Page 17 of Her Puck Daddies (Game On Daddies #2)

LEVI

D espite my shoulder healing and me managing to do a decent job at the Rangers game, the following week, all my fundamentals go to crap.

It’s like I’ve been hurled back to when I was in the bantam league.

Every time I try to anticipate where the puck will go, I guess wrong.

It’s absurd, really. I have all these years of experience plus instincts I’ve come to depend on.

There’s no reason for me to suck this bad.

Yet, I do.

I suck so hard that when we go up against the Montreal Canadiens, I let in way too many goals. So many that we lose by a point. I’m furious at myself and throw my pads into my locker so violently that Sven and Eric both come running.

“Whoa, dude, don’t worry about it. It just wasn’t your night,” my captain says.

Log ically, I know he’s right. Sometimes goalies have off nights that aren’t their fault. But this feels like my fault because it is.

Eric even goes so far as to clap me on the shoulder.

“You’ll hold them off next time, man.”

But I’m not sure of that. I’m not sure at all.

I bulldoze past each of them to reach the showers.

I scrub myself so hard that pretty much every inch of my skin is red, then once I dry off and dress in my suit, I avoid everybody.

I keep my head down, and thankfully our publicist doesn’t ask me to join the press conference that follows every game.

It’s in our contract to speak when told to, and I’ve done it every time in the past, just like a good little player. I just can’t dredge up the energy today. I guess I should be thankful the publicist didn’t call on me because I’m bitter.

Because I can’t get Ava off my mind.

I do everything over the next two days to quit thinking about her—about what she’s done for me. And Eric. Not that he knows I know. That isn’t helping, either. I’ve never been the kind of guy to keep secrets from my best friends, my brothers really, and now I’m keeping secrets from both of them.

My memories keep replaying the blowjob she gave me, the way the wet heat of her mouth around my cock sucked the sanity right out of me, the way she looked up at me with those wicked, knowing eyes, fully aware of the mind-numbing release she was giving me.

Then, my brain fills in the blanks about what she did with Eric. I can picture it too clearly—her hands working him over with massage oil, the sounds she must’ve made to help get him off. To make matters worse, I can’t stop reliving that night in Jersey, too.

It’s like I’ve triggered something inside me, and now I can’t turn the fucker off.

Sure, I doubted her intentions at first, but that’s not what this is. And now, I can’t stop imagining being with her again. Which is exactly why I can’t be.

I’ve already pushed my luck by letting what happened on her table happen in the first place. Knowing that Eric gave in too just makes it that much more important for me to toughen up and avoid a repeat. I need to be the strong one, the one who holds out. Even if I didn’t when I should have.

I should’ve bolted off that table and out of there, even if it meant running through the damn building in my skivvies. But I didn’t. And now I have to live with that. That’s the real problem.

My shoulder is fine. Physically, I’m fine. But no matter how often I stretch—several times a day, my earbuds blasting my usual heavy metal playlist—or push myself in workouts, when we play the Buffalo Sabres at our rink two days later, I stink up the joint.

Again.

All five of the shots on goal they take get in.

It’s fucking mortifying. If I think they’re going for the five-hole, they aim high.

If I anticipate left, they go right. If I commit to blocking the top corner, they sneak it past my skate.

It’s like my instincts, the same ones I’ve depended on my whole damn career, are suddenly giving me false signals.

And I don’t know how to fix it.

This time, after the game, coach marches up to me. “What the hell’s up with you, Corolla? If your shoulder’s in pain, you’d better goddamn see to fixing it.”

“It’s not, coach. That’s not the issue.”

“Then, what is the issue?” He doesn’t bother to keep his voice down, and though I refuse to cringe at his ferocious tone, I hate this.

“I don’t know,” I mutter.

“ Dammit, Corolla, I—” He cuts himself off, like he just realized he’s essentially chewing me out in front of everyone—including the squad of reporters swaggering in, ready to pounce. His jaw tightens. “Get in my office. Now.”

I nod, stopping mid-strip. I might reek like a dirty sock, but when coach says jump, I do it. It’s part of the job. The worst part? I know he wants answers. And I don’t have any. Not ones I can give him, anyway. Not ones that won’t make this whole thing spiral even further.

Keeping my head down, eyes averted, I trudge into his office and shut the door behind me. He doesn’t hold back.

“You’d better tell me what the hell is going on with you, or I’m putting Steiner in against Minnesota. From the get-go.”

The Minnesota Wild is in a rebuilding year and shouldn’t be a real threat, but with my game in the gutter, who the hell knows. The threat is clear. He lets it hang between us, waiting for it to sink in.

“Did you hear me, Corolla?”

He knows I’d never tank hard enough to let our backup take over. Last season, Steiner didn’t get off the bench once, and I took pride in that—not because I want to keep him from playin g, but because I have a reputation to uphold. You don’t make it to the pros by half-assing it.

Kind of like I appear to be doing now.

“I hear you, coach.” I hold back a huff.

“Well?”

“It’s a personal problem.”

“What sort of personal problem? Do you need a trainer? Or is this a Dr. Shrink thing?” he presses.

Atticus Henley is old school, which means he’s pushing seventy.

He’s a damn good coach, and I respect the hell out of him.

But he comes from a generation that thinks psychiatry and psychology are a bunch of woo-woo bullshit.

Therapy, too. To him, mental health is something you "fix" with a six-pack, not by talking to someone with a medical degree.

And I get it. I’m not exactly lining up outside Dr. Robert Baer’s office beyond the two mandatory check-ins a year, just like every other player.

But maybe because he reminds me of my grandfather before he passed, Dr. Baer is easy to talk to.

He doesn’t poke at wounds unless it’s necessary.

And he always throws in a joke or two to lighten the mood if he senses timidness.

I ’ve told him things I’ve never told Sven or Eric— how much I miss my parents, who are stuck in a senior center, fading away to dementia; my estranged sister in Florida who barely speaks to me or my parents; and why I don’t think a real intimate relationship will ever work for me.

But this stays locked up. I’m not talking about it. Not to Dr. Baer. Not to anyone.

“It’s not a shrink thing. I’m just… struggling. I’ll get my mojo back come hell or high water,” I promise.

“You’d better.”

But despite all my efforts, I don’t. Each of the practices between the Sabres game and the upcoming one against Minnesota go to hell in a handbasket, and my second worst fear comes to pass.

Coach benches me and puts in Steiner. It’s one thing when this occurs due to an injury or illness.

That can’t be helped. But to have it take place due to my general suckage?

That’s humiliating.

It’s times like these when I remember being a teenager, back when my parents never missed a game.

No matter how bad I played, they’d be there afterward, telling me they were proud of me.

That I’d bounce back. That one rough night on the ice didn’t define me.

Now, they barely remember any of that. And even i f they did, what would I even say?

That I got benched because I can’t get my head straight after screwing the team’s massage therapist?

What stings even more is knowing Ava is helping out Eric in the same way, yet it hasn’t thrown him off his game at all.

He’s still playing like the All-Star he is, while I’m spiraling.

Why can’t I just compartmentalize? Why can’t I shove this into the part of my brain that deals with sex and move the hell on?

And the worst part? I’m not just benched, I have to sit there, in full gear, playing the role of backup goalie while Steiner takes my place.

I have to watch as he lets in only two goals, securing us a win.

It should make me feel better that we got the victory, but all I feel is worthless.

Like I’m dead weight. And I have no clue when, or if, that’s going to change.

The next day at practice, Coach gives me another shot, but the first puck that comes at me slips right past. He doesn’t even hesitate before pulling me off the ice again.

I don’t get to run drills with the first line—Sven, Eric, and the guys I’ve played alongside for years.

I barely get any time in net at all. Instead, I watch as Steiner stops everything, solidifying that he deserves the spot I’m supposed to own.

I swear I’m losing my sanity. And my position right along with it.

I h aven’t had a massage. I should care, but I don’t. I’m sinking lower and lower every damn day. Sven and Eric have tried everything to snap me out of it—drinks, dinner, endless calls and texts, but I ignore them all. Until they come pounding on my door.

“Levi, open up, you bastard,” Sven yells through the door.

“We’re not leaving, not even if we have to break down this goddamn door.” And there’s Eric.

I should holler at them to take a long walk off a short pier, but like before, I just don’t have it in me.

I’ve never been so depressed in my damn life.

It’s so bad that I noticed someone has scheduled me an extra appointment with Dr. Baer.

So much for my reputation of being rock steady.

That’s totally gone now. And I’m not sure if it’s ever coming back.