Page 162 of Branded
Despite all that, I wanted.
Him.
Me.
Together.
Swinging doors wide open and battling demons.
But…that wouldn’t happen.
So, I was going to take what I could get.
Sandwiches that were almost as good as orgasms. A man holding my bags and being patient, bringing me water and looking after me because I was important to his friend.
That would be enough.
Because when I was alone, as I’d always been alone…it had always been enough.
And it would always be enough.
Thirteen
Raph
Game night.
I’d already warmed up, done all my pregame prep, done my best to get a certain redhead out of my mind.
Shopping—which I fucking hated.
Grilled cheese sandwiches—that were really freaking good (though not as good as orgasms).
Laughter and smiles and kissable red lips—tempting, beyond tempting.
Game. Night.
Focus.
I inhaled, cleared my mind, and did just that.
As a professional hockey player, it wasn’t a surprise that I had a game-day routine—a lucky pair of socks, a certain warm-up I completed, always in the same sequence (fifteen minutes on the bike, some off-ice footwork that Pru, actually, had recommended, fucking around with a roller hockey ball for a few minutes to warm up my wrists and hands, then using the time the team had on the ice to get my shots in, to get my feet under me, to make sure my equipment and blades were all in order).
Before that, I always had the same lunch, drank the same amount of water and Gatorade.
Always did the same stretches in a variety of places (post-bike, pre-ice, post-footwork).
I always got dressed in the same way.
Jock first to protect the boys, which were basically shorts with Velcro to hold up my socks and a sturdy cup shielding the business end of my junk. Then I went straight for my right shin guard, strapping it on, and over that, securing my hockey sock. Then repeating the same on my left. After that, I went to my right skate. Then left. Then my hockey pants which had pads on my thighs, hips, and a few on my ass (though not enough to protect the cheeks if I really went down hard on them).
Once that equipment was in place, it was time for hockey tape over my shin guards and socks, and not just a little of it. With shots flying my way at eighty, ninety, sometimes a hundred miles per hour, I wanted those pads to do their fucking jobs. Tape gave way to my upper body—first with elbow pads (one of the most important pieces of equipment, in my opinion, considering I usually ended up with my arms slashed to shit by the time the game was over—and was left with plenty of bruises to remind me of my elbow pads’ service). I got my elbows and forearms protected and then slipped on my shoulder pads, my jersey, attaching the tie in the back of my pants that kept it in place. Then it was time for my helmet, snapping the chin strap. And finally, finally, I was shoving on my gloves with my mouthguard shoved in a little gap on the left one, just where the thumb pad met the curve of the side.
The last piece of equipment was my stick.
I had a whole host of them (several of each type, actually, since they broke easily). But I had a variety because each kind served a purpose—sometimes I might want to shoot more or be a bit more defensive, or sometimes the hockey gods weren’t with me, and that was the first thing I swapped out.
Because clearly it was the stick.
