“Oh … oh fuck.” Cum spills over his fingers as his brain tries to catch up with his body. His eyelids flutter.
“You are so wrecked. Gorgeous.”
“Wh-What about you?” he says, trying to steady himself.
“I’ve got a great visual for later.”
“I’d better get some fucking pics of that shit, Trav,” he says, reaching for something to clean himself off.
I take him in, every inch of his wrung-out body. “I miss you so much it hurts, pretty boy.”
“Thank god. I’m so glad it’s not just me pining over here.”
“I’m counting down the fucking days, Dirk. Longest hockey season of my life.”
Chapter
Fifteen
Late January
Dirk
On the Ice
The air tastes like iron, sharp and metallic, and I can’t tell if it’s from my split lip or the storm of violence happening around me. It’s war with a fucking scoreboard tonight. But this is how it is when we play Boston, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. This is the thrill I live for, why I always stay thirsty for hockey.
Dash’s stick cracks against the ice—pass the puck, Boulder—and I’m fucking trying. If only this goddamn moose on skates would get off my ass. Time to spin-o-rama. I turn like I’m heading into my own zone, then one-eighty around and pass to Dash.
Ha, ha, sucker!
The puck lands sweetly against his blade, and there he fucking goes toward the goal. Boston defense moves in, and hepasses back to Sweeny, one of our defensemen.Nice, Dashie.But that’s all the celebration I get.
Wham!
Someone accidentally-on-purpose side checks Dash, shoulder ramming him in the fucking head. Oh no, he fucking didn’t. I’m gonna kill that asshole. Dash drops like a bag of rocks, and so does my stomach.
“What you waiting for? Let’s get him, Boulder.” Maverick’s a quarter of a second in front of me, the first to pile onto that dickbag, slamming him into the boards. Another Boston player glides in at the speed of light with the hope of being the first to attack Maverick, but my gloves are already gone, and I grab him. It ignites a frenzy. More guys move into the fray, pounding on each other. The refs have moved in. There are whistles. No one cares. They have to pull us off, but Maverick’s clobbered the guy, Braxley, who railroaded Dashie.
For some fucking reason, it’s Maverick and I tossed in the box together, but at least the clown that started it’s in the box across from us.
Speaking of Dash, he’s already up and ready to go again. Buddy’s lucky, or he would have been the first face I smashed after leaving this box.
“Awww, look, it’s Romeo and Juliet side by side,” he chirps.
“Jealous because pigeons can’t have hockey stats like mine?” Maverick shouts.
“There’s a reason you’ve been traded four times, Braxley,” I say. “Go home, hockey doesn’t want you.”
Maverick and I high-five. “That was awesome, thanks man.”
“Don’t mention it. Getting hit like that’s bullshit, and I know you protect Nolan on the ice.”
Yeah, it’s resulted in me beat up a lot more and more penalty minutes this season than my entire career.
Braxley’s still beaking us off from his box. Maverick and I burst out laughing, then he lobs a sports bottle filled with some kinda sports drink. It bursts all over Braxley’s face. Somehow, no one clocks that shit, and Braxley’s left fuming. We laugh harder. Serves him fucking right. That’s called justice, motherfucker.
Man, it’s good to be a hockey player.
