Page 61 of Breakneck Hockey

Me

I don’t fuck losers, Sutter, and that’s what you’ll be when we mop the ice with you.

Top Dog

Alright, smartass. You’re off the hook if you win, but if we win, you’re mine for the night. Deal?

Me

Game on.

On the Ice

Wow. They can pack a lot of people into the TD Garden. The fans brought it tonight, excitement filled to the brim after having been starved of hockey all summer. Stacey knocks on the top of my helmet, fucking beaming. Doesn’t matter the league we’re playing for, he’s always this giddy at the start of the season.

Thank fuck. I was a little worried he’d be bummed. His mood was up and down during training camp. It’s our first season away from Dirk and Dash—more importantly Dash. Stace won’t say it, but the separation’s been hard on him.

“Ready to pound Boston into the ice?” he says.

“Been dreaming of it all summer.”

We skate onto the ice for warm-up, and I inhale air chill enough to freeze the hairs in my nose. Pucks echo as they’re slammed against the boards and sticks scrape against the ice. Loud music pounds from the speakers. Ah, the symphony of hockey. Namas-fucking-te, this is my zen place.

I know Sutter’s on the ice somewhere.

If we win, you’re mine for the night.

Bet he did that just to win the game, ‘cuz I’m actually torn. If Vancouver wins, I’ll have to save face by telling him to go fuck himself, but I can’t stop thinking about the way he sucks on my collarbone. How much I need him to suck evidence of his exploration of my body on said collarbone.

Dammit.

A puck sails by my head, smashing into the plexiglass. Another whizzes in my periphery. I jump out of target range just in time to miss being smoked in the head and look up.

Sutter. Of course.

He’s across the blue line, smirking like a demon. A bolt of warmth goes straight to my dick. He’s flirting. I mean, only I know it’s flirting. To everyone else, it looked like he tried to take my head off accidentally on purpose.

Another player whacks his ass with his stick, pulling Sutter’s attention away from me. How fucking dare him? Zapporov is written in big yellow letters across the back of the asshole’s jersey. The green teeth of jealousy bite hard. That’s not supposed to happen. I’m not supposed to give a fuck about who flirts with Sutter.

I don’t.I won’t.

We’re not a thing. He doesn’t want to be a thing. Know how I know? Because I asked him, and he turned my ass down.

Whatever.

My first shift on the ice is blessedly Sutter free. It’s me and Stacey, carving our way across the ice in sync, ready to assist, to pass, to bulldoze anyone in our path. I ride a high, any first-game jitters I might have had, evaporate as quickly as my breath in the cool rink air.

Wham!

My body slams into the boards, hit with the familiar jolt of pain ricocheting through my limbs.

“I’ve seen a snake with better hands than you, Alderchuck,” Sutter chirps. It’s a cheesy old chirp, which means he’s flirting again. He skates off, laughing like an idiot. What a dumbass.

“You’re not cute, Sutter!”

I’m quick to retaliate. Vancouver goes wide on the forecheck, and I’m on the far left with Sutter, who’s chasing after the puck in the Boston zone.Bam!My shoulder sends Sutter flying. It’s a solid hit, and for once clean. He loses the puck and all the Epsom salts in the world aren’t gonna help him later.

“It’s fucking on, Alderchuck.” There’s murder in his eyes.

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