Chapter 18

18

Colver

Coach Patty leans down to scream in my ear.

It's the only way to communicate during a game when you have fifteen thousand people going nuts, wanting your team to win.

"You have to finish this out!" Coach Patty yells. "I can call a timeout if we need a play! Faust is gassed! Do not let the puck near him!"

He smacks my shoulder with his clipboard and climbs up on the bench, then starts to scream at one of the refs for a missed hooking call.

The fans start to boo.

The energy and tension in the game right now is addicting.

We're playing Boston and these games are always brutal. It doesn't matter the record on the season, when you play your rival, it's a fucking war.

I get ready to jump on the ice.

Like a hungry lion locked in a cage, waiting to get out.

As soon as my skates touch the ice, I'm off like a rocket.

I skate to center ice and the first person I see gets a massive shoulder check.

I turn and poke my stick, hitting the puck away from one of their attackers.

Ben comes up and dumps the puck along the boards.

Rhett and Dax are skating in, leaving me to handle the middle by myself.

I've got two guys in my way.

We're skating, throwing shoulders and comments, fighting for space.

Rhett puts someone into the boards with a thundering boom.

That gets the fans going.

Dax fights for the puck, wins, and sends it out front of the net.

As I start to move, a stick twists near my skates, throwing me off balance.

The refs don't make the call (again) and that gets everyone even more worked up.

Boston's goalie can only send the puck away.

That's our fucking chance.

The momentum is in our favor.

We can't let the puck out of the zone now.

Turner knows this.

He's come up and he's holding the line.

Dax goes for the puck and wins another battle.

He passes it to me.

I make a quick pass to Rhett on my left.

He fakes a shot and sends it my way.

Without hesitation, I toss the puck to Turner and he one-times the puck with so much force and speed that Boston's goalie doesn't even attempt to make a save until it's buried in the net.

The arena roars with cheers.

As I turn to skate toward Turner to congratulate him on the goal, I feel something hit my back.

When I look over my shoulder…

"Fuck you," I call out.

Peter Slinon (big, bad star hockey fighter) drops his stick and gloves.

He really wants to go, right now?

I'm not in the mood for this shit right now. In fact, I haven't been in the mood for much of anything for a little while now. I've had this weird sense of a hangover hitting me. I actually got to the point where Coach Patty made me see the team doctor for some testing. They checked for things like mono… wondering if I had picked up some bug or virus or something.

I'm more miserable than usual.

I'm eager to fight anyone.

I've gotten in the hot seat more than once over snubbing reporters and fans after games.

Believe me, I'm not actively trying to be an asshole, but I'm not going to hide how I'm feeling.

And since Peter wants to do this…

I throw my gloves down and go for him.

The fans love this.

A goal and a fight…

The refs don't like it.

Whistles are blowing but it's too late now.

I get my hands on Peter's jersey and pull him toward me.

He throws a quick left and hits my cheek.

Damn does that hurt.

But that's okay.

I uppercut him in the jaw. Then with the same fist I get him in the nose.

Blood sprays everywhere.

The fans love blood.

The refs are pulling and screaming at us to break it up.

Normally there's respect in a hockey fight. You know when to start. When to end.

Every now and again you get into a good one where you want to break the guy's jaw.

Right now…

Peter picked the wrong night to fuck with me.

As the refs try to pry us apart, we keep throwing punches.

One of the refs says we're going to get tossed from game.

As though I give a shit.

I take Peter down to the ice.

Now respectfully, that's where the fight is supposed to end.

You hit the ice and you stop.

Maybe say a few things.

But me…

The way I feel lately…

I bring my right hand back and I hit Peter again.

It's a dirty, cheap hit.

I go to hit him again and one of the refs grabs my arm.

"What the fuck, Caspian?" the ref screams at me. "Are you fucking insane?"

It takes two refs, Turner, and Dax to get me off Peter.

The excitement of the fans has died down quite a bit too.

A hockey fight is one thing. But an actual fight… real violence… that's a different feeling…

I'm kicked out of the game, which should happen.

I walk right to the locker room and start to take off my gear and throw it around.

I punch the wall.

Then I stare down and take deep breaths.

It's fucking insane how I feel anymore.

Like I lost something. Or someone.

It makes no sense to me.

Nothing has happened to justify it.

Not unless you consider… you know… what happened with a certain someone.

That feels like a lifetime ago right now.

And, honestly… Abrielle?

No fucking chance in hell she could be lingering on my mind.

No fucking way.

The game ends with Turner's goal being the one that gave us the win.

He's a hero. He's on camera.

He's like me in the sense that he hates being interviewed and being the center of attention.

Of course I'm going to take some serious heat for my dirty hockey playing. Well, dirty hockey fighting. There are times when things can go so far that police have to get involved. The fine line between a hockey fight and a real life fight.

I'll be the first to admit I crossed that line tonight for sure.

Coach Patty gives me an earful over the situation and I take the verbal beating. He has to blow off steam and it keeps the rest of the team in line.

I'm sure I'll get texts and calls from my agent soon enough too.

Possible suspension on the way. Definitely a fine.

That's the norm for me at this point in my career and my life.

The guys are even a little pissed off at me now.

Not that Turner will come right out and say it, but for him to score a goal, it's a big deal. He doesn't get many chances. I stole his moment in a way.

Faust is mad at himself for playing shitty the entire game.

Truthfully, if it wasn't for Turner and Ben and their killer defense, the game would have been out of hand in the first period alone.

All in all, let's leave the game like this…

Sometimes you have a bad game and still win.

I get the hell out of the arena, avoiding all media.

And, yes, I avoid the fans again.

Call me whatever you want, I deserve it.

Right now, I just need to hole up in my apartment, have a drink, and figure out what to do next with whatever this damn feeling is.

If I do get suspended, maybe I'll go up to the cabin.

No! No cabin!

So, what, now I can't go to my place of quiet and comfort all because I took Abrielle up there and fucked her?

So this feeling does revolve around her?

Questions like that - when they hit - they piss me right the fuck off.

And actually if I'm being real with myself, I think the problem is that I haven't done anything fun since… you know.

And by fun , I mean fuck.

I need to fuck someone.

Jerking off onto my bed and t-shirt? What a stupid idea.

Jerking off in the shower? Waste of time.

I'm not built and meant to be alone and stroke my cock.

I can find someone else to do it for me. With ease too.

Fucking right, then it's settled. Head home, make a call or two, and I'll have someone stop over for the sole purpose of fucking me. No dating. No talking. No bullshit.

Just show up, get naked, and ride my cock until I feel better.

I'm finally at my building, ready to turn and go into the underground parking garage, and you'll guess what happens…

Someone is waiting for me. Again.

Someone is blocking my path. Again.

I almost run someone over. Again…

This time when I see Abrielle, she's not covered in blood.

She's just standing there.

Obviously she's been waiting for me.

But why now? Why wait a fucking month and then pull a stunt like this again?

What is this supposed to be? She gets lonely and horny, then tracks me down?

Not that I would complain but this weird, semi-stalker shit doesn't work for me.

So what do I do?

I roll my window down. Just like last time.

I stick my head out the window and feel my lip curling.

"Get the fuck out of my way, kitten," I call out. "Nothing I can help you with this time."

Which is sort of a lie. Because she can help me with something. She can climb up into my truck, lean over the seat and wrap those lips of hers around my cock and suck me dry.

Of course Abrielle doesn't move.

I wonder if maybe she's here to give me back my hundred grand I spent saving her ass a month ago.

Now that would be a treat.

"I'm not in the mood," I call out to her. "This is as nice and calm as I'm going to get."

Abrielle steps out of the way.

I hit the gas pedal and rush forward.

As I go by her, I tell myself not to look.

But I look.

I can't believe what I'm about to say…

… but it sort of looks like Abrielle is waving a pregnancy test in the air at me.