Page 352 of Hate Mates

ONE

Ren

It’s official. I’m getting too old for this shit.

When I first started playing hockey as a young kid, I never dreamed of playing professionally. Back then, it was an excuse to stay out on the ice trash-talking and knocking the ever-loving piss out of friend and foe alike. And then, when it became apparent that I played well enough to play in the rec leagues, I did it mostly so I had an excuse and an outlet for any pent-up aggression I may have.

The first time legitimate scouts approached my parents, we all had a good laugh about it. And then, when they started coming around more often, more determined to push me into a direction that worked for them, the more diligent my parents were at putting a buffer up between me and bright lights that may distract me.

Because regardless of how much I excelled at the sport, they were sure as shit going to make sure I had a fallback plan that wouldn’t result in me working in a gas station as a used-up professional sports player. As if my family didn't own a successful general contracting company that would always provide me with some form of reliable employment.

Of course, now as much as it pains me to admit, Rennick Rafferty is considered the “old man” of the league. While I certainly still hold my own against the younger crowd, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that I won’t be able to for much longer. Maybe that’s why I keep finding myself in the penalty box.

I don’t know if I’m starting to overcompensate with unnecessary rough play or if the guys coming up are just more prone to crying about it.

You’d think this was fucking soccer or something.

I sit there chomping at the bit as I watch the clock on the penalty ticking down. No sooner does it hit zero that I’m waved in and sliding out the door, skating like hell toward the game play.

I circle around, knowing my teammates have their eyes on me. A few of them increase their aggression to keep the opposing team's eyes away from me as I get set up.

Sure enough, the puck breaks free, and no sooner does it get clear that I manage to snag it. I push off, heading swiftly down the rink, skating full-bore with the same controlled chaos that makes my blood sing. The puck comes with me, dancing across the ice in an intricate ballet with my stick as we tarry and pivot with the opposition intent on stealing it away from me.

I come up short, just as an opposing player attempts to check me. He crashes into the boards as I spin back around, casually pushing the puck toward my teammate, who’s open on the other side of the ice.

And then I sprint toward the goal, keeping the guy with the puck in my peripheral as all of us dance to set up my one final chance to score. To get ahead. To win.

The goalie squares off, his eyes darting between me and my other players but always reverting to me. Because he knows.

The puck shoots across the ice, but I let it go by, knowing there’s a man on my other side waiting. I keep my eyes locked on the goalie as he grits his teeth, cursing loudly as he realizes what’s to come.

And then I’m there, the puck seeming to glide back to me in slow motion. I don’t look at it. I wait, my eyes locked with the man who wants nothing more than to stop me but also knows his chances are slim.

Right at the last second, that one moment when that puck could have bypassed me and gone back into the boards, my stick snaps around. Decades of practice and honed precision slap it into the air, a frozen bullet volleying directly toward the goal.

The goalie’s eyes widen, and he attempts to shift, his stick in his hand coming up to create a barrier, but it’s too late. He’s too slow.

The horn blares, and euphoria shoots up my spine as I look up to the scoreboard, my stick raised in the air. Change-up is called, and I skate to where my teammates are all seated, knowing at this point in the game I’m done. I’ve done all I can, and they need to take the next twenty-two seconds to keep our one-point lead.

The boys all grunt and cheer, slapping me on the back, all jokes about the old man forgotten as I once again secure their victory. But that doesn’t change the fact that these victories are coming to an end.

I plop myself down next to Jack, another player who’s quickly moving up to old-time status. He congratulates me exuberantly, and I smile and nod, grabbing a bottle of water and squirting it into my mouth as I catch my breath. The clock winds down and then stops as a whistle blows.

I’m only half paying attention; my old bones and muscles already complaining about the chronic abuse. I sigh, trying notto think about what my life will be like without hockey, but then Jack’s elbow in my side draws my attention.

“What?”

He leans in close and says, “She’s back.”

I look at him with raised brows, then frown as he lifts his chin in the direction across the rink, his eyes focused in the distance. I follow his gaze, and it only takes me a few moments to locate who he’s referring to, and I groan.

Jack laughs. “I’m telling you, man. She’s got it bad for you.”

I snort and shake my head. “If by got it bad for me you mean she’d like nothing more than to see me axed from the team then that would be accurate.”

“No way,” he argues, humor glinting in his eyes. “I don’t know a lot about women, but I can tell when their agenda includes something of the carnal nature.”

I look back across the rink and the woman still standing there, and he’s not entirely wrong because she’s definitely looking our way.

---