Page 10 of Enticing the Enforcer
I’m from LA, or just outside. My dad is in tech, a programmer who designed a system that only he knows how to implement. My mom is an artist–her medium is paint and collage. I’m used to big cities, but Chicago does have it’s own vibe.
Axel laughs, slaps me on the back, and disappears into the hotel lobby with Reid and Emerson, already trying to figure out where they can grab deep dish pizza the size of their heads. Coach Bryant gave us tonight free, but curfew’s locked for tomorrow. Not that it matters. We didn’t come here for the pizza and nightlife.
We came here to win.
I grab my duffel and head inside with Reese, who’s more focused on his phone than his feet. I don’t even need to ask who he’s texting.
“Twyler, I assume,” I say, eyeing the little smirk tugging at his mouth.
“She just wanted to make sure we got in okay,” he says, not bothering to hide the fact that he’s so whipped for this girl he can barely see straight. “She gets nervous before big games.”
“She gets nervous beforeyourbig games,” I point out. “You’re the one playing.”
He shrugs. “Yeah. But she’s invested.”
That’s one word for it. Twyler has been invested in Wittmore Hockey since she was assigned to the team for her training internship. She’s been invested inReesesince the day they fake-kissed their way into a full-on relationship. My boy didn’t just fall for the tomboy trainer. He jumped head, dick, and heart first.
The team’s rooms are on the tenth floor, double queens, same setup we’ve had for every away game since freshman year. I throw my bag on the bed closest to the window, and Reese takes the one near the bathroom. Automatic at this point. No words needed.
“You think Coach’ll go with the same line rotations tomorrow?” I ask while he kicks off his shoes.
“Probably,” he says, pulling out his laptop. “Unless he’s hiding a secret weapon we haven’t seen yet.”
“Doubt it,” I snort. “You’re the weapon, and it’s not a secret.”
He grins. I’m not wrong.
Unlike our power forward and star scorer, my job’s not flashy. I’m not the guy with the most points or a highlight reel full of toe-drags and bar-down snipes. But you need someone to protect the puck? To clear the crease? To slam someone into the glass so hard they forget which way the bench is? That’s me.
Every team needs a hammer. I just happen to be one in skates.
Reese flops onto his bed and flips open the laptop. I already know what he’s doing, pulling up the latest film Coach Bryant sent over. He’ll probably watch it ten times before he goes to bed. That’s why he’s the captain and the number one prospect at graduation. “You ever think about what happens after this? Like, after we win?”
“After we win?” I ask, arching a brow. “Not if?”
He shrugs again. “Confidence. Twyler says manifesting is important.”
Jesus Christ.
“I’m hoping I’ll be drowning in puck bunny pussy,” I reply, since my one shot with my dream girl was a bust. “Women lovevictory.” He rolls his eyes, but it wasn’t that long ago that he was sowing his oats all over campus and would have been thinking the same thing. I stretch out on my bed, letting my muscles relax. “But I’m not thinking about that right now. One game at a time.”
Reese nods, but there’s a glint in his eye. He’s not done. “You ever think about more than hockey? You know, in the future.”
I look over. “You want me to say I’m gonna find a nice girl and settle down like you?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” he says with a grin. “One day, maybe?”
“Unlikely.”
And I mean it. It’s not that Ican’tbe that guy. I just have no interest in becoming him.
My parents have been married since they met at Berkley. On paper, they’re the dream team–Dad’s the owner of his own tech business, works from home, controls his hours, doesn’t own a suit. Mom’s got that hippie vibe, her hands always covered in paint or ink. They've got money, stability, but the one thing they don’t have? A single fucking thing in common.
I grew up watching them orbit around each other like two distant planets. Vacations where they never spent a minute together, each of them splitting off to their respective interests. My dad loves the outdoors and playing golf. My mom, museums and galleries. For as long as I can remember, they have acted more like roommates, not a couple.
Love? Commitment? Marriage?
That shit looks like a trap wrapped in a lifetime of monotony.
