Page 30 of The Blame Game

“Yeah, but then I’ll never see him again,” Shea said, sighing.

“You can always watch him play.” She gestured toward the TV where they were doing the post-game analysis.

“Not quite the same as riding his dick, but sure.”

“Meh. You can find that elsewhere. His dick isn’t any more magical than any other one out there.”

“Is that how the old saying goes?”

“Yes.” She smirked at him.

They both fell silent as Shea tried to imagine no longer having those Sunday night meetings with Dom. No longer feeling the touch of his skin or hearing his laugh.

“I’m not ready to let him go,” he whispered.

“Oh, you poor, poor stupid man,” she said, laughing and patting his foot, the very picture of condescension.

“Fuck you.”

He kicked at her playfully and she pushed his feet away, smirking over the rim of her wineglass. “Baby, you couldn’t afford to fuck me.”

And that was the truth.

How are you feeling? Lungs okay?

Dom stared at the unanswered text message on his screen, a strange feeling churning in the pit of his stomach when no reply came. He’d texted Shea after he got home from the game, too tired to go out with the younger guys on the team.

As one of the veteran players, he tried to set a good example. He took the rookies out, kept an eye on them, and made sure they didn’t get into too much trouble.

He tried to set a good example without being a total killjoy.

It used to be something he and Dustin and Matty did together but now that the guys were married, it was harder, even on the road.

Dom missed it. Missed those nights, tucked into a booth with the team all around him, talking and laughing over drinks. Reminiscing about hockey. About the good times.

And maybe Dom was getting sentimental in his old age or something but he felt the loss of it acutely.

He thought of the dwindling days remaining on his contract, knowing that the organization would never extend him another.

Maybe he should let the team buy him out so he could go play in Europe. He’d lost his step but there would be takers in the Swedish league, maybe, or the KHL.

Probably.

But he didn’t want to adjust to a new team. Didn’t want to learn a

new language or play on a different team.

He wanted to retire a Fisher Cat.

Well, actually, he wanted to roll back the clock ten or fifteen years and keep playing like he had been then, but that wasn’t going to happen.

And, apparently, neither was Shea texting him back.

Annoyed, Dom tossed his phone on the coffee table. He should get up and go to bed but he couldn’t quite convince himself to do it yet.

Maybe if he stayed up a little longer …

He jerked when his phone buzzed, rattling against the metal surface.

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