Page 1 of Afterglow (Ottawa Regents #3)

I’m A Loser

Fletcher

February

My cock has always been an asshole hell-bent on embarrassing me.

Being hard inside a double cup and soaking through the compression boxers isn’t my idea of a good time, especially at the Ottawa Regents’ annual family skate.

All because the goalie mentioned Behraz Irani in passing and then skated off for a photo shoot with his loved ones.

That’s how it always starts. A small inkling, the most fleeting of ideas, sets off rich imagery from my memory of her dark eyes and even darker hair against fair, creamy skin, full, pink lips and rosy cheeks, the insane curves of her body, and ends with a wild series of fantasies.

We share the same social circle—the Regents’ alternate captain, Landon, and my goalie, Wade, are married to her best friends—but I’m so far out of her orbit, I might as well be in another galaxy.

“Heads up!” A rogue puck whizzes by, and another forward, Blake Szeczin holds up a glove.

“Sorry!” I reply with a weak wave, watching my breath condensate over the ice as I look around.

Something about being in a space filled with people feels lonelier than when I’m on my own.

Being one of seven kids growing up on Prince Edward Island left a hollow ache in my chest. The family has since doubled as my siblings got married and had kids, only exacerbating the feeling.

Signing with Ottawa was an easy escape but didn’t heal the longing for companionship.

Now, don’t get me wrong. The Regents are closer to me than my own family since I joined, but being surrounded by doting relationships is an especially painful reminder when you’re perpetually single. If I sound jealous, it’s because I am.

A few dozen feet from me is our long-standing captain, Derrick Jaeger. He poses with his wife, Skylar, kissing through a smile as Doug wags his tail and vies for attention between their skates with a woof .

Closer to center ice, the team’s all-star, Landon Davé-Radek, turns his infant daughter to face the camera, bouncing her so the double poms of her toque wiggle like wheat in a breezy field.

Indi pulls the two of them close, and Akhila’s chubby cheeks spill past her tiny, round face when her parents lift her slightly and point to the embroidered #12 on her officially licensed, black and gold Ottawa Regents snowsuit.

Even our goalie, Wade, previously a well-known fuckboy, stands with Gabe Finch, the award-winning sideline reporter for the NHL. He looks at his new wife like Jaeger’s dog looks at his humans.

Rightfully so. She’s an incredible, gracious journalist, not to mention beautiful, though Wade would probably gouge my eyes out if I told him I thought his wife was pretty.

My eyes follow the gaggle of #23 jerseys skating behind the net, bumping and huffing between short races, taunting each other over missed goals, and taking silly pictures.

Between my siblings, their spouses, and a handful of nieces and nephews, there are fourteen donning my name and number.

Slightly fewer than usual, since Mom broke her foot and Dad stayed with her, and my youngest brother is somewhere in Croatia.

Fourteen family members, a full roster, and somehow, I still don’t feel like I belong.

Another cloudy breath sighs from my nose.

Two of my sisters, Piper and Greer, round up their little ones and shepherd them out of the rink.

Greer’s eldest is having some sort of tantrum and lies down in rebellion.

His dad attempts to appease him but loses patience and ends up hooking a hand into the footplate of his skate, preparing to drag him across the ice.

Before they get far, Parker, my older brother, squats down and convinces him to stand.

It’s much gentler than what I remember.

“Get up, Fletch.”

I wiped away the threads of my snot with the back of my glove.

“And quit crying. You’re not a baby anymore.”

I was nine. He was fourteen. We were both babies.

My bloodied bottom lip quivered as I blinked back tears.

He tilted my head by the helmet roughly, taking a better look at the damage done by the opposing team’s defenseman.

“It’s a small cut,” he said through a tsk. “Get it cleaned up and get back on the ice.”

My cheek felt warm and heavy. “But it hurts.”

“You don’t even need stitches. I promise you’re gonna deal with much worse. Now sit your ass on that bench so Coach Zeb can tape it.”

A watery haze covers my vision momentarily, and when it clears, Parker catches my gaze.

His chin lifts in a sideways nod, but it isn’t affirming. It’s a directive.

I coast to him.

“Let’s talk,” he says flatly.

Suddenly, I’m fifteen again. Getting reprimanded for something likely out of my control.

“Quit being a little asshole and go after the puck!” Park yelled, slamming a fist on the boards behind the bench.

“That goon is way too big to be in the U16 league,” I argued.

“Grow the fuck up, Fletcher. If I were you,” —his jaw ticked, hand reaching for his bad knee— “you better convince your coach to let you play again. I swear to God, if you don’t score a goal this period, I’ll have you bag skating at the crack of dawn until you’re sick.”

We exit through the gap in the boards and slow to a stop in the hallway leading to the lockers. “What’s up?”

“You extended your contract?”

My throat tightens. Who told him?

“Yeah.”

Two fingers roughly massage his forehead as he exhales. “You couldn’t negotiate any higher?”

I shrug. “It’s only for a season.”

He scoffs. “Didn’t you win two Stanley Cups?”

“That was years ago.”

“And whose fault is that?” His eyebrows rise in question. “I can’t tell you how much it kills me to watch you throw this away. You’ve been on the team for nine years, Fletch.”

“I know, but?—”

“Nine fucking years. Is there a C on your sweater? An A? No? Are you a leading scorer, then?”

“I—”

“You could do so much better!” he grits through his teeth. Both of his hands stretch and curl into the space between us, as if trying to strangle air itself. “But no. Do you even care? Does it matter to you? That so many rely on you? Because for 750k, it sure as hell doesn’t seem like it.”

“Parker.” Miller appears behind me, her hands akimbo. My almost-twin’s telepathic connection is strong today.

My brother’s not wrong, though. My stats have plateaued, if not steadily declined.

I’m one of the lowest-paid in the league, and whatever I’ve earned for nearly a decade has gone mainly to the things my parents couldn’t afford.

Dad’s gambling debts. Their mortgage. Covering housing, expenses, and tuition for my brothers and sisters while they were at university.

“You’re being too hard on him.” Mills stands between the two of us.

“He’s wasting his potential. He could be so much more?—”

As if I don’t know that. Doesn’t he think I want that?

To play better? To earn respect amongst my peers in my profession?

But I’m not like Landon or Wade. I don’t have charm, wit, or skill.

Hell, most times I can’t even speak up. Ask me a question in a post-game interview or at a press conference, and I do my best to push away the anxiety and briefly answer.

Tell me to inspire a locker room, or casually defend my life choices, and I’ll hide in a washroom stall with only a toilet as a companion for all eternity.

But for some reason, this time, Parker’s tone cracks me open.

I throw an arm up, effectively moving my sister to the side. “Maybe this is just how it is, Park. Not everyone is destined for greatness. I’m trying my best, and I’m doing okay.”

I’m definitely not doing okay.

His skin reddens. “ This is your best? You’re so fucking aggravating. Do you even hear yourself?”

My sister cuts in again, her lips tightening into a line. “This is why he doesn’t like coming home.”

“Yeah?” Parker’s green eyes bolt to mine. “Then don’t come home.”

The muscle in his jaw ripples before he turns to stomp away. As best as one can stomp away on a rubber floor.

Miller circles an arm around my padded waist and breathes out. “Sorry, he’s such a dick, Fletch.”

I reciprocate by squeezing her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

My sister pulls her phone from a pocket with a half-laugh. “I’m gonna go help Cam. Rav fell asleep on his shoulder before he could get his skates off, and he’s stranded.”

“No worries,” I say, worrying about literally every goddamn thing. “Call me when you get to the hotel.”

Her tall frame disappears down the corridor in the opposite direction. I head to the locker room, hoping for some quiet time to sit with my guilt.

People say my brother’s looking out for me, but Parker wants for me what he actually wants for himself.

Sometimes it’s like I’m living someone else’s life.

Playing puck and on the road all the time.

I’d rather be in bed with a book, forgetting the world exists while sifting through well-worn pages.

Bonus points if it’s a comfort reread, and the Decemberists anguish softly in the background while sandalwood incense releases swirls of smoke around the room.

I can almost smell it, but the stench of hockey gear overpowers my imagination. My ass plops onto a bench.

“When they said family skate, I don’t think they meant your whole family, Donny.”

Goalies are notoriously weird and annoying, but Wade Boehner likes to remind us that he’s not half as annoying as he once was, and nowhere near as annoying as he could be.

“A little late to be testing out a new nickname, dontcha think?”

“Fletchy doesn’t have the same ring to it. Donny, on the other hand,” —he snaps and points a finger gun at me— “Donny is solid. Shortened last names are classic.”

I stand to remove the hockey sweater from my chest. “If you say so.”

Landon does the same, just past Wade. “Why are you so mopey today? Is your brother still being an asshole?”

My left shoulder lifts and drops. “When is he not?” The bench welcomes my sweaty, padded ass again as I pry gear from my torso.