Page 42 of Slap Shot Scandal
Keeping my center of gravity low, I apply pressure to the edges of my blades and stop on the line.
Spin and repeat. This time harder, faster, more explosive.
Please.
I’d ease into her, slowly, so slowly. Finally giving into the tension we’ve been fighting since the moment we met. She’d wind her arms around me, her fingers dancing across my lats. Then I’d press all the way inside her, filling her up with my rock-hard cock.
Hips thrusting, pounding into her. Her entire body flushed, eyes fluttering closed as I hammer into her.
Please, Weston. Please.
Begging for me. Wanting me. Needing me.
The overhead lights flip on and I blink against the brightness.
What the fuck?I reserved the rink this morning. No one else should be here.
“Hey, bro.” Bennett skates onto the ice and my gut tightens, aggravation flaring.
“Hey.”
He does a few quick stretches, then skates over to me.
“Surprised to see you here so early. Thought you’d still be sleeping, adjusting to the heat.” I lean on my stick, assessing my brother. He’s suited up in his practice gear, ready to go.
“Nah. I spent the last few days packing. I need to get back on the ice, stay sharp. Wanna run some drills together?”
I consciously shrug away my agitation. I should be happy to have someone to run drills with.
“Sure.”
Bennett slaps the puck toward me and wordlessly we break into the same warm-up drill we’ve been doing since we were kids at rec league. Moving down the ice, Bennett drives wide. I drop the pass back to him as we skate toward the goal. He takes aim at the water bottle set at the corner of the net, the puck flying across the ice.
“Score!” Bennett pumps his fists into the air as the water bottle falls. He cups his hands around his mouth, cheering. “Go Steele!”
“You’re such a ham, bro.” I retrieve the puck and we repeat the drill, switching positions this time.
Skate, drop back, slice, aim, shoot.
The puck ricochets off the bottle, the plastic toppling and the black disc bouncing back.
“Denied!” Bennett cries, his voice echoing off the empty bleachers. “Boo! Hiss!”
“Shut the fuck up, Puck Bunny.” I scowl at him, slapping the puck against my stick.
“Captain losing his edge?” His brow arches as we skate the other direction.
“No. Just an unlucky shot.”
“Uh-huh.” Bennett lines up and shoots, the puck pounding into the bottle. “Another point for Bennett Steele. He’s gonna be tonight’s MVP for sure!”
“Oh brother,” I mutter, skating away from my egomaniacal triplet.
“What? It’s called manifesting, bro. You should try it sometime. Maybe with PR Barbie?”
Jaw clenching, I dig my blades into the ice and pick up speed.
My words whip out, landing in the space between us. “Her name is Harbor. Not PR-fucking-Barbie. Or Malibu Barbie.”
