Page 47 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Thirteen

Raph

Game night.

I’d already warmed up, done all my pregame prep, done my best to get a certain redhead out of my mind.

Shopping—which I fucking hated.

Grilled cheese sandwiches—that were really freaking good (though not as good as orgasms).

Laughter and smiles and kissable red lips—tempting, beyond tempting.

Game. Night.

Focus.

I inhaled, cleared my mind, and did just that.

As a professional hockey player, it wasn’t a surprise that I had a game-day routine—a lucky pair of socks, a certain warm-up I completed, always in the same sequence (fifteen minutes on the bike, some off-ice footwork that Pru, actually, had recommended, fucking around with a roller hockey ball for a few minutes to warm up my wrists and hands, then using the time the team had on the ice to get my shots in, to get my feet under me, to make sure my equipment and blades were all in order).

Before that, I always had the same lunch, drank the same amount of water and Gatorade.

Always did the same stretches in a variety of places (post-bike, pre-ice, post-footwork).

I always got dressed in the same way.

Jock first to protect the boys, which were basically shorts with Velcro to hold up my socks and a sturdy cup shielding the business end of my junk.

Then I went straight for my right shin guard, strapping it on, and over that, securing my hockey sock.

Then repeating the same on my left. After that, I went to my right skate.

Then left. Then my hockey pants which had pads on my thighs, hips, and a few on my ass (though not enough to protect the cheeks if I really went down hard on them).

Once that equipment was in place, it was time for hockey tape over my shin guards and socks, and not just a little of it.

With shots flying my way at eighty, ninety, sometimes a hundred miles per hour, I wanted those pads to do their fucking jobs.

Tape gave way to my upper body—first with elbow pads (one of the most important pieces of equipment, in my opinion, considering I usually ended up with my arms slashed to shit by the time the game was over—and was left with plenty of bruises to remind me of my elbow pads’ service).

I got my elbows and forearms protected and then slipped on my shoulder pads, my jersey, attaching the tie in the back of my pants that kept it in place.

Then it was time for my helmet, snapping the chin strap.

And finally, finally , I was shoving on my gloves with my mouthguard shoved in a little gap on the left one, just where the thumb pad met the curve of the side.

The last piece of equipment was my stick.

I had a whole host of them (several of each type, actually, since they broke easily). But I had a variety because each kind served a purpose—sometimes I might want to shoot more or be a bit more defensive, or sometimes the hockey gods weren’t with me, and that was the first thing I swapped out.

Because clearly it was the stick.

Not me.

Anyway, it was a lot of equipment, but all of it was necessary.

I liked my body in working order, and I, most especially, liked my cock where and how it was. Not that I’d had much use for it lately.

But…those boots.

That nightgown.

Those red lips.

It had gotten a lot of use the night before. Me and my hand and jerking it till I felt raw.

“Move your ass, Gomez,” Smitty boomed across the room, making me jerk something else (this being my head…well, the upper one, anyway).

“I’m ready, dumbass,” I yelled back.

“Are you?” A brow that hinted my friend knew where my head was…and where it had been since I’d first stopped Beth from cracking her head on the floor of CeCe’s.

I braced, readied myself for the shit-giving. Because Smitty had gossip and Smitty was a sieve and I was going to catch it…any second now.

“I expect you to get on the fucking scoresheet tonight for a change,” Smitty boomed instead.

Asshole.

And a liar.

Because I had been on the scoresheet a lot that season.

I was in the top three leading scorers, had been there all year.

But I also wasn’t going to cower under the force of the Smitty Sieve, wasn’t going to give an inch when I knew my teammate would take a mile. Which was why I launched my glove at Smitty, grinning when I beaned him right in the head.

Smitty, who wasn’t expecting it and had turned away, squealed like a little bitch.

The room exploded with laughter.

“Motherfucker!” Smitty boomed, reaching for the glove.

Cas saved me, bending and scooping up the glove before Smitty could reach it, tossing it— nicely —back to me.

“Thanks, buddy,” I called.

“No, thank you ,” Cas called back. “Someone’s gotta shut him up.”

Smitty glared.

The guys busted up again.

Then Smitty smirked, shook his head. “Yeah,” he said. “You want to shut me up, don’t you?”

Okay, so perhaps taunting the beast hadn’t been a good idea, even if I was accepting that my interest in Beth would be a locker room topic. Smitty’s question was ominous, and it sent a curl of fear coiling through my belly.

Fuck.

I got where this was going, and I knew it was going to happen. But still, I really didn’t want to go there, didn’t want the gossip train barreling down on me.

It would come.

But…fuck, I needed more time to come to terms with whatever the fuck was going on in my head.

Not that I was going to let Smitty know he had me over a barrel.

Not that I was going to give Smitty a chance to reveal what he’d seen over pancakes or in that parking lot.

I opened my mouth?—

“Game time, bitches!” Theo yelled, poking his head in the door.

Always first on the ice, that one.

The guys began hopping up, moving to the door, creating the usual pregame chaos and noise, thankfully cutting Smitty off before I could demand an answer to that ominous question or say anything further.

Saved by Theo.

Yeah, I was going to buy my bud a beer the next time we were out.

Grinning, I picked up the stick I always used at the beginning of the first period, stood, and rolled my shoulders, making certain all my equipment felt right.

Then I took advantage of everyone heading out, the distraction of the game starting to avoid Smitty, move into the hall, and line up with the other guys.

We all did the usual manly B.S., smacking each other with our sticks, punching each other in the shoulders, unleashing plenty of pointless shit-talk.

Getting ready to fucking go .

Like I said, the usual.

Eventually, we got the high sign and started hustling down the hallway and onto the ice, emerging through the smoke and flashing lights, skating a couple of laps, getting that final bit of warm-up beneath us as the game song played loudly and the crowd screamed encouragements.

After a few minutes, we moved to the bench, the bright lights overhead flicking on, illuminating the arena, and someone sang the National Anthem.

Not my anthem, since I was Canadian, but an anthem I’d heard enough over the years to know every word.

I couldn’t say it had me feeling particularly patriotic.

It was, however, another step in the building blocks of me getting ready to play some fucking hockey.

A breath, my shoulders bouncing, head shifting side to side. Skates wiggling beneath me, pulse picking up. It didn’t matter how many times I played in this arena, how many professional games I had under my belt, always— always —there were nerves, there was excitement.

It was like I was lacing up my skates for the first time again, hopping out onto the ice for my first game ever.

The one thing in my life that had never disappointed me.

The anthem wrapped up. My pulse sped. Hands twitched.

Fucking game time.

Marcel smacked his stick across my shin guards. “Let’s fucking go, yeah?”

We were playing the Sierra, the newest team in the league, and contrary to most expansion teams, this northern California squad was a tough match-up.

The Breakers only had two games against them during the entire season—once on home ice and once away—and the match we’d had up at the Sierra’s home rink in Tahoe a few months back hadn’t gone well.

Part was we weren’t used to playing at altitude.

Part was we weren’t used to playing at that new rink.

Part was that the Sierra’s management had put together a solid team who had surprised us and had solidly beat us.

Total bullshit.

We prided ourselves on our preparation, and we hadn’t been ready.

On the flip side, getting our asses kicked meant that I was ready to go that night.

This was our home ice. Our fans. Our chance to prove that we weren’t just a sad-ass team that was easily beat.

We were a fucking contender who’d won two Cups in recent years, and we were going to win another one.

Unfortunately, the Sierra were a contender, too.

So, this game was going to be intense.

Redemption for the team. Keeping their feet on the gas for the Sierra. And close enough to the playoffs that both teams wanted the two points badly enough to battle for them.

It began right at puck drop—which I won, damn right—and immediately my hands stung because I got slashed to shit for my trouble.

But I ignored the burn, ignored the pain, and broke free of the lockup, shoving against the Sierra’s captain, Lake Jordan.

A pretty son of a bitch who had a wicked wrist shot and a penchant for making players pay if they lost a face-off.

Free of the hold, I charged into the opposing zone, Marcel carrying the puck over the blue line, trying to connect with Theo, who was playing on the other side.

I wasn’t a natural center or hadn’t been until Marcel had hurt his wrist earlier in the season and had missed two games.

I’d stepped into the role, had found a newfound knack for face-offs, and Marcel had slipped back into playing left wing again, and since Theo had done some time as a center himself—in fact, the team was stacked pretty effectively in that position—the three of us had found that we had even more good juju playing together.

We knew where each other would be, we could all cover for any defensive holes that might appear, and since we’d all done time as centers, we could be flexible and get creative.

It was fucking fun playing together.

And our line’s stats showed it.

Tonight, we weren’t lucky enough to get a goal on the first shift of the game, but we got some solid pressure, a shot that went wide, and then a face-off in the zone when it deflected off a stick and hit the netting.

I wanted to stay on the ice.

I wanted to play longer.

A face-off in the o-zone? Pressure already on a team that had gotten the better of us before?

Fuck yeah, I wanted to stay.

But…this was a team sport, and we were successful because we worked together. So, I paused at that whistle, and I moved to the bench, letting Walker’s line hit the ice.

Still sitting and now watching impatiently as Jackson led his line out for a shift.

Then even more impatiently as Flynn—the former first line center who was battling back from a knee injury—took his boys, two rookies, out for a turn about the rink.

Flynn peeled off the rush, headed for the bench.

And, fucking finally , it was my turn to get at it again.

The world shrank down to the rink, to the ice, my teammates, the puck.

It was fucking glorious.

It was everything I’d ever wanted.

I moved to take the face-off. Lost it. Got the puck back, started hauling ass up the rink.

And as I skated, as I carried the puck up and managed to hand it off to Theo—who buried it in the back of the net—I could almost convince myself that it was all I’d ever wanted.