Page 15 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Fifteen

Smitty

A whistle.

The crowd quieting.

Hockey.

Fuck yeah.

A real game. No more of this preseason with half the roster of rookies bullshit. This was the real game. The first real game of the season.

And the crowd in our home arena was lit.

Sold out.

A sea of blue and black and white.

None of our opponents’ colors—or at least none that could be spotted with the naked eye. And I wasn’t really looking at the crowd, anyway. My focus was on the team box overhead, and the silhouettes I could deduce down from ice level, the occasional shots of the people inside on the Jumbotron.

Okay, I wasn’t looking at people.

I was looking at Kailey.

We’d talked on the phone the night before—unfortunately, sans baking show, and unfortunately a fairly short conversation because she’d been working.

Which I hadn’t liked at first.

She worked hard and deserved downtime.

But she’d answered the phone with distraction in her tone, and I couldn’t miss the way she’d perked up when she realized it was me, how excited she’d gotten when she’d given a simple explanation about what she was doing, and I’d shown interest.

Had asked her a few simple questions, and she’d acted like it was the first time a man had shown genuine interest in her work.

Which begged the question of what kind of assholes she’d been dating.

Well, no more assholes.

I was hers now.

Of course, my questions had brought a slew of terms I hadn’t known or understood, so I’d rushed to jot down the words I didn’t know on an old receipt as she talked, googling them after we’d hung up, realizing that I had a lot to learn if I wanted to comprehend, at least a little bit, what her work was.

Something more than just she was good with computers and could make programs and stuff.

But the words had swam on the screen, and I hadn’t gotten as far as I wanted, especially since my mind was focused on remembering the slight husk of her voice, the excitement in her tone that had reminded me of our baking show escapades, the soft sound that rose in the back of her throat when I kissed her.

So, I’d called it quits on the screen time.

Then had jerked off in the shower.

Yup.

I was definitely going to get chafed.

Luckily—albeit not for my chafing issue—we had a road trip coming up.

I’d have plenty of time to learn about coding while on the plane and in the hotel, so I’d spent the morning downloading some podcasts and audiobooks to supplement anything that would require me staring at a screen getting more and more frustrated that I couldn’t read the words I wanted without struggling.

But…

That was my challenge.

Head down. Push through. Keep on grinding.

“Let’s keep it clean, eh boys?”

I blinked, thankful for the ref’s chatter when I realized that I was daydreaming about coding when I should be focused on making a good opening effort for the fans in the stands, and especially for Kailey, who I’d watched battle indecision when Oliver and Hazel had invited her to join in the box a few hours before.

Teeth into her bottom lip.

Her eyes skating along the hallway.

Then her shoulders straightening and her chin coming up and…

Agreement.

With a proud, triumphant smile I felt right in my belly.

And it was that proud, triumphant smile that I was going to use to motivate me—or motivate me more than the normal hockey excitement and home crowd and first real fucking game (!) of the season.

Good shit.

Awesome shit.

Spectacular—

The puck dropped.

My mind went immediately blank.

There weren’t even hockey thoughts, no notions of plays to do, passes to make, hits to finish. I wasn’t cognizant of what my feet were doing or the thousand little pieces of the game, the minutiae that I’d drilled into myself over and over again, until I didn’t have to think.

Until it was just me on the ice.

Hockey in my blood and muscles and nerves and skin.

Hockey that was my life.

Hockey that?—

The air wheezed out of me as a fucker from the other team slammed me into the boards, trying to jostle me off the puck, but I held tight to my stick, positioned my feet so the puck stayed between us, so I could slightly tilt one when Marcel came up and let my teammate scoop the rubber disc free, sweep it across the ice to Raph who began hauling ass up the right side.

Gaining the offensive zone, carrying it deep.

I was pushing off the boards, hustling after him, Marcel already thirty feet ahead, being an outlet for Raph as our opponent’s defense and center closed in.

My heart was pounding. Sweat was already dripping down my temples.

Thirty seconds at a full speed NHL game and I was already tired.

But that was the game.

And that was why I worked out so hard.

Because I’d barely gotten close to the opposite blue line when Raph, Theo, and Marcel turned the puck over and I needed to get my ass back into my own zone, to protect Martin, our goalie.

Three on two, with me and Cas the only two Breakers back, Washington’s top line closing in on us.

A pass.

I cut the angle preventing the second from coming across the middle.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw our top forward trying to streak toward the net. Luckily, Marcel was skating back as fast as he’d flown up, Theo and Raph right on his heels.

We’d have numbers soon.

And the bigger threat was that backdoor pass behind Martin.

So, I shifted position, split the difference, held my breath, and when that pass to the back door sailed, I dove forward, knocking it into the corner and out of danger.

Lungs burning, I hopped to my feet, skated after it.

Returned the favor of that breath-stealing hit into the glass.

The crowd roared.

Marcel cleaned up the puck, got it to Theo, and he cleared it down.

Then it was time to change.

Full speed to the bench, pushing through the door as the next line hopped over the boards.

My eyes hit the Jumbotron. Forty-seven seconds since the puck had dropped.

And I was dripping with sweat, lungs sawing. Though already I was drinking water infused with a bit of Gatorade, swapping my wet gloves out for dry ones from the equipment guys, sucking in air and ready to go by the time the other three D pairs cycled through.

Hopping on the ice.

More skating. More hits. More passes and chasing down pucks and protecting Martin.

A red light flashing and a cheer rising in my chest—and in the stands—when Theo tapped a puck home off a pass from Marcel.

One buzzer to call the first period to an end. Another to signal the completion of the second.

A final one bringing the game to a close, our one-nothing victory not one hundred percent the one we wanted (we always wanted to destroy our enemies), but it was one we’d take. Two points was two points and in a season with eighty-two games, we’d file away any victory we could.

Next time we’d bring the needed destruction.

For now, I was fist-bumping my teammates, accepting the pat on the back from my coaches, the light shove and grin from Raph when I was announced as the first star of the game—which basically meant that I had to take a skate around center ice and got to give a kid a signed puck then had to speak with the media on the way back to the showers.

I’d gotten the first star a couple of times.

It was no big deal, and I really liked making a kid smile—and really liked making the little boy with a big, toothy grin, a neon pink Breakers jersey paired with a bright blue beanie jump in joy when the adult near him caught the puck I had tossed over the glass and handed it over.

What could I say? Kid had style.

Also, I was glad the adult followed hockey etiquette and didn’t try to pocket the puck.

Occasionally, there was an asshole who’d try to take the shit from the kids.

But this guy was cool, so I nodded at one of the ushers who’d been with the organization for years and who I had prepped for this scenario (they had agreed to carry a few items I paid for to give away at their discretion). The guy, Tom, nodded back and quietly handed the guy a hat.

Because the adults—the cool ones anyway—deserved something nice, too.

I didn’t stay to see the guy’s reaction.

I had a soundbite to give in the hall and then a longer interview for the post-game media circuit.

There was more interest than normal since it was the first match-up of the season, so it took a while for me to get to the locker room, divest myself of my gear.

Padding and protective equipment hung up or on the shelf of my cubby.

Jersey and socks into the bins in the center of the room.

Walking through to the shower area and heading for the training suite.

I had a quick post-game I always did when I had time, a short bike ride, some time on my favorite foam roller.

I’d named her Ursula.

And she made me hurt in the best possible way.

Thighs and hips. The sides of my ribs. My back.

Twenty minutes later, the majority of the game’s strain was gone, and Samantha, our head trainer, who’d come through the training suite, had given me an approving nod which I’d interpreted as appreciating my stretching and lack of injuries.

I’d see what happened as the season went by. Most of the time, injuries were inevitable. The wear-and-tear on the body during the season meant that there was always a risk, especially in the lead-up to the playoffs and the post-season.

Because we’d be in the post-season.

We’d be going for another Cup.

I wanted to heft it again, wanted to ensure that the Breakers became a fucking legacy.

So, I’d take the bumps and bruises and sore muscles and injuries.

Hockey was my life, what I’d lived and breathed for, what I’d dreamed of…what I was good at, and some might say, the only thing I was good at.

So, I stretched and rolled and when I was done, I went back through the shower area and into the private changing area, stripped down (the dirties going in another rolling bin) and headed for the showers.

Naked.

As was my way.

But the room had emptied out, only a few of the guys remaining.

Theo was pulling on his suit, Marcel and Raph had already hit the door. Cas was tying his shoes. Flynn and Walker and Jackson would all be dressed and out of there before I got done soaping up.

Fine with me.

Meant I’d get less shit about my post-game shower routine.

Which was…air drying.

My mouth quirked. That was better for the skin.

Shower on hot, bordering on scalding, just like I preferred.

Steam filling the space, licking up at my calves and torso, condensation clinging to my beard.

The stream was strong, and I dunked my head in, letting the water sluice over my body, sink into my tight muscles before I was remotely ready to get out.

But I needed to get home.

And maybe I’d text Kailey, see if she was still up and wanting to watch that baking show.

Grinning now with that thought, I finished with the shampoo and soap (and bit of conditioner, ’cause gotta keep that beard soft), wrenched off the water, shook myself to get the extra water, and then slung a towel around my shoulders as I strode into the locker room.

A few sighs, but I ignored them as I went around my air-drying, returning their goodbyes as they took off one-by-one.

The room went quiet.

And…I took my first full breath of the day.

No pressure. No more expectations. No more noise.

Just me and the room and?—

A soft noise.

A flicker of movement at the door.