Page 81 of Breakneck Hockey

Jack and Stacey’s body language tells me I’m crazy without them ever having to say a word.

“Sutter’s hot as fuck, yeah, but that’s where it ends for me. Even if I didn’t have my own man.” Jack groans. “Oooh, now I’m thinking about Merc again. I hate missing him all the time.”

“C’mere, buddy.” I squeeze him to me.

“Yeah, same for me, bro. The way you lust for Sutter is next level,” Stacey says.

I can’t believe them. “Hot as he might be, I am never touching his ass again. The internet and my dick are both going to have to accept that.”

Sutter looks good naked, but Sutter in a suit is … fucking dayum. I catch sight of him strutting into the building with all the swagger of a man who knows who he is. That’s so fucking sexy. His broad shoulders fill out a classic navy-blue suit jacket. It’s a black shirt underneath against a deep maroon tie. A maroon bandana’s wrapped around his dark hair. I stole his red one, I want that one too. I think I need to find my way into the Boston dressing room. I’d totally steal his blazer and wear it around. Why haven’t I stolen at least a hoodie by now?

It’s been three weeks since I was with Sutter in a hotel room the last time we were in Boston. Just after that was the last time I spoke to the motherfucker. He should have apologized to me by now for being such a dick. We would have had a post-game smash session to look forward to. Instead, I’m forced to ignore him.

“Casey, there you are,” Daddy Mil—er, Milton says.

“Huh?”

“Eloquent as ever.” He wrinkles his nose. “We need you in the conference room.”

“For what?”And who’s we?

“Just a quick pregame interview. You don’t mind, do you?” I get the impression he’s not asking. I haven’t had to do any interviews yet. Stacey’s done a few of them, of course. They figured out quickly how good he is in front of a camera, thinking on his feet. And there’s something about Stacey that comes off as trustworthy. Whatever it is, I don’t have that, despite sharing the same face. I think he’s gonna make captain someday.

Milton’s been suspiciously quiet since our last video call. I’ve done what he said. Kept my head down, behaved myself in games. But tonight the gloves come off. I’ve been itching to get revenge on Sutter for his dickishness. I’m owed this moment. Nothing short of me in a straitjacket’ll stop me from pounding Sutter into the ice.

“Sure, man.”

A film crew’s inside and a couple of stools are in the center of the room. Gina Armenti, the Boston Copperheads’s team manager, has her blazer hung over a chair, the sleeves of her white blouse rolled up, deep in her work, barking orders at people.

Oh, shit. A wave of terrible intuition goes through me. I’m gonna be sick.

I turn at the sound of a familiar voice. Sutter strides in, hand in his pocket, bitching about being pulled from his pregame ritual. First,pulease. What pregame ritual? Taunting six-year-olds? Second, that means he was told just as much as I was about this impromptu interview. Have we been caught? There’s got to be a reason we weren’t given any notice.

“Sit in the chair, Casey,” Milton demands.

Sutter doesn’t like that. He has a strict “no one bosses Casey around but him” policy. He’s there, pushing into Milton’s space, extending his hand. “Hi, don’t think we’ve met. Mitchell Sutter.”

“I know who you are, Mr. Sutter. I’m aahhh—” Milton cries out, crumpling over himself, trying and failing to pull his hand from Sutter’s bone-crushing grip.

“Gina, what the fuck’s going on?” Sutter says. He doesn’t let go, watching the big man writhe on the other end of his hand. Milton works out, but he’s no Sutter.

Gina rushes over. I bite my lip to keep from laughing. She thought she’d caged lightning, and it’s a rude awakening to see that she hasn’t. Even I know you can’t put Sutter in a cage. Ifhe’s cooperating with you, it’s for who knows why, so count your lucky fucking stars.

“This is Milton, team manager for Vancouver. Not a threat,” she explains quickly, like she’s talking to a caveman who we’ve just dethawed from the ice.

Sutter doesn’t agree, but he lets go of the man’s hand. Milton clutches his probably tender hand, looking between us.

Gina pleads with Sutter wordlessly. Guess they have an understanding, but it’s hanging by a thread.

“Fine,” Sutter says, breezing past her to take a seat. “Sit in the chair, Alderchuck.”

I scowl at his bossy ass, but whatever, I just want this over with. I try not to notice the intractable composure in the lines of Sutter’s body. Or how much of the room he’s dominated just by being in it. My gaze wants to glue itself to him, but I can’t let it. I could give a fuck about the rest of the world, but I don’t want Sutter to know about the craving for him that’s slithered its way into my psyche. I’ve already given him too much of me without getting much in return.

People descend to mic us up after a signal from Gina who’s smart enough to realize Sutter’s patience is minuscule on a good day.

“Here’s the situation,” Gina says. “Milton did some numbers?—”

“Yes, please tell me more about Milton,” Sutter says, murder glinting in his purple-hued irises.

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