Page 11 of Flagrant Foul (Totally Pucked #3)

Teddy “T-Dog” O’Reilly

The mood in the locker room is rowdy. The lights are bright and raucous laughter bounces off the walls and crashes into macho bravado.

I’m lagging a little because I let a goal I should have stopped through in the first period.

Fucking Lex Turner, Edmonton’s right wing.

He feigned left and I fell for it. I’ve seen him do it in slo-mo in post-game videos a bunch of times.

It’s his thing. I should’ve known he’d do it.

“You couldn’t have stopped that goal, Tee,” says Bryce. “No one could.” I could have, and I hate being placated, but I know Bryce comes from a good place, so I shrug and smile as I continue pulling my pads off. “Besides, a win is a win!”

A couple of guys holler, and someone yells, “Fuck yeah, it is!”

My head is down, so I don’t see who said it.

It wasn’t Sev. I know his voice well enough to know it without looking up, though it’s definitely something the dumbed- down version of him wouldn’t hesitate to say with enthusiasm.

He’s on the bench opposite me, a couple of places to my left.

His eyes are on me, concern warming one side of my face and amplifying the worst parts of my mood.

At times like this, it takes everything I have not to scream, “ Stop being concerned about me and fuck me !”

“What are you looking at?” I hiss instead.

“You,” he replies calmly.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Well, stop it, asswipe. I don’t need your concern. I can take care of myself.”

Obviously, I’m not in a particularly good headspace right now.

When I get like this, I lose touch with reality and find myself unable to think of a reason not to take off all my clothes and jump Sev, even when he’s infuriating.

Actually, in this mood, Sev’s infuriating behavior only makes things worse.

When I’m like this, I find myself thinking I should follow him to his car and jump him in the garage. Or to his hotel room.

Actually, his hotel room would probably make more sense for naked jumping. There are cameras in the garage, and that kind of publicity is the last thing I need .

It’s clear I’m pent up. Badly. Hockey makes me pent up sometimes.

Winning often makes me pent up. Letting goals through that I should’ve stopped does too.

Basically, when I’ve spent hours on a plane sitting next to Sev Delorean and stood behind him on the ice for an entire game, watching him play, everything makes me feel pent up.

Sev plays like he lives, like a man with a propensity for violence that lurks just under the surface. He plays with a brutish physicality that shouldn’t be beautiful, yet somehow is. There’s a grace to his movements that flirts with mercilessness. It’s mesmerizing.

I accidentally got the smell of him up my nose on the plane. Every time I inhaled, I took in fragments of him. Tiny particles of his particular brand of masculinity invaded my senses until I was lightheaded.

Hours later, in a room full of steam and sweaty men, it’s still the only thing I can smell.

It’s fucking me up.

Lockie comes over, hair damp from the shower, dress shoes and pants on, game day shirt hanging open.

“So, Mister Dog,” he says, throwing a shithead grin Sev’s way. “Cap told me you’re looking for a roommate. I’ve been living at my aunt’s until I get settled in Tampa, but I figure I’m ready for something more permanent. What do you say, wanna be roommates?”

“He says no.” Sev’s voice is louder than usual and his words are clipped and clearly enunciated to the point of disdain. He sounds nothing at all like dumb Sev.

It draws a few looks and absolutely infuriates me, despite the fact that no part of me wants to live with Lockie.

It’s a recipe for disaster and a surefire way to have a massive falling out with a guy I have to see almost every day for the next few years, but if there’s one thing that makes me incandescent with rage, it’s people talking for me.

My hackles rise, and I turn to aim my anger squarely at Sev. In my peripheral vision, I see Lockie flinch in surprise.

“How come?” he asks, unable to remove traces of hurt from his voice.

Sev’s features are smoothed out and neutral. He loosens the last strap on his chest protector and pulls it off over his head. His compression top is glued to him like skin, stretching over his pecs and clinging to his biceps. His chest rises and falls.

“’Cause I’m his new roommate,” he says matter-of-factly.