Page 7 of Back in the Game (Pride in the Game #1)

He thought following Townsend was a good idea in the heat of the moment, but after pissing Killinger off and then goading him like he did, he wondered if it would be smarter to fly back to Toronto tonight.

What a mess. He finally got to talk to Harrison Killinger, and he not only stalked Townsend like a creep—he trespassed on private property. To make it worse, he then taunted his so-called hero by bragging about stealing the move he was known for.

The urge to punch himself in the face was strong .

He had read the stories and wasn’t stupid; Killinger would never skate professionally anymore. The injury to his leg was career-ending, and that was only the physical injuries he had to recover from.

But when you play hockey, you are hockey. Jett didn’t know Killinger, but he felt like he couldn’t leave a broken man standing on that porch without trying to help.

Fuck, who was he kidding? Jett was a stranger to Killinger. He was nobody in Killinger’s life and had no right to interfere in his business like that.

He gripped the steering wheel until his fingers ached, trying to distract himself from wanting to smash his head on it in an anxious fit.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“We’re still going out,” said Mike, and his tone left no room for arguments. “You owe me big time now.”

They went to Wolfville and found a sports bar near the university. A handful of the hockey teammates were gathered at a corner booth, minus Arlo. Jett slid in next to Mike, ordering a cocktail from the waitress who approached, and handing her a $20 bill.

When he turned, he saw Mike’s eyes on him. “What do you want?” Jett asked. “I owe you a drink.”

Mike plucked Jett’s wallet out of his hand and handed the waitress his Visa card. “Open a tab, sweetheart. We’re going to be here a while.”

Jett nodded at the waitress and gave an apologetic smile as she awkwardly took his card and handed the wallet back to Jett.

“So, you guys went to high school together?” asked Carmichael, the goalie.

Jett opened his mouth to answer, but Mike stretched out and threw a casual arm around his shoulders, pulling him in for a head noogie.

“I taught this fucker everything he knows. You should have seen him at thirteen, all elbows and knees. Couldn’t figure out which skate to tie first.”

“Is there a right skate to start with?” asked Theriault, a D-Man .

“Ugh, blasphemy,” grumbled another man. Jett thought he might have been a defenseman on the third line. “You know you have to start with the right one. Messes up the whole game if you don’t.”

“You must have a ton of groupies with those underwear photoshoots you’ve done,” said Theriault.

“You’d know, wouldn’t you, Theriault?” Mike guffawed loudly, and Jett closed his eyes tight and reopened them.

“Bet you’re jerking off to his pictures all the time.

But yeah, Jett is getting so much pussy from all the advertising it’s insane.

The amount of teen girls crying for his autograph was ridiculous. ”

Jett was not getting any pussy since he was as gay as gay could get. Plus, the idea of teen girls obsessing over him shot a chill down his spine.

The thought of teen girls didn’t seem to bother Mike, who continued to obsess over the ad campaign. Jett briefly thought his friend had maybe jacked off to them too, with how much time he spent on the topic, but he wasn’t about to say that.

After Mike made several comments about being hungry, Jett went to the bar to order another cocktail and put in an order for appetizers. He took a moment to breathe, watching the bartender make his cocktail, garnishing it with a cherry and sliding it over to him.

He returned before Mike made a fuss, grinning at the eager expressions at the table awaiting news about chicken wings.

“I ordered food—” Jett started to say, but Mike scoffed at his daiquiri and talked over him.

“Why’d you get that faggy drink? What’s wrong with beer?”

Jett clenched his jaw, his nerves rattling in his stomach, clawing to get out. He tamped it down and took the vacant seat across from Mike, not the one next to him. He met Mike’s glazed-eyed, alcohol-soaked face and said, “How is a drink faggy ?”

“Dude.” Mike pointed a finger at the offending drink. “It’s pink.”

Jett made a show of looking at the drink, as if just noticing it. “This? It’s like, crimson at best. I want to know what makes it faggy because if you’re saying it’s homosexual, how does a daquiri have sex with other daquiris?”

Jett was on a roll now, and his irritation with Mike’s behaviour only helped fuel his ramble .

“Are they only supposed to have sex with hard liquor? Or because they don’t have sex, does that mean they’re asexual? Or is this whole conversation ridiculous because the daquiri is an inanimate object, and not something that experiences sexual desire?”

There was a silence hanging over the table for a minute before it was interrupted by the waitresses bringing two large trays filled with food. The guys cheered, and Mike—red faced—turned away to focus on fighting Carmichael over the honey garlic wings, seemingly forgetting about Jett’s outburst.

The man next to Jett, Gates maybe, elbowed him and leaned his head down. “That was awesome. You shut him up hard . Never seen anyone but Townsend do that to him before.”

“Where is Townsend?” Jett asked. “I know it’s summer and not everyone is here, but I saw him earlier at the rink.”

Gates shrugged. “He doesn’t hang out with us, and I think it’s because he and Cap clash too much. Townsend has natural talent, and he lives and breathes hockey. Cap has to work for it, and he’s—” he broke off and shrugged, his posture sour with awkwardness.

“What?” Jett prodded him.

Gates hesitated before saying, “You have to be realistic in sports. I love hockey and know I’m good, but I’m not NHL material. I’ll play my best and enjoy my career before I become a physiotherapist and work in sports medicine. But I’m aware of my limits.”

Jett heard his silent and Mike isn’t without the man needing to say the words.

It was late when Jett paid his bar tab and pushed Mike and the others into a cab that would take them back to their rental house.

He’d stopped drinking hours ago, knowing how to pace himself after spending too many nights drinking with the Sunburst players.

All the afterparties of winning games, or losing and needing to blow off steam, taught him how not to end up sloppy and hung over the next day.

And drunk people were annoying .

If Mike told one more goddamn high school hockey team story…

Jett hadn’t even been there half of high school because he’d been playing in the Junior A’s.

Completely sober by this point, he went back into the bar and made sure the servers received big tips for handling their drunken asses all night. The tab alone had earned them that.

He got in his rental car and took the highway home instead of driving through New Minas.

He enjoyed the cold air on his face and the darkness of the quiet highway.

The peace of it helped settle his whirling mind, but it still wasn’t enough to get that damn broken look on Killinger’s face to go away.

He arrived at his dad’s house shortly after 2:00 AM and stripped down when he got to his old room and crawled into bed. His thoughts drifted to their upcoming pick-up games and whether or not Harrison Killinger would take his bait.