Page 138 of Breaking the Pucking Rules
Who am I kidding? Her father is James Watson. Of course she can skate.
After staring at the images of her tonight for a minute or two too long, I tap the message icon.
Instantly, my unanswered message appears.
I stare at it, irritated that she couldn’t even send me a thumbs-up.
No, scratch that. That would have been worse than nothing.
Nothing good comes from a thumbs-up.
A middle finger would be preferable to a thumb…
My mind drifts to the gutter, wondering which Casey would prefer.
Both…
Fuck.
I run through several message options, some dirtier and more questionable than others.
I was in college the last time I sent filthy messages to a girl; it feels fucking weird.
I’m a grown-ass man. I’m a father.
I should be past getting nervous about messaging a girl.
Kodie Rivers: Good to see you chose the right jersey tonight.
The second I hit send, I regret it.
I was going for teasing, but reading it back, it sounds patronizing.
Jesus. I’m screwing this up before it’s even started.
In a rush, I close the app. If I can’t see it, I can pretend it didn’t happen.
I attempt to distract myself with sports news and scores from today’s games, but I don’t register anything I read.
Throwing my cell to the bed, I swing my legs off and pad through to the bathroom to take a piss.
Easier said than done when I’m rocking a semi.
Fucking Casey.
She’s not even here, and she’s causing fucking trouble.
It takes longer than it should to do my business, and I’m busy convincing myself that I won’t have a reply as I stalk naked back to my bed.
But as I approach, I notice my screen is alight with a notification.
My heart jumps into my throat, and I surge forward, snatching it up.
Instagram message.
My hand trembles as I tap to open it, and the second I see who it’s from, all the air rushes from my lungs and I collapse on the bed.
Casey Watson: Don’t flatter yourself. You play better when I’m wearing it…
