Page 1 of Hot for the Hockey Player
CHAPTER ONE
Maverick
Thwack!
“Gotcha, Roy,” Henderson guffawed as he walked behind me, having whacked my ass with a twisted-up towel.
“Fucker,” I grumbled with zero humor, casting a cursory glance his way.
Henderson was such a douche.Even when we were on the ice, down by two and with less than five minutes left on the clock, the idiot refused to take things seriously.Everything was a joke to him.Probably because hewasa joke.
Rolling my eyes, I focused back on my cubby in the locker room and grabbed the muscle balm I had specially made for me by a pain-relief wizard here in Portland.The guy infused the cream with cannabidiol, or CBD—a chemical found in the cannabis plant that’s non-psychoactive.Along with menthol, it worked wonders on the aches and pains in my back.I also made sure to pop an Aleve before I pulled my jersey over my gear.
“Mouth like a fucking Hoover vacuum, bro.Swear to god.The chick nearly sucked off my foreskin.But it was worth it.”Garver, one of our defensemen, sat down on the bench beside me to tie his skates while chatting with his fellow womanizer in crime, Franks.
Franks snorted.“Chick I was with last night had these long-ass, bejeweled fake nails.”He wiggled his fingers like grass in the wind before bending down to start tying up his skates as well.“Would have loved her to stick a finger in my ass, but not with those claws.She scratched up my back real nice though.”
If I tuned in hard enough, I could pick up more conversations than just these two assholes talking trash about women they hooked up with.Even some of the married guys were laughing at the “desperate” puck bunnies they brought back to their hotel rooms on away games.
I knew a lot of their wives and it made it tough to look these women in the eye and not say anything, knowing what I knew about their husbands.Because while I loved the comradery and brotherhood of being part of a team, being on a team was a lot like being part of a family; you couldn’t always pick who you were forced to spend endless waking hours with.And as much as I “liked” my “family”, there were definitely a few “twigs” I wished would get “pruned” or simply fall off in a windstorm.
“Hey, Mav.Saw you chatting with that big booty bunny last night.You get some?”Franks asked, his Savannah drawl extra thick as he grabbed his jersey to yank over his head.“She was fine.Had a dump truck of an ass I’d loved to take a spin in.”
Franks had a pregnant wife at home and a two-year-old daughter named Cambria, who worshipped the ice her father skated on.
I glared at him for a half a second, then tossed on a face of tolerance.“Naw, man.She’s cute, but we just chatted about the season.She does a sports podcast.”
Henderson made a disgusted face.“A chick who has a sports podcast?What does she have, like, six listeners?Do they talk about how cute our jerseys are?”His chortle made me cringe.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to rustle up a half-hearted response to Henderson because Coach Nilsson walked in and most of the chatter died down.“All right,” he said, climbing up onto the bench in the middle so we could all see him.“The Riptides have a strong defensive line.So that means we need to create space, utilize our offensive depth, and employ smart defensive strategies.”He focused on Pierre Allard, one of our left-wingers.“That means no showboating.”
Allard rolled his eyes.
“We pass when our teammate is open.I want to see quick footwork.Speed.Good puck handling.”His gaze once again drifted to Allard.“We donottake a shot from the center line when a teammate is closer to the net, open, and has a better shot.”
“Why does he keep looking at me?”Allard murmured in his thick French-Canadian accent.
“Because you’re a puck hog and a glory hound,” replied Woodman.
Allard frowned but didn’t say anything.
“What is one thing that the Riptides’ defensive line lacks?”Nilsson asked.
“Decorum?”Garver, our team captain, said with a snort.We all glanced at Franks, who ended up with a badly sprained wrist and had to sit out for five games after the last time we played the Riptides.Barbier, their left-defenseman, hooked him hard and Franks took a nasty fall, which also landed him at the bottom of a pileup on the ice with two Riptides on top of him.He was lucky all he got was a sprained wrist.
“A defenseman with more than two brain cells?”remarked Silby, our goalie.
“Okay, besides a meatbrain like Barbier,” Nilsson said with an eye roll.
“It’s meathead, Coach,” Franks corrected.“But I actually like meatbrain.”
Several of the guys murmured among themselves and nodded.
“They don’t always effectively back up their teammate in the offensive zone,” I said.
Nilsson pointed at me, and his head bobbed in a silent “thank you.”Then he said, “That’s right.So when the puck is there, I want you all there too.Pounce.Overwhelm them, get the puck away and back into their defensive zone, then into the net.Swarm them like … like piranhas on a fresh piece of meatbrain in the water.”
A few guys snickered at Nilsson’s analogy.It sounded especially funny since our coach had a fairly strong Swedish accent and was prone to slightly messing up his idioms and metaphors, but always in the most endearing way.
