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“ Y ou’re supposed to block goals, not my cock, Big D. And also, you’re playing with fire.”

“Dude, for the last time, I’m sorry, okay. And trust me. I’m not playing with anything. I told you; Troye was drunk off his ass at another frat over at BU. Quinn called me to come get her. I came and got her. There was no funny business. No fire. The end.”

Hmm. Something doesn’t add up. “Brades. You know I’ve known Troye for years. In all that time I’ve never seen him drink a single beer, let alone get smashed night after night.”

“Yeah, well maybe he’s changed.”

“But why?”

“I dunno, he was too busy chucking his guts up to ask. Besides, I’m not his keeper. How the hell should I know?”

Sighing, I give Brady the translation please, glare.

“He was vomiting. Chucking his guts up means he was vomiting.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I did. Why didn’t you just understand?” Touche. “All I know is, I saw him and Quinn at O’Reilly’s before they went to the party. He gave me shit about the hat-trick he scored last weekend and promised to repeat it when we play next month.”

“And what did you say back?” Brady sucks his lips into his mouth, and leaves them there for a long time. “Big D. What did you say?”

City lights dance across his face as he gazes out the window, shrinking into his seat. “Nothing. I winked and blew him a kiss.”

“What?” I laugh.

“Well, getting pissed off at him seems to only egg him on. I thought I’d take a different route.”

“You’re a brave man. What did he do then?”

Zoning out for a second, Brady shifts and sticks his hand in his pocket, fidgeting with that damn troll. “He called me a queer cocksucker and tried to punch my face in.”

The car veers into the wrong lane. “He what?”

“It was my fault. His team was there. I shouldn’t have taunted him.”

“Maybe not, but—”

“But nothing. Can we drop it? Please?”

Just like he’s never been a drinker, Troye hasn’t been a fighter. At least off the ice. On it, he’s what you might call a psycho. I plan to say just that, but Brady’s expression and tone are somber. Dropping it wasn’t a request, it was a plea. One I have to honor.

“Sure thing, Brades.”

Game day.

Blonde hair, glimmering blue eyes hidden behind fluttering lashes are my first thought when I wake at seven. I take a light jog around the neighborhood, come home to a giant bowl of oatmeal, some eggs and bacon, and juice and think of them some more. Next it’s stretches, some more food, and a nap then ends at least three hours before my game. This routine has been in place since junior days with very little alteration. Today though, there’s that major, sexy difference.

Lotte.

Well, the shadow of Lotte. Following me everywhere I go. I’d like to say the thoughts were all sexy, all day. The prospect of her sitting among the crowd, watching me play while wearing my jersey has me chubbing up more times than one, but unfortunately, the image of a certain shiny bald head keeps deflating it.

Now at the rink, I’m slipping out of my clothes and into my Under Armor. All the while thinking, how the fuck could someone so sweet and pure and hot come from a man who looks more like Brady’s freaking troll that his own … gag … daughter? God, thinking about him having anything to do with her production makes my stomach churn.

“Boy Wonder, you look like you’re about to be sick. Did you stare in the mirror too long?”

Shane and others sick of Ryan’s bitching, groan as fucking Donnelly waltzes up behind me, smirking like … like … a douche. To temper my need for violence, I close my eyes and picture the glorious moment Brady punched him in the face.

“I saw our little friend Lotte this morning. She was at myGran’sbeing a good little housemaid dropping off some meals. Did you know she cooks for my Gran. Like a servant.”

It’s possible Brady hears the grinding of my teeth because he looks up, stares at my mouth, and grimaces. Or maybe I just imagine it?

“Servery is a noble profession, Donnelly, even so, that’s not what Lotte is doing. She cooks for her elderly neighbors because she is a good person and has something you don’t. A fucking heart.”

“A brain, too.” Brady adds. That’s what had Donnelly up and in my face, his fist gripping my undershirt.

“I’m going to fuck you up like I did that little slut of yours—”

“Donnelly!” Coach Harris’s booming voice ricochets off the concrete walls before I can even think of responding. “You’ve had your last warning. Calm the fuck down. Drop the shirt and get the hell out of my locker room. Your career with this team is over.”

As instructed, Ryan releases his grip but looks closer to suffering a head implosion than calm. “What the fuck? We have a game in an hour. “

“That’s right. We do.” Coach points to each player. Minus one. “You, don’t.”

Ryan’s mouth continues to spew petty arguments, but when his two cronies, Luke Chen, and Paul Osam, fail to show the slightest concern in his dismissal, he lumbers to his cubby, collects his bags and storms out, a bucket of pucks and a rack of sticks on his way.

Turning to face freshman Thomas Brinkley, a bench warmer who weighs little more than a green bean, Coach straightens his tie then takes a calming breath. “Congratulations, kid. You’re about to play your debut game. Don’t let that dipshit and his piss poor attitude distract you.”

“It’s quite possible that this is the worst debut game I have ever seen.”

When you’re speaking in third person and saying that about yourself, you know things aren’t going well. Granted, we’re down 3-0 in the first and our rookie, Brinkley, who’s currently flooding the bench with sweat, tears and I think a little vomit, scored two of those goals for the opposition. The first when he confused which goal was ours, the second when he skidded, fell and headbutted the puck between Brady’s pads, soccer style.

Still salty, Brady, who’s been bumped up to first goalie, watches on from his crease, spraying water into his mouth and onto his head before slicking his hair back and sliding on his helmet.

Lucky bastard. I have no way to hide my disdain. I also have zero right to criticize. On more than one occasion I’ve misread the play, my eyes too consumed by scanning the stands for a certain little blonde.

“It’s not so bad, Bluey,” I say, buttering him up with the nickname bestowed by the angry goalie, himself. Not because of the cartoon dog but because apparently, Blue is a common name for red heads in Australia.

Seems logical.

“Nope, I have to disagree. It is bad. It’s very, very, very—” He hiccups, and pauses to definitely vomit into his mouth. Continuing only after gulping his Pastrami on rye he carb loaded with before the game, back down. “Bad.”

I’m no liar, and sometimes the truth just plain sucks, so I don’t argue. Instead, I rough up his hair and slap his ass. “Head up. We all have bad games. Better to get out on the first go, hey?”

Bluey isn’t convinced. No one on the bench is, but there’s no time to try again and our line is called up. Lotte is still not visible as my skates meet the ice, but I quickly forget as the puck is on the end of my blade, courtesy of Chen who crosses the blue line in a blur. His speed and foot skills pay off, I intercept his pass, flip the puck over the feet of two wingers and charge the crease.

As always, Shane is there with me, drifting through the defense like a cloud of smoke. I fake a pass and the goalie buys it, dropping into a butterfly that leaves the top shelf wide open. A simple wrist shot is all it takes to open our scoring.

“Brooooo! That’s where Momma hides the cookies!” Almost taking me to the ground is Shane, celebrating while riding my back like I’m a damn bucking bronco. Chen comes at me on my right side and Osam slams into my left.

“Captain, my, Captain!”

Skating back to the center, nerves skitter through me. Two goals down is nothing, we have plenty of time remaining, but something just doesn’t feel right. I tell myself it has nothing to do with Lotte’s no show, but I’m kidding myself. I can’t focus on the game and the empty seat in the family section.

That ominous doubt multiplies when the Spartans score again within thirty seconds. This time, there was no assistance from Bluey. Just the skill of an offensively aggressive team riding a three game W streak.

It’s the very thing we need leading into the big game against BU, and as captain, the fight needs to come from me.

I’m mid-inner pep talk when a flash of movement catches my attention. It’s Lotte. In the stands. In my jersey, a glittery handmade, BOY WONDER sign held high above her head, her boobs hypnotically bouncing as she excitedly jumps beside an equally bouncy Quinn. It’s like having A grade testosterone injected directly into my ego.

I’m back. We’re back, and the positive energy flowing through me feeds the team. From there it’s an avalanche. Brady and defense are a well oiled machine that feeds the wingers and forwards. Goal after goal lights up the net, Lotte screams her lovely tits off for each one, and we walk away with a 7-3 W. Our best so far this season and there’s not a sniff of negativity. No one is bitching they didn’t get the assists. No one demanding credit for the win. Never has the team been so united.

In my mind, the win, the feeling bubbling inside me, is confirmation of what I’ve long suspected - Ryan Donnelly is not only an ass, but poison to the team. And I am a complete goner for Charlotte West.