Page 55 of Breakneck Hockey

“I make rules on a case-by-case basis. Is this guy your boyfriend?”

“No. God no, we’re just casual?—”

“Good. You’re not seeing him or anyone else for the rest of the season. Think of it as a relationship suspension if you need to.”

“Relationship suspension? Is that a thing?”

“It is for you. Do you want to play for this team or not?”

I rub a hand over my forearm where one of my tattoos sits. There’s a date in Roman numerals.Dad.He loved hockey. Boston was his team.

“I do. How far does this go? Do I need to become a monk?” In other words, do I need to stop having sex altogether? Because that would be cruel, but I’d say hello to my hand for a season.

“Do you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then no—for now. But no getting involved. It makes you crazy.”

She’s not wrong. Pretty sure all this isn’t above board, but I’m not testing the theory by complaining. I don’t want a relationship anyway—my actions and the consequences for those actions have reinforced that—but I’m not giving up curly-headed watermelon Jolly Rancher-scented brats. I’ll give him up when I’m good and ready, not a moment before. I’ll just have to be a little more careful about meeting up with him.

“Alright, who is he?” she says.

“I thought you didn’t want to know his name?”

“Oh, I want to know his name, which team he plays for, and a slice of dirt on him. We might need it at some point.”

Fuck that. I’m not telling her shit other than his name since that’s not hard to sleuth.

“His name’s Casey Alderchuck. If you want gossip on him, you’ll have to go to the hen house your-fucking-self. I do not do that shit.Ever.” I harden my gaze so she knows that I mean it. I love hockey a lot, but I don’t betray people for it, not even Alderchuck.

She analyzes me with judge-y eyes for far longer than I’m comfortable with. “You sure this guy’s no one? You’re awfully protective of him.”

“Positive. Can I go now?”

She huffs. “Fine. One more thing. If you need anything, I’m who you come to.”

“Awesome.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice for that one.

She laughs. “I deserved that, but I mean it. You can trust me to handle any shitstorm, I just prefer to keep shitstorms to a minimum. Capiche?”

“I capiche.” I salute her cheekily so that she knows that while my obedience can be counted on for the team’s sake, I’m no stooge.

“Alright. Get the fuck out of my office,” she says her accent getting thicker when she means business.

Gina and I are gonna get along great.

Every bone in my body groans by the end of the week. Boston has a reputation for being a physical team no matter who’s playing for them, and I see why—it’s a coaching style. I’m just glad I’ll be playing with these fuckers and not against them. My skin is a backdrop of bruises, and I might have to see the team chiropractor, because I’ve definitely got some ribs out.

A snap whips through the air and a sharp sting lights my bare ass afire. I just got out of the shower and let my towel drop so I could get dressed.

“Nice ass, Sutter,” Nicci Zapporov, one of our defensemen, says.

I’ve been waiting to be hazed along with the other new guys on the team, is this the start of it? He’s a good-looking guy, leaner build than mine, short hair. His coy smile suggests he’s up for more than hazing—maybe a private hazing.

“It’s like that, is it?” I give him a smile that doesn’t say yes but doesn’t say no either.

“You’ve been coming off as the strong and silent type, or maybe you just like being mysterious. Can’t tell. Figured I needed to get your attention, or you’d never notice me lookin’ at yah.”

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