskies pull out a 3-2 win. I watch to see if they’re going to throw Beau to the wolves and make him do a presser after his very first game. It’s Mercier who comes out in a suit shortly after the game ends though, giving some generic, positive responses about having Beau on the team and the Huskies chances for the cup this year.

Carrie is apparently done being subtle, hooking her fingers in my belt loops and tilting her head up just enough to make it clear that she’d be open to a kiss.

“This was fun. Thanks for letting me watch the game with you guys,” she says, letting her voice trail off in a way that leaves an opening for me to invite her back to my place.