Page 24 of Icing the Enemy

Me: Thanks

What follows is a string of text messages from my current teammates.

Baker: She’s hot. Maybe she can hotwire me.

Stinson: You going to tap that or not?

Vrabel: That girl has a vicious mouth. It could be fun.

My response to each. Fuck you.

My Stallions teammates and I have an unbreakable bond, having shared a few years together. You grow from boys to men in college. In the professional ranks, it’s a little different because guys come and go and live all over the city. When I came here as a rookie, there were a few guys who helped me transition. We went to clubs all the time, but they’re long gone. Vrabel is the only one of them left. He’s divorced because he can’t keep his dick in his wife’s mouth, choosing puck bunnies when we were on the road.

Baker is in his second year and playing the field. And Stinson is married with two children. He insists he wants to live vicariously through me and is getting strung out that I’m not chasing women or rather letting women chase me.

I’m a victim of my routine, and it’s getting close to the season, so I’m resuming my in-season schedule. I go out for a run, shower, clean my bedroom, make a sandwich with turkey and avocado piled high between two pieces of toasted rye.

While eating, I finally scroll through social media. I don’t have a public relations company that handles my accounts or speaks for me. Being real is more important and as I watch video after video of the interaction between Oakley and me, no one can say I’m faking anything.

The comments are feral.

I thought Corbin was a nice man.

He always comes off as the All-American guy, but the way he treats this young lady is just wrong.

Unbelievable. She stole his truck. Man haters.

“Thank you,” I mumble under my breath.

He’s the face of the Nashville Notes, and he acts like this? I’m not spending my money to watch an asshole

like Corbin Shearer.

Something is wrong with him lately.

But he’s so hot, I’ll give him another shot.

Will his mind be on hockey or

fighting with this woman?

Great. This is a clusterfuck of immense proportions.

When I enter the arena, every person I pass gives me a pitiful glance. I make my way down to the physical therapy room, and it’s empty. Tapping my knuckles on Gloria’s door, I hear her say, “Come in.”

“Hey.”

“How’s the shoulder feeling?” she asks without making eye contact.

“It hitches when I reach behind me.”

“Okay, let’s get you to the training room and on the table, so I can feel the muscles.”

“Gloria, is something wrong?”

She walks in front of me with her clipboard and says, “Lie down on your back.”

Lifting my left arm, she begins with movements to test my range of motion. Her fingers are strong, and her hands steadyas Gloria carefully rotates my shoulder joint. When I wince in discomfort, her lip corkscrews up into her cheek.

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