Page 122 of The Stud

Blanc nods and smacks his gum with a little more vigor. “Let’s get our shit together, boys!” An enthusiastic pound to his chest is given. “Let’s show ‘em how it’s done.”

“Ra!”

Post a quick squirt from my bottle, removal of my mouthpiece and bucket, I stomp over to where Bricks is restocking towels and extend the object, I’d been choking the life out of for an entire period. “I need a new stick.”

“On it.”

“From the locker.”

“Got it.”

“And tape.”

“White.”

“And Hoss.”

This time there’s reluctance to his response. “Okay.”

Taking the defective one away and getting me one of my fresh, untouched spares requires significantly less time than locating my girlfriend who in spite of her best efforts looks about as pissed off as the boys did.

She waits until we’re out of the locker room and in one of the empty hallways to viciously bite, “Where. The. Fuck. Were. You?!”

“The hospital.”

Horror swiftly replaces hostility. “Oh shit…for Becks?”

I nod at the same time I flip my stick to be blade side up.

“Alcohol poisoning?”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe?!” She shrieks, arms thrown up into the air. “What the fuck do you mean maybe, Frosky?!”

“I mean I don’t know.” Placing the edge of the white cloth tape near the toe, I begin the traditional wrapping process. “One minute I’m on the phone bitching about a weird word for excessively arrogant-”

“I take it your name wasn’t enough letters.”

A tiny mirthful glare is shot in her direction. “And the next,I heard a thud.” I keep my pacing and spacing even. “I hung up the phone, went to his room, found his head slightly bashed, and immediately called the medics.” Pausing precedes meeting her gaze. “Draw a dick.”

Disbelief doesn’t waste time covering her expression. “What?”

“Draw a dick.” Tipping my head to the waiting spot is accompanied by a stern follow up. “Seriously.”

The crinkling of her brows emphasizes her bewilderment. “Why?”

“Every stick I’ve played with this season has had a dick drawn on it thanks to you and your ‘I’m a dick therefore I needa dick on all my things’ policy.” I repeat the gesture. “And you know hockey players. We’re-”

“Superstitious,” she says in tandem with me.

“And now that you’ve brought it up-”

“Youbrought it up,” Arden mumbles while removing the lid of the sharpie she keeps hooked onto her Dalvegan’s polo.

“You have on your socks?”

“Yes.”

---