Page 56 of Breakneck Hockey

I like his accent. It’s cute. He’s clearly a Boston local. He’s also exactly who I could have seen myself sinking my dick into, pre-my-Alderchuck addiction.

My phone chooses that moment to chirp, and, from the ringtone, I know who it is. He hasn’t messaged me, well, ever. Not first. Casey only ever messages me in response to my messages.

Kitten

Did you see the pre-season schedule? We’re coming to roast your ass, Sutter.

Bitch ass punk.

“Oh. Sorry, looks like you have a someone,” Nicci says.

I drag my gaze away from my phone. Fuck. That’s all I need people thinking after that lecture from Gina. Also, why do people keep saying shit like that?

“Nah. Just a friend.”

“I hope all my friends look at text messages from me that way.” He smirks, peeling himself away from the locker he’s leaned against. “Anyway, have a drink with me—a friendly drink,” he clarifies.

I shrug. “It can be more than friendly. He’s not my boyfriend.” I don’t know why I feel all defensive. Casey isn’t my boyfriend. He’s just mine. You know, in the same way you own a cat or a dog. “Though, I’m not sure fucking someone on my team is a good play. Gina might rip my nuts off.”

He laughs. “What kind of trouble did you get into in the off-season for her to threaten you so soon?”

“Beat the fuck out of someone.”

“Why?”

I slip my wet ass into a pair of gray cotton boxers. “Because it was fucking fun.”

“Bullshit. It was for him, wasn’t it? I’m so invested. Tell me everything.”

I advance on him quickly, so quickly, I can feel his heartbeat speed up. “Or I shove my cock in your mouth and we don’t talk about anything.”

He laughs. “If you still want to later, that’d be hot, but I’m not letting you off the hook. Tell me about your secret-not-boyfriend. I won’t tell Gina. Promise.”

I trust no one except my family. I certainly don’t trust this guy, but it would be nice to have a friend on the team.

“It’s complicated.”

“Ugh. It’s never complicated.”

“My dad was murdered in front of me when I was a kid.”

His jaw drops. “Shit, Sutter.”

It took me years just to tell Rhett that my dad was murdered. I didn’t go into detail. Not telling Rhett had nothing to do with Rhett, I couldn’t make the words come. But something’s tugging on me, almost begging me to talk about it now. The catharsis of telling someone I don’t know might be just what I need. This guy signed on for a cheesy Rom-Com, he doesn’t want to hear about my horrific trauma.

“Get dressed. We need alcohol for this,” he demands.

I scowl. “Are you always this bossy?”

“Not in bed, Daddy, but maybe you’ll get to see later if you’re a good boy.” He winks.

He’s the most annoying man on the planet. Correction, second most. Casey will always have that trophy. But dammit, it’s my vibe. Rhett Elkington and Lane Curtis are just as annoying and they’re my best friends.

“Yeah, Zapporov, I agree. We need booze for this.”

It takes three beers before I’m ready to think about going there. Thing is, I was forced to talk about it during therapy, and all that ever seemed to do was to make me relive it, keep it fresh in my mind, and condition my brain to stay in the same cycle it always had been. I stopped talking about it, period, having made the decision—along with my therapist at the time—that I had “recovered enough”. but tonight, it pours out and I can’t stop it. I try to finish on a positive note.

“Mom met Francisco and he whisked us out of the neighborhood we were living in when we were broke, but in some ways, I never left, I guess.” I kept all my old friends. I add extra bolts to my doors in any new place I live. I usually find a way to carry a knife with me.

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