5. Harper

5 /

harper

I downed two fried eggs and a bowl of fruit, then devoured a slice of toast in the elevator. After chugging orange juice straight from the bottle, I tossed the empty plastic jug into a nearby bin and sprinted for my SUV. Oversleeping meant a mad dash to Amherst because I didn't want to be late meeting my new teammates. It was a first impression I couldn't afford to screw up.

My knuckles turned white as I gripped the steering wheel and accelerated onto the highway. Last night's bravado in my texts with Luca had been for show. After leaving the Jitterbug, I'd kept my phone with me every second, waiting for a message. I'd needed to hear from him to be sure he wanted to see me again. I was relieved he did, but the idea of texting while I was in D.C. made me nervous. While it would be fun, it would also be a chance to shoot myself in the foot. I didn't know what made men get tired of me, but if Luca and I only had limited time together, I didn't want to waste it online.

It seemed like we both wanted to be friends as well as have sex. The last I heard, that meant friends with benefits. Our physical attraction was undeniable, but was it enough? Could we handle the "friends" part? One hot encounter in a coffee shop wasn't exactly a recipe for a lasting connection.

Lasting connection? What the hell was I thinking? There would be no lasting connection because protecting myself was job number one. Lasting connection, my ass. Instinct told me Luca wouldn't want anything long-term even if it was on the table. And if he did, it wouldn't be long until he kicked me in the heart and disappeared. No one had ever wanted me for me, and things went to hell every time I got my hopes up. When Luca and I went out, I'd be the four Fs my friend Sara always talked about: friendly, funny, fashionable, and fuckable. Then, in no time, I'd be forgotten, forlorn, and—fuck Fs—devastated.

Fans thought professional hockey players had it made. To them, we were millionaires who had it all. I swallowed hard, unable to blink back a few tears. I'd have traded everything for someone who loved me, a man who thought I was special for more than how many goals I scored. I dreamed about meeting someone who wanted more than having a hockey player's dick up his ass so he could brag to his friends about it.

Hockey player? Shit. Fuck it, fuck me, and fuck my life. Luca didn't know I played hockey yet. Feeling punched in the gut, I wondered if I should pull to the side of the road before I hurled in the SUV. Everything changed when guys learned about my job. They either wanted the things I could buy them, the attention of being seen with me, or—full circle back to what I'd thought before—being able to brag about getting fucked by a jock because, yeah… they were super-hot.

No one ever asked what I wanted; they assumed I'd go along with whatever they had in mind. No one ever bought me dinner, even a pizza, because I made a lot of money. And no one ever took me to meet their family because I wasn't a keeper. I was only someone they could have before they found the person they wanted to share a life with.

I breathed a sigh of relief when the Warriors Sports Complex came up on the right, interrupting my pity party. The two-year-old facility housed the team's practice rink and offices. After parking in the players' garage—my name was already listed in front of my designated parking spot—I got out of the SUV, slung my gear bag over my shoulder, and headed inside.

Some of the guys from our bar excursion were already there, along with someone I hadn't met—Logan Grayson, the other openly gay Warrior. I didn't know much about him except he was one of the league's best wingers. He was in his early thirties, and with blond hair and blue eyes, he was a looker. Though not as handsome as Gabe, and not even in Luca's stratosphere, he probably turned heads wherever he went.

"Blanton, have you hooked up with that guy from the bar yet?" I turned my head to see Holcomb coming in from the restroom, wearing a friendly grin. "He was really into you."

"I heard he was handsome as fuck," Logan said, smiling. "I can see why he liked you, pretty boy."

My heart drummed, but I went along with the kidding. "Shut the fuck up. I am not pretty."

Holcomb snorted. "You are so pretty. Even I can see that, and I'm not into guys."

"You're a pretty one, Blanton, so get over yourself." The accented voice belonged to Axel Bj?rk, the back-up goalie, who was taking off his shirt.

"Quit giving Harper shit," Gabe called out. "Save it for the ice." Glancing at me, he stage-whispered, "You are pretty, though, Harpy."

"Fuck you all," I said, laughing. "I'll show you pretty on the ice." I'd been on enough hockey teams to know they were being friendly, not assholes. With strangers, it might have been different, but this was one of the ways teammates bonded.

Amid a chorus of guffaws, and while Holcomb called out, "Bring it on, gorgeous," I found a locker and started changing into my gear.

"Wear pads," Logan said. "We get rough out there."

He didn't need to tell me that. Shinny—basically street hockey, an informal game with no rules—was hard-fought. Between teammates, it was usually cutthroat. I was glad conversation moved on to topics not involving my looks, and by the time I was dressed, everyone had arrived.

"What the hell?" Gabe scowled at me. "The fuck is that?"

Logan looked appalled. "Come on, man, what kind of bullshit is this?"

Bj?rk snickered and shook his head. "Lose that Barracudas practice jersey, or I'll cut it off. Jax keeps scissors in his locker in case somebody needs them."

Jaxon Wyatt, the team captain, was a brawny defenseman with long brown hair and a short beard. He stood and walked toward me. "Give him a break. We all had our first days." He nodded down a hallway. "Let's go find something decent for you to wear."

When we returned, I was sporting a Warriors practice jersey. It was crimson, matching four of the guys. The five others had white jerseys, so I knew which team I'd be on.

"Here he is, boys," Jax said. "Our newest Warrior. Make him feel welcome."

They all jumped to their feet, clapped once in perfect unison, and let loose a bloodcurdling yell. I jumped, making Jax laugh.

"That's our battle cry, Harpy. May as well get used to it."

"Go Harpy, go Harpy," they yelled, followed by another bone-chilling shriek.

After everyone mussed my hair, knuckled the top of my head, or clapped me on the back, Logan led us down the tunnel to the ice. We were skating laps when Gabe came up beside me. "You been out here before?"

"Nope. It's bigger than I expected."

"There are two rinks, but we almost always use this one." Nodding at the far wall, he added, "They open the one over there to the public several days a week, and youth leagues use it to play."

"What a great idea." As we skated around for another lap, I jerked a thumb toward a different wall and asked, "What's on that side?"

"Indoor lacrosse," Logan said, appearing on my left. "Buffalo has a box lacrosse team, the Steamrollers, and they practice over there."

"Couple of youth leagues use it, too," Gabe added.

One wall had a wide window, revealing tall buildings in the distance. "What's that?" I asked. "Don't tell me Amherst has a skyline."

"Not really," Logan said. "It's UB. SUNY Buffalo's north campus."

"All right, guys," Jax yelled, "we gonna play or what?"

Logan and I skated to center ice while Gabe went to one of the goals and Bj?rk headed for the other. Having goalies was unusual in shinny, but so what? I was on Team Crimson with Logan, Jax, Gabe, and Riley—a D-man who'd just finished his rookie year. Our opponents, Team White, were Holcomb, Mason, Blunt, Carson, and Bj?rk.

"Ten-point game, boys," Jax said. "May the best team win."

We got started, and I immediately saw that the Warriors' version of shinny was as aggressive as the Barracudas'. As the center on our team, most of the offensive responsibility was mine. I was rushing the goal, ready to shoot, when Blunt checked me so hard I'd probably have bruises. I lost the puck, but Logan slammed into Blunt with enough force to knock him off his feet. "Nice hit," I yelled as Logan rescued the puck and knocked it into the net. We had a 1–0 lead two minutes into the game.

No refs meant no penalties, so fierce body checks, high sticking, cross checks, hooking, and even tripping were all fair game. At one point, Mason and Holcomb—Team White players—were passing back and forth in front of our goal, trying to get in position for a shot. Gabe, who'd been chirping them, poke checked the puck, which I captured before flying off toward Team White's zone.

"Coming for you, Harpy!" Holcomb raced in from the left, too focused to notice Riley charging him from behind. As Holcomb opened his mouth for more trash talk, Riley crashed into him. Holcomb let loose a string of curses, and while he teetered, Riley stuck his stick under Holcomb's skate and tripped him. While Holcomb's teammates hooted, I took a shot so hard that Bj?rk's blocker didn't stand a chance. After my goal, the score was Crimson 4–White 2.

When I finished my stupid, skating-on-one-foot celly, Riley helped Holcomb to his feet, and they traded a fist bump. All's fair in love, war, and shinny.

Following a water break, the game went in a different direction. Holcomb was a center, like me, and he apparently needed to see how good the new guy was. The game became more like one-on-one, and while Holcomb did everything possible to get in my way, I returned the favor.

"What've you got, fucker?" he taunted as he danced in front of me to block their goal.

"Twelve inches, ten more than you!"

He laughed so hard I was past him before he realized what had happened. His cry of "sorry shit-eating bastard" echoed as I buried the puck in the net using what I called the Benny Caldwell wrister, a shot my college coach taught me.

We didn't really have face-offs, so Bj?rk sent the puck to Mason, one of his teammates. Mason rocketed toward our zone, and despite Jax and Riley's best efforts, he remained on his feet. That left me to get in his way, so I did my best version of a war dance and yelled, "The fuck are you thinking? You're such a bender my nana skates better than you."

He kept the puck out of my reach and scoffed. "You're ten-ply, bud. Go play with the other peewees."

I glared at him. "Where's your face paint, clown?" Then I stole the puck. The White Team's goal was too far away for anything but a slapshot, and I was thrilled when it went in. While Mason told me what I could do to myself, I yelled out the score: "Crimson 7, White 6."

Holcomb took possession of the puck and started down the ice toward our zone. Mason had gotten ahead of Holcomb—so much for off-sides—and called for the puck. I caught up to Mason just as the puck arrived, so I skated a quick circle to throw him off balance.

"You learn that in mini mites?" he asked, taking a shot. Men cheered, and Mason smirked. "White 7, Crimson 7."

When the last man had been tripped, cross-checked, and boarded, and after goalie Bj?rk had scored—a remarkable feat even in shinny—Team Crimson won, 10–9. We left the ice with far less decorum than we ever would in an arena, accusing each other of crimes ranging from wearing too much makeup to attempted murder. The raucous laughter might have seemed odd to an outsider, but to hockey players, it was how we let off steam. A minute later, we were gulping water in the locker room, blowing sunshine up each other's asses and predicting a defeat-free season.

"You're fucking sick, Harpy." Holcomb patted my abs and curled an arm around my shoulders. "I'd kill to have your hands, and your skating is steezy. If Criswell doesn't start you on the first line, I'll eat my stick."

That was an incredible compliment from a fellow center. I smiled and tried to think of something to say, but Gabe came over and gripped the back of my neck with one of his big hands. "Need to do some serious shooting drills though. Only eight out of ten goals? You've got to do better."

Everyone chortled and told Gabe he was full of shit. I knew the drill—bolster the new guy's confidence—but they probably meant some of what was said. The Warriors needed another good forward, and being in Buffalo was my chance to show what I could do.

My stomach fluttered when Mason cracked a joke, and everyone laughed again. He looked enough like Luca to remind me of the coffee shop and make me think about our date next Tuesday.

"Cool, calm, and collected," Nick Johnson used to say when we were nervous about a game. "Let's keep our anxiety in check so we can do our best."

I took a deep breath. Whatever happened with Luca would be okay if I stayed out of my head and focused on keeping it light. There was nothing wrong with being friends with benefits.

Interrupting my thoughts, Jax reminded everyone we were going to lunch, so I stripped down for a shower. Hopefully, the warm water would wash away the jitters so I could enjoy the coming weekend.