"Stag! Get in here!” Coach bellows to me as I limp past his office. Practice has been brutal this past week, but we’re a few wins away from a Stanley Cup. This is exactly what I’ve trained for the last 20 years.
“Sure thing, Coach. What’s up?”
“Don’t give me that smug shit, Stag. Sit down.” I can tell this isn’t going to be a quick chat. I sigh, because I’d hoped to head to the boat house this afternoon and see if I could stare at Juniper’s ass for awhile while she helped coach the high school kids.
Coach swivels his computer monitor toward me, pulling up a video. It’s last night’s game against St. Louis. Squinting, I see that he’s been watching me and their winger, Houser. “I fuckin’ hate that guy, Coach.”
He frowns. “I know you do, Stag, and so does the rest of the NHL.” Houser came up with me in the minors, was drafted the same year, and we’ve probably had more fights on the ice than anyone else I can think of. “I want to know what the hell you plan to do about it.”
I shrug. Last night I managed to ignore him other than a few shoulder checks. “I’m not going to throw the first punch, Coach.” I know what’s on the line here. I’ve read my contract. Matty has been very clear. One fight and I’m gone. The Fury were the only team even willing to touch my contract, and that’s just because they got a critical injury right before playoffs. Nobody wants a hothead they can’t control. “I swear to God, I’ll behave.”
He scowls at me. “You’re a loose cannon, Stag. Guys like you give the other teams power plays with the fighting and the penalties. And now Houser has something up his sleeve. I could smell it last night.”
“I scored a hat trick twice so far in the playoffs,” I snap back at him. “Look, I know my reputation is shit, but I’ve been festering in the minors for years now. I learned my lesson, I got the message, and I’m not going to fucking start with Houser. Remember how I wasn't there the night Murphy got arrested?" I shouldn't be smart mouthing to Coach like this, but he's not being fair.
He nods and scratches his chin. “ Yeah, yeah. Good. Now get the hell out of my office and ice your hamstring.”
I stagger down to the trainers, thinking how little I care about Houser, and how much Juniper is invading my thoughts lately. I’ve never met a girl who “got it” about sports. I don’t have to explain anything to her, because she knows about timing my protein intake and stretching, the mental zone before a game. She does all that, too. It drives me wild. I could sit with her all day, watching her film, and not just because I like to look at her. When we were in her apartment, her face was so concentrated. I could see her analyzing every little thing in that video.
And then she leaned on my leg. Holy fuck, she leaned across my thigh and then told me she was getting into the shower. Naked. I had to go home and immediately take care of business as I remembered the feel of her pressed me.
I practically ran to my room and fell on the bed. I ripped down my shorts, panting, and started stroking myself, imagining it was her hand on my dick. I thought about the expression on her face when I made her come in the bathroom, could still smell her scent clinging to my clothes from sitting so close to her on the couch. In my fantasy, as I rubbed myself furiously, I imagined I actually did lean in to kiss her in her apartment. That she reached for my cock, kissed me back, stripped out of her sweaty clothes and straddled me. With one final tug, I felt the head of my cock swell and a thick stream of cum spurted into the air like the Point Park fountain, all over my clothes and my sheets. With a heaving sigh, I collapsed onto my bed as the last glimpse of my imagination faded--a memory of Juniper smiling, sexually sated.
God, soon, I think. I have to have her again soon. As I sink into the massage table, I reach for my phone to shoot her a text. Can i ask u a favor @ the game 2morrow?
This had better be related to my legal expertise
Record me so we can watch and talk about my slap shot
Doesn’t the NHL pay people to do this for you?
They don’t smell as good as u
Good night, Tyrion
So you’ll bring your camera tomorrow?
She doesn’t respond, and it takes all my restraint not to text her something crass about my text vibrating in her pocket.
My brother Tim is still wrapped up in the Murdo scandal, so he’s not at the game against St. Louis. It's a home game, for god's sake. He must be really tied up if he can't even come watch a home game. I know he’d rather be here with Thatcher and Gran, but part of me feels glad because I like Juniper sitting up in the box with my family. I know she’s only here for work, but I like the look of her in a Stag jersey. I give her a wave when they announce my name, and I must have a shit-eating grin on my face because I can see Houser fucking staring at me across the ice. Shit. That’s like rule number one. Never give those assholes something to bait you with.
There’s no way he can know anything about Juniper, though. She could be anyone sitting up there next to my brother, with the agents and other families.
Every fucking faceoff, though, that asshole lays into me. “Who’s your girlfriend, Stag?” “After we’re done here, I’m going to show your girlfriend how a real man fucks.” I sink a goal into the net right past his fucking skates and ignore him. The arena erupts. We’re up 1-0 in the first period.
I can’t help myself. I look up at the box again, smiling at my family, and then I lock eyes with Juniper. I see her blush and smile, and I remember why I became a professional athlete to start with. Moments like this. But I'm not just a superstar to her. She gets what it took to be here, how it fucking feels to score like that. She knows how I feel right now. I’m grinning like a lunatic, which is why I don’t even see it coming when Houser clocks me from behind.
I don’t know how I keep my feet, but I sway, giving him time to toss off his gloves and come at me again. This time, I’m ready and my conscious mind goes dormant. I’m totally in primal mode. I don’t even know how many times I hit him. Both our helmets have flown off at this point and I can see blood flying. I land an uppercut under Houser’s jaw and he flies backward. The ref comes in to break it up, dragging me over to the penalty box.
When I look over at Coach, he draws a hand across his neck and I know I fucked it all up. After my two minutes is up, the team manager comes to escort me down the tunnel. Shit, they’re not even letting me finish the fucking game, I think. “Coach, he hit me first. He fucking started it, Coach.”
Coach turns away from me, which pisses me off. Murphy and Kingston stare down at their skates. This isn't fair and they all know it. I've done my part. I reined it in. All I've done wrong is lust after my lawyer, and I'm pretty sure none of them know that. I think. Now I'm not being allowed to play hockey, and I'm wild with rage. I see red and start kicking the wall with my skate on. Fuck that guy. Shit. My whole body hurts from that fight.
I see Matty come charging down the tunnel and he pulls me aside. “Ty, baby, Houser says he’s pressing charges for assault.”
I actually laugh, because the thought is so ridiculous. But Matty tells me the entire thing is under review, and I can’t be on the ice until they reach a decision. “Where’s your attorney, Ty?”
“You know where she is, Matty. Why do I need a fucking attorney for this? It’s a god damned hockey fight that I didn’t even start.”
“You didn’t drop your stick when Houser hit you the first time,” he explains. I can’t even remember. It came out of nowhere. When did I drop the stick? Is he seriously trying to claim I used my stick as an assault weapon? Matty's long face tells me this is really happening. My jaw drops and for the first time, I’m worried they’re going to end my career over some stupid technicality after I got sucker punched.