Page 87 of Wrong Pucking Jersey

Would give Mishka peace of mind during her internship.

“Fine.”

He opens the door but pauses.

I’m about to ditch to the washroom so I can piss.

Maybe deal with my hard-on that’s nicely concealed by my sweatpants.

“Damien wants us to try again.”

I stop in my tracks. He doesn’t need to explain what he’s referring to by “trying” again. I know what he’s talking about.

“O’Riley…” I don’t know what to say after that.

“Think about it,” he encourages and takes a step onto the balcony with the intention of closing the door behind him. “Whoever’s in will be in. Whoever’s out will be out. It’s as simple as that.”

“But where do you want me?”

I look over my shoulder just as he does, the two of us sharing a look that isn’t a simple exchange. It’s filled with emotions neither of us wants to confront right now.

That’s okay.

For now.

Until it felt right to deal with the past, we were all too young and stupid to face it.

“You know the answer to that, Wolfgang.”

He turns away.

“You always knew my answer. You also know who got in the way.”

With those words, he closes the door, shutting the world out so he can delve into that oasis of puffs and inhales.

If I’m not bold enough to figure out what’s wrong with me, will he shut me out of his world again? I shiver at the thought.

Letting out a breath, I head to the washroom and shut the door. One glance in the mirror, and I stare into my reflection. For a second, I think I’m going to see the chubby fat Russian boy with chubby cheeks, a flushed face, ugly short hair, and grey eyes filled with fright.

Scared of not being normal like everyone else in the world.

Only I see the reality.

5’11”, short black hair with hints of silver, muscled shoulders, massive biceps, and a proud set of pecs. Hidden beneath the shirt are piercings in unique places, while my tattoos run down both my arms—the web of symbolizing ink that takes over my entire arm from shoulder to wrist.

Then there are my eyes, a unique grey with hints of blue and black.

Similar to a husky, only I sometimes wished they weren’t missing the fierceness.

With a sigh, I take a deep breath and tug on my neckline to see the symbolized tattoo that’s woven between all my other inked works.

The broken heart, the crossed hockey sticks, and the hovering crown.

I’m still a Heartbreaker King.

Returning my eyes to the mirror, I lift my head and nod.

“They wanna try again,” I whisper and let out a breath. “Fine. Let’s pucking try again.”

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