Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Right. As if now I’ll be able to think of anything but.
And think about it I do. All week long.
Normally I’d be pumped and focused on the upcoming game, but by the time Friday rolls around, I can’t even remember who we’re playing against. My concentration is shot, not only because Demi’s gotten under my skin, but from the constant ragging I’ve been getting from my teammates all week.
I had no choice but to fess up about the jail incident, because Brenna had breakfast with her father the morning after and Coach Jensen decided to be an ass and told his daughter. And obviously Brenna opened her big mouth, and now I’m Hunter Davenport, the guy who got arrested for receiving a blowjob while driving. The worst part is, I didn’t even get the blowjob.
Demi’s also been teasing me about it, only she’s taking things a step further than my teammates. Since experiencing my “move,” she’s launched a campaign to end my celibacy, as evidenced by the text she just sent.
DEMI: Have a good game tonight! I hope you score! Speaking of scoring, have you considered breaking your vow?
I sigh at the phone. See? I should be mentally prepping for the game right now. I’m in the visitors’ locker room at…Boston College. Right! That’s who we’re facing tonight. I should be thinking about the game, not Demi Davis.
ME: I told you, it ain’t happening.
HER: You wouldn’t even consider it? For lil ole me?
Someone smacks me between the shoulder blades. “Hey, now. Stop fantasizing about the road head, captain.”
I turn to find Matt grinning at me.
“Seriously, though, nice,” he praises.
“You’ve said that to me at morning skate every day this week.”
“Yeah, because it’s nice. Always wanted road head.”
“Me too,” I say dryly. “Like I’ve been telling you every day, nothing happened. Demi’s earring got stuck on my pants.”
“I’ve gotten road head,” Conor drawls as he unbuttons his white dress shirt.
“You’ve gotten head everywhere,” I shoot back.
“That’s not true. I’ve never gotten…” He strains his brain trying to offer up a blowjob-free location.
“Having a little trouble there?” Matt hoots.
Chuckling, I peel off my own clothes and begin to suit up. My phone dings again and I realize I didn’t respond to Demi.
HER: Sorry. I’ll stop talking about this. I know it makes you uncomfortable.
ME: No, sorry, I’m just gearing up. Gotta go, talk later.
I add a kissy face and then tuck the phone in the pocket of my discarded pants. Once I’m in uniform, I sink down on the bench to put on my skates.
Conor sits beside me. “What are you doing after the game? We were going to have some people over. You in?”
“Sure. I’ve got nothing else going on.”
He slants his head pensively. “Are you seriously not doing this sex thing or are you fucking with all of us?”
“Not since April,” I confirm.
“Christ. That’s intense. I’d probably lose my mind if I couldn’t bust a nut.”
“I never said I’m not busting nuts.” I release a gloomy sigh. “I’m just doing it solo.”
“Still. Sounds like a hellscape.”
I can’t help but snicker. “It’s not that bad. I’m actually getting used to the perpetual blue balls.”
“Jesus!” Bucky interrupts, walking over with a Saran-wrapped stinky Pablo in one hand and a cellphone in the other. “Have you seen this shit? Pablo’s Insta account reached ten thousand followers. Someone just DM’d asking if we’d do a sponsored post for an age-defying moisturizing cream.”
My jaw drops. “Is that a joke?”
“No joke.” Bucky shakes his head in disbelief.
“Age-defying cream?” Alec pipes up, looking confused. “How do you defy age?”
“And what the hell does that have to do with an egg?” Conor cracks. “Are we supposed to slather moisturizer on his little pig face and pose him for a photo shoot?”
Bucky grins. “I’ll message them back and find out.”
Coach strides into the locker room to deliver his pregame pep talk, which typically consists of a sentence or two, tops, before he turns it over to the captain or assistant captains to pump everybody up. This evening’s “pep talk” offers the usual sentiments—kick their ass, don’t embarrass me, don’t bring shame onto your house, et cetera et cetera. Then I give a little speech and we all file out onto the ice.
The crowd is deafening, and I don’t even care that only a third of the seats consist of Briar fans. The screams and cheers and even the boos fuel my blood. I fucking love this sport. I love the ice, the speed, the aggression. I love the physicality of it, the way every bone in my body jars and my teeth rattle when I’m slammed into the boards. Those are messed up things to love, but that’s hockey.
I remember the game Fitz and I watched in our living room last night. Edmonton versus Vancouver. Jake Connelly scored one of the most beautiful goals I’d ever seen. And I remember the longing I felt, an ache that actually tightened my throat, because while college hockey is great, it’s nowhere near as fast and competitive as professional hockey.