Page 1 of The Wildest One
ONE
Beck
There was only one thing that smelled as good as pussy, and that was the scent of victory.
At the end of a long game, when I could stand in the middle of a bar and hold my beer in the air, shouting to my team, “To another win for the Whales,” that was the most indescribable feeling.
The air thickened as my teammates moved in closer, huddling around me, repeating the words I’d just voiced.
Which I followed up with, “And to fucking destroying Boston—for the second time this season.”
“Five to one,” my left defenseman called out. “I’d say that’s a shutout.”
“Almost a shutout,” I countered. “But I’ll take it.” I looked at each of their faces. “I’m proud of you guys!”
“And to our captain, for getting us a long-needed break,” my right wing declared.
“Use it wisely,” I ordered. “Cheers!”
“Cheers,” they all repeated.
I kept my beer high, booze sloshing over the sides of most glasses while we attempted to clink them together. Once they hit, I took a long sip, and the huddle loosened around me, giving me just enough space to move out and position myself along the front of the bar. I was placing my back against the bar top, getting a full view of the room, when my goalie joined me.
Landon clasped my shoulder. “You know, you’ve got some balls to give a toast like that while you’re in a bar in the center of Beantown.”
I shook my head, laughing. “You know I give zero fucks.” I moved to the right and left, as if we were in a boxing match and I was dodging his punches. “What, is someone going to fight me? Here? In front of my entire team? Come on, man. There isn’t a single motherfucker in this bar who could even lay a finger on me.”
Landon had transferred to LA a season ago after spending two seasons in Boston. So, when I’d taken it upon myself to encourage our coach and manager to switch up our travel schedule to spend tonight and the next two evenings here, rather than Washington, DC,—the team we were playing next—Landon was all for it. I’d noticed that when the East Coast fellas came to play on the West Coast, they never entirely gave up their love for home.
I wouldn’t know.
Aside from attending Michigan State, I’d spent my whole life in California.
“Beck, you don’t know this city like I do.” He released my shoulder and held his beer with both hands. “The dudes around here will fight at the drop of a hat—even less. If you give zero fucks, I assure you, they give even less. Shit, they look for reasons to raise their fists.”
I dragged out my exhale longer than I needed to. “I fight for a living. I train for hours every day, just like you. I’d like to seethem try to beat my ass.” I gave him a smile. “Hell, I’d welcome it.”
“You’re a fucking animal.”
“That’s why they call me the wildest one.” I wrapped an arm around my chest. “Enough about that. You played a good game tonight, buddy.” I unraveled that arm to pound his fist.
When he pulled his fingers back from bumping mine, he ran them over the top of his blond hair, which hadn’t been cut all season, his strands popping off in every direction, like one of those spiky plants. Our team, like most, was superstitious—some didn’t cut their hair, some didn’t shave, and some didn’t do either. When I was home, my barber came to my house every week to trim me up, but my face was an entirely different story. My beard had been growing since preseason.
“The game started off a little shaky.” He pulled at his open collar. “I didn’t think we were going to get the win.”
“Our defensemen just needed to get their bearings. That’s why I pushed to stay here. I can’t fucking stand flying cross-country and playing the same night, and I know we had no choice with our schedule, but tonight, we had an option to either crash here or fly out, so I put my foot down.” I gripped the back of my neck, working out a deep ache in the muscle, feeling the ends of my hair that were still the slightest bit wet from my postgame shower. “We’re tired. We’re sore. We need a rest.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” He rubbed his thumb over his mouth. “I didn’t think Coach was going to change his mind”—he laughed—“but I should know better. When it comes to you, Captain, he always listens.”
“Not always”—I punched his arm before my hand dropped—“but I put up a solid argument. He knows we need a minute. We’ve already been on the road for four days. After the next few games, it’ll be close to two weeks. That’s a long-ass time tobe away. When we have a small break, like this one, I want to capitalize on it. Come the DC game, we’ll be ready to play.”
He hit his beer against mine. “A-fucking-men to that.” He pointed at several of our teammates standing on the other side of the bar. “Except something tells me they’re going to do anything but rest while we’re here.”
The group, our second line, was pouring back shots of something clear—tequila, vodka, whatever.
“I got them the break,” I huffed. “What they decide to do with it is on them.”
Once he took a drink, he ran his fingers through his beard, the scratching of his whiskers drowned out by the music. “Do you know how I’m going to spend it?”
