Page 6

Two girls.

One on my lap, grinding my dick like she’s got something to prove. Then she plops off while the other on her knees works her mouth on me like it’s a job.

They’re taking turns.

Pussy. Mouth.

Mouth. Pussy.

I don’t know their names. Didn’t ask. Don’t care.

They showed up with a bottle of something expensive and the right kind of hungry.

Shit.

They’re moaning like they’re the lucky ones.

The one riding me leans in and whispers something in my ear. I don’t hear it. I just don’t give a shit. I’ve already got one hand fisted in the other girl’s hair, guiding her rhythm, keeping it slow.

Control’s the only thing I’ve got left that still makes sense.

And right now, I want to feel nothing.

The girl on top of me scratches her nails down my chest like she’s trying to draw blood. She bites my neck, pulls back like she wants me to say something.

I don’t. The pain and pleasure keeps me going.

I flip her over without warning, shove into her from behind, and keep my eyes on the other girl still kneeling, still waiting, lips swollen and wet, staring up at me like she wants to be next.

Not because I’m special. Not because I’m a good fuck.

Because they heard the name. Because they want the story.

This is the part no one talks about. What happens after the fights. After the cameras. After the trade rumors and fines and fake apologies. This is where I go when I don’t feel like pretending I give a fuck about the game, or the team, or the mess I keep dragging behind me.

Fucking doesn’t ask questions.

I just keep sweet pussy, a wet mouth to choke, and when I come, you would think I’d feel something.

But no, I never feel anything.

Nothing at fucking all.

I don’t sleep after.

Haven’t in years, really.

Ever since my brother passed…

I’m on the balcony at 3 a.m., smoking a cigarette I don’t even like. My right hip aches deep and sharp—the kind of ache I’ve been ignoring since the end of last season. The pain is welcome. Familiar. Mine.

The bed behind me is a tangle of limbs and perfume I want gone before sunrise. One of them is already snoring. The other’s curled against the wall like I’m going to ask her to stay.

I won’t. I never do. I pick these bitches up from the bar and don’t mind calling a ride to drop them off where I got them.

I flick the cigarette off the edge of the balcony and go inside.

By the time I show up for morning skate, I’ve already iced, stretched, and taken enough anti-inflammatories to piss off the medical staff.

I don’t care. I’ve played through worse.

I’m early. Not for any reason except the rink’s quieter when no one’s here to talk at me.

But I’m not alone. A few guys are here.

And the new girl’s here again.

She’s crouched in front of one of the rookies, taping his ankle, talking low but clear. Focused. She’s not flirting. Not trying to win anyone over.

That alone makes her different.

Still—not my problem.

I drop my gear bag and walk past them.

She glances up. Nods. That’s it.

No wide eyes. No fake smile. No blush.

Just acknowledgment.

Cool.

Finally, a bitch that doesn’t react when I come around.

I change. Stretch. Lace up. The hip twinges again when I shift weight to my right. I curse under my breath. It’s worse today, and I know why—too much movement, too many hours fucking strangers like my life depends on it. My body’s telling me to slow down.

But I don’t listen.

By the time we hit the ice, I’m dialed in. I skate hard. Fast. Controlled.

Pain keeps me locked in the moment, and that’s where I live best.

Deep in the pain.

I don’t think about Archer. Or the bitches. Or last night.

And I sure as hell don’t let anyone see me limp when I step off the ice.