10. 10

10

Ant Decker

We’re on the ice in Detroit. It’s the third period, and we’re tied at two goals each. The Blackbirds are a shit-hot team, one of the best in the league this season and last. Even if McGuire and I could find our rhythm like we did on the ice yesterday, which we haven’t been able to do yet, there’s a good chance we don’t have what it takes to beat them. It’s been a stop-start game with the Blackbirds in our half far more than we’ve been in theirs. Our goalie, Bennet, has been on fire. A solid wall, a pane of bulletproof glass. He’s moving like he’s the main character in a Matrix reboot. He’s stopping pucks most players wouldn’t have seen.

If it weren’t for him, we’d be in deep shit.

The attack is relentless, a hard, angry clash of their bodies and ours. Each second feels like a minute—and a minute is a fucking long time in a hockey game to begin with. I’m on the bench, throwing back water. McGuire’s here too. His eyes haven’t left the ice for a second .

The clock ticks. The minute dial rolls over from eighteen minutes to nineteen. Our second-line center has the puck. He’s in the neutral zone, moving forward. He makes an unsuccessful shot at goal, and as soon as they can, the line hustles to the bench. McGuire and I are over the board like a flash. Luddy follows a couple of seconds later. He’s holding his own, but his legs must be heavy. There’s sweat pouring down his face and he’s breathing hard.

The opposite center has possession of the puck and heads for the goal with it. Or he tries to. Katz hits him hard, and before he can recover, Luddy scoops up the puck and moves it from side to side with a well-practiced flick of his wrist. McGuire calls out, and it’s a good call. He’s open. Luddy passes long. McGuire takes the puck like it’s his. Like he owns it. Like his dad bought it for him and said no one else could play with it.

I make tracks to keep up with him, but at the speed he’s moving, I doubt he even knows where I am. His eye is on goal. Both defensemen sense real and imminent danger. Their eyes widen, then narrow. Their right attacks. McGuire gets past him.

The home crowd is dead quiet. Vipers supporters are on their feet and screaming .

The second defenseman attempts to stop McGuire. He fails but manages to slow him. It’s a mess. The forwards have hauled ass back and the right defense has rallied and is almost on him again. There are five seconds left on the clock. There are Blackbirds everywhere. McGuire raises his stick. He has a decent shot. Not easy, but not impossible. The goalie has his eyes locked on McGuire, stance low, stick in one hand, the other open and ready to block.

Pass the puck, I think. Pass the fucking puck, Princess!

It’s almost as though he hears me. The tendon in his neck tenses and he lets out a rushed breath. At the last second, he feigns a shot on goal and passes the puck to me instead. It’s an astonishing pass. So fast and hard that all I have to do is angle my stick. The puck makes contact and bounces off it. It stays low on the ice, not spinning, not bobbing, moving like lightning, and not stopping until it makes its home in the back of the net.

It’s pandemonium. The Vipers’ song starts blaring and our fans are losing their minds. A last-second goal is always sure to get a major response, but a goal like that?

Once in a lifetime.

I’m off my feet almost immediately, crushed by a mammoth pair of arms and lifted into the air. It’s Luddy. His head is thrown back and he’s yelling his guts out. “Decker, you fucking beauty!”

Suddenly, everyone’s on the ice. Coaches, players, practice players, everyone. The hard tap of hands on my helmet jostles me, but I don’t hate it. Far from it. I love it. I breathe it in.

Elation.

Ecstasy.

Pure, unfiltered goodness that enters my bloodstream and warms me from the inside out.

This is it. This is the reason. This is why I play hockey. This is what makes it all worthwhile. The people. The early mornings, the late flights. The bruised ribs and battle scars. All of that fades now. It goes away, and all that’s left in its place is joy. And no ordinary joy either. This isn’t just happiness. That’s a light, flighty emotion. This is heavy and dense.

It’s powerful.

It’s victory. Winning. Being better than someone or something.

Fuck. I love it.

I feel McGuire’s eyes on me before I see them. He’s smiling but his nostrils are flared slightly. I can’t say why exactly, but it gives me a rush to see him like that. Torn. Jealous. Torn because a win is a win, and he likes winning too. Jealous because even though he tries to hide it from others, he’s just as much of an asshole as I am.

He wanted that goal scored under his own name as much as I did. Maybe more.

He looks at me expectantly, eyes fractionally bigger than usual. He looks almost constipated, and it takes everything I have not to piss myself laughing.

He’s not happy. His eyes flash and darken. An angry amber shadow mixes with streaks of olive and makes them look muddy.

“How ’bout thank you?” he asks, spitting each word in my direction with a little more rancor than the last.

My dick twitches from an unwelcome flashback of what happened after the last time he said that to me.

Fuck. Those lips and that tongue. The subtle taste of surprise, followed quickly by outrage. That hint of copper that stayed in my mouth until the next morning.

“Thanks for meeting the bare minimum requirement of your job description, McGuire,” I say in a mild tone designed to make people lose their temper.

His gaze flits over my shoulder, slightly to my left, and my stomach drops. I don’t even need to turn to know Coach is behind me and heard every word I just said.

Shit. He won’t like that. He won’t like it at all, especially as he was very clear at practice yesterday what he expected from us and while we played a lot better than we’ve been playing, we were nowhere close to poetry. We came through at the last minute, but on the whole, McGuire and I were closer to a nursery rhyme than a sonnet.

When we get to the hotel, we shuffle around the lobby while waiting for our key cards. Even though our travel team has checked us in, it’s still a process getting this many people into the right rooms. It’s one of those things that grates on my nerves more and more as the season progresses. Lucky for everyone around me, we’re only a few weeks into the season and my mood has recently been lifted by a win.

“Decker, McGuire,” calls Warren, holding out a single card envelope. We move toward him, both a little confused. “You two are rooming together. Coach’s orders.”

“W- why ?” exclaims McGuire, dragging the word out like a child. A whiny, spoiled child.

For once, McGuire and I are in total agreement. This plan is fucking madness. I’m fuming the second I hear it, but unlike McGuire, I know Santos and Warren. I know how they work. If they’ve taken it into their heads that this is what we need, there isn’t a goddamn thing we can do to talk them out of it .

Warren scarcely reacts. “I believe he said something along the lines of ’til they sort their shit out.’”

Disbelief all but vibrates off McGuire. Not just disbelief. Outrage too. “But, but—”

Warren has already moved on to the next player and the one after that. Handing out keys and congratulations like confetti, and if I’m not mistaken, trying his best not to show how deeply he supports Coach’s treatment of us.

McGuire isn’t having it. He puts his nose in the air and uses all the energy he can muster to keep his expression serene as he beats a path to Coach Santos.

I can’t hear what either of them says. They’re too far away for that and there are a lot of people in the lobby, but it’s a short conversation, and I can tell McGuire isn’t happy with the outcome.

Naturally, I’m not happy about the arrangement either. Quite the opposite. It’s a fucking nightmare and then some. It’s just that I know Coach a lot better than McGuire does, and if he says this is what’s happening, nothing on Earth will get him to change his mind. The only thing complaining will do is make him double down.

We’ve obviously pushed him as far as we can, and now we have no option but to live with the consequences. I’ve been a shit enough in my life that I have plenty of experience dealing with consequences. Coach has clearly taken the stance that if we’re going to act like kids, he’s going to treat us like kids. I don’t like it, but I understand nothing will be done about it tonight. The only thing to do is lie low, play better, and hope he forgets about our bullshit before our next away game.

McGuire punches the elevator button a little harder than strictly required as soon as he’s finished talking to Coach and glares at me. “You coming, or what?”

I sidle into the elevator and take up as much room as possible, crowding him into the corner.

McGuire smiles thinly, trying to hide his fury, unaware it’s written all over his face. There’s something so ridiculous about his little charade that I have a hard time keeping control of my face.

I’ll bet it’s a first for him, not getting his way about something like this. I’ll bet he’s unraveling. I’ll bet he’s seconds away from calling his agent and lodging a formal complaint. He’d have a case too—technically, players not on entry-level contracts are supposed to have their own rooms when they travel.

Maybe McGuire will complain. God, wouldn’t that be something? Coach would lose his mind. It would be so perfect. It would be the most perfect golden boy-slash-babygirl fall from grace I could ever imagine. Oh man, I’d love it.

Bodie gives McGuire a supportive pat on the shoulder and throws a worried glance at him when the elevator stops at his floor. He leaves without making eye contact with me.

Fuck him. See if I care if he thinks I’m an asshole.

The elevator rides up and comes to a stop two floors up.

It’s a decent-sized room with two full-sized beds and enough space to move around them easily. The bedside lamps are dimmed and the drapes are open to show off a seemingly endless cityscape. A black velvet curtain with lights glittering through it. A million tiny stars cut into luxe fabric. Some people like mountain or sea views, and sure, I get the appeal. But for me, a night sky will always be where it’s at. I take a moment to appreciate it and try to ignore the fact that I just heard the door shut. Timber connects solidly with timber. A well-oiled latch slips through the strike plate with a soft snick that sucks the air out of the room.

McGuire and I are alone.

His reflection looks at me, huffs once, and falls onto the bed farthest from me. He stretches out, one arm under tucked his head, long legs crossed at the ankles. I turn slightly, back still to him, to give myself a better vantage of his likeness in the pane of glass before me. I let my gaze travel across his chest, up his throat, his chin, and settle on his lips. They’re parted slightly, the bottom one slightly fuller than the top.

That’s the one I bit. The bottom one. That’s the one I had between my teeth. Soft, warm flesh. Dusty pink when I found it. Dark red when I left it.

Stop it! I tell myself. Stop it right now. Stop looking at him. Stop thinking about his mouth. Don’t talk to him, don’t antagonize him, and for the love of all that is holy, don’t touch him again.