Page 4 of Mother Pucker
I’m not one to be flustered easily, but I’m finding myself at a loss for words. “Shit. Um . . .”
At my mumbled attempt to regain my composure, Rowan ‘Slick’ Parker turns around to study me with hooded eyes. A smug grin plays over his ridiculously plump lips while his eyes stay fixed on mine.
He holds up his phone, showing me that it’s on camera mode. “Watched you walk in and check me out like you were fixin’ to make me your next meal.” His smile grows before he slicks his lips with his tongue. “And while I’m usually the one to do theeating, I’m not entirely against being offered up on a platter for you, Doc.”
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Fuck,that hurt!
And where the hell did that sharp pain come from? One second, I’m in control of the puck, fucking dominating the game, despite the fact that we’re short two of our best players, and the next, I’m face-planting on the ice.
Pain skyrocketed through my thigh, and I swear I saw stars. And they weren’t the good kind, like before shooting my load while balls-deep inside some faceless girl; they were the shitty kind of stars that tell me I’m going to be out of the game if I don’t fucking fix it.
Fuck!
I’m in the locker room with our assistant trainers and the team manager, waiting for the team’s physician to get done stitching up Sanders when Beckett Langfield storms in. His family–specifically, his brother, Gavin–owns my team, the Bolts, while Beckett owns the Revs, one of the best baseball teams in the US.
“You okay, Slick?” He eyes my cautious stance as I lean against the locker, leaving my weight on my uninjured leg. “What happened?”
Our assistant trainer hands me an ice pack and velcro strap, and I pull it around my thigh, placing the ice pack over where I can feel my thigh still burning. “Overextended swing, I think. Fucking felt like my thigh caught fire.”
“Shit.” Beckett runs a hand over his face, clearly worried about my injury. “Alright, well, I have someone who can help. She’s my wife’s best friend and a physical therapist. So, until you can see the physician, she might be able to help you out.”
I give him a nod, wincing as the pain radiates all around my thigh. My phone vibrates on the bench, and I glance at it before picking it up, leaning against the locker with my forearm above my head.
I already know who the text is from. The man who never misses watching one of my games, but who also never misses the chance to tell me how royally I fucked something up, too.
No matter how many media reports claim I’m the best defenseman in the Eastern Conference, or how I’m the ticket to the Bolts winning the Stanley Cup this year, I’m always a fuck-up in my dad’s eyes.
Why? Because Anthony Parkerwasthe golden boy of ice hockey for almost a decade until he fucked up his knee and could no longer play.
Dad
Work through the pain, son. I did it for years, and you can, too. Don’t fucking leave your team hanging. The season’s about to start so, man the fuck up.
My nostrils flare as I clench my phone in my fist.Man the fuck up?Is that what he did when he left my mom and me for his then-coach’s twenty-year-old daughter? Is that what he did when he yelled in my face in front of my entire high schoolhockey team for losing our last game, telling me what a “fucking disgrace” I was?
Is that what he thinksmanning the fuck upmeans?
I clench my jaw tight, opening up the camera on my phone to selfie-mode and wiping his text from my memory. I should block his number, but I’m a masochist. Or maybe I’m still just that kid under his dad’s shadow, hoping one day I’ll live up to his expectations.
Yeah, that’s some Freudian shit I don’t need a therapist to reveal to me.
I take a quick grinning picture of myself, like I always do before and after games, posting it for my fans on Instagram with a caption under it. It’s what they want to see, so it’s what I’ll give them.
Hold up while I turn this pain into power. Coming back stronger. #ComingfortheStanley
Beckett mutters something to the other two people in the locker room before they shuffle out. Not even a minute later, I hear footsteps inside the entrance.
My camera is already flipped to selfie-mode, so I position it to watch the short, fit woman hesitate inside the entrance. She’s wearing a thin, cropped light blue sweater and tight denims, her pink phone case peeking out from her front pocket.
Her dark eyes study me, traveling the length of my back leisurely before she licks her lips. Her gaze snags on my ass and a smile lifts the corners of my mouth.
Well, this is interesting.
I’ve never had problems getting attention from the opposite sex. I’ll admit, it comes easier when you have the attention ofmillions of fans, a ridiculously hefty contract, and are in top physical form, but I'm also not out looking for it.
