Page 16 of Icing the Cougar (Hockey USA Collection #7)

Jasper

Practice is at seven in the morning. The rink’s lights are bright and already giving me a headache. My mind’s not here, but my body is, and that’s enough for Coach G. He just wants asses in gear and skates on the ice, no matter how wrecked your head is.

I’m half-dressed in the team locker room, trying to lace my skates tight enough to pinch off the feeling in my legs.

Riley’s already chirping guys from three stalls over, barking about line changes and “rookie hands” like he isn’t the one that whiffed an open net last game.

Alfie’s at his locker taping a fresh stick, not talking, but you can tell he’s listening to every word.

It’s a full room, and everyone’s loose except me.

My hands shake when I feed the last lace, but I tell myself it’s caffeine.

Lie to yourself enough, you almost believe it.

As soon as we hit the ice, the noise swells.

Practice isn’t supposed to be loud, but this team can’t help it.

Blades grind and scream over the cuts in the old sheet, sticks clack against the glass, and guys shout every pass and drill.

It used to be a rush. Now, it just jars something in my skull.

Every mistake clangs around in there and echoes around with all the other shit I can’t shake loose.

We start with suicides—up and back, up and back—until your lungs burn.

I’m gassed after the first two, legs already lead, vision tunneling.

The next drill is a dump-and-chase, which I’m supposed to run point on, but my head’s somewhere else and I miss Riley’s pass by a good three feet.

The puck slaps my shinpad and skitters off to Alfie, who wings it down the boards without a word.

I hustle after it, too late, and clip Alfie’s skate as I try to cut him off.

We both stumble, and I hit the boards with my shoulder.

“Jesus, Wright. You wanna stay on your feet for more than a shift?” Coach Gallagher bellows. He’s standing behind the glass, arms crossed, whistle clenched in his teeth. He’s pissed, but he’s always pissed, so it barely registers.

“Yeah, sorry, Coach.” I barely manage the words. My jaw is tight, and I suck air through my teeth and jump back into the line.

After thirty more minutes of drills, I’m soaked, out of it, and at least twice I catch myself checking the glass where Trinity usually sits. Empty, obviously since it’s not a game.

We run three-on-two’s, and I’m on a line with Riley and a kid they just called up from the farm. I keep missing my assignments, skating the wrong angle, letting the puck slip through the triangle. Riley’s had enough.

“Hey, Jazz,” he says, skating up alongside me during a water break. “You hung over, or just got your balls in a vice?”

“Neither,” I gulp from the bottle and refuse to meet his eye.

He shrugs, but there’s a glint. “Look, I get it. Maybe you need a night off. Or a week.” He smirks. “Or maybe a babysitter?”

I shoulder past him and dump the water bottle. The bench is slick with melt and dirt, and it takes effort not to slip on my ass. Coach blows the whistle and corrals us to the far end of the ice for a lecture.

“You’re all skating like shit,” Coach says, glaring up and down the line. “I want two more rounds of cycle drills, then full-contact scrimmage. If I don’t see some fucking effort, you can spend the rest of the week doing wall-sits in the broom closet with Alfie for company.”

Alfie, who has not said a word all morning, winks at the team and deadpans, “I’m a very strict roommate.”

Guys laugh, but it’s nervous. Nobody wants to be in Coach’s doghouse, least of all me.

Although, the harder I try, the worse it gets.

My legs are rubber, my hands clumsy, and every time someone puts a shoulder into me, I flash on last week’s brawl and the taste of blood.

Even the rookie notices—he checks me hard enough to knock the wind out, then skates past with a “Sorry, bro” that I almost believe.

After the last drill, Coach blows the whistle and waves me over. “Wright. My office. Now.”

I yank my helmet off, sweat dripping into my eyes, and skate over. Coach stands just inside the door, looking like he might chew a chunk out of the wood paneling if it would help his mood.

He waits until everyone else is gone, then says, “You wanna tell me what’s going on, or should I guess?”

“Nothing,” I say, barely above a whisper.

He tilts his head. “Nothing? You’re skating like a guy who just lost his dog and his grandma in the same week.”

I force a laugh. “Maybe I just need more sleep, Coach.”

He doesn’t buy it for a second. “Look. Whatever it is, fix it. You’re too good to let your head fuck up your game. If you need to talk to someone, do it. If you need to smash a wall, I’ll loan you a sledgehammer. Just don’t bring that shit to my ice.”

I nod, eyes locked on a scuff in the floor. “Yes, sir.”

He leans in, lowering his voice. “I’m serious, Wright. This is exactly why we have a therapist on staff.”

“Yes, sir,” I reply and hurry out.

Back in the locker room, it’s a chorus of Velcro rips and hard plastic clunking against wood.

Guys strip pads, toss jerseys, and fling tape balls across the room at Alfie, who catches every one and lines them up on the bench like trophies.

The showers are blasting full, fogging the air and turning the place into a clammy sauna.

I’m half out of my jersey, trying to ignore the ache in my ribs, when a voice pipes up from behind.

“Hey, Jazz. You still banging that yoga cougar, or did she throw her hip out already?”

It’s one of the third-liners, an asshole with a buzzcut and a love of bar fights. The whole room goes quiet, waiting for my answer.

I feel my stomach drop. The tape I’m peeling off my stick freezes in my hand. I actually consider punching him, but I remember the last time I did that and how bad it fucked everything up.

“Yeah, I’m still with her,” I confirm. “She’s probably got more stamina than half this team.”

“Does she need a walker to get to the bedroom?” another guy chimes in, and the laughter starts up, ricocheting off the tiled walls.

I try to play it cool, but my ears go hot, and my hands won’t work right. I ball up the tape and hurl it at the garbage, missing by a mile.

Riley’s across the room, watching, but not jumping in. Smart. He knows I have to fight my own fights. He also knows there’s nothing I hate more than being the punchline.

Alfie tries to break the tension. “Hey, man, at least she won’t bail on him for the next big thing.” A couple guys snicker, but it takes the sting out.

I finish peeling off my gear, ignoring the sweat trickling down my spine. I throw my jersey into the laundry bin, slam my locker door hard, and yank on my street clothes. Every movement is jerky, like I’m trying to tear through the fabric.

The jokes keep going, but softer now. I hear “silver fox” and “GILF” somewhere in the mix, but I’m not listening. I just want out. My bag hits my shoulder with a smack, and I make for the exit, shoes squeaking on the damp tile.

Behind me, Riley calls out, “See you at Zach’s tonight?” but I don’t answer.

I can’t. I don’t trust what might come out.

By the time I hit the parking lot, the air is cold enough to bite through my shirt. My jaw aches from clenching, and my hands are numb even though it’s not that cold. I stand there, bag dangling, staring at the sunrise blur over the city, and wonder if there’s any point in going home.

Instead, I pace the length of the lot twice, then get in my car and gun it out of there, leaving tire marks on the wet concrete. I know exactly where I need to be right now.

***

I stand in the hall, fist raised to knock, but Trinity opens the door before I get there, like she felt me coming all the way up the stairs.

She’s barefoot, wearing yoga pants and one of my t-shirts from the stack I left here last week.

Hair up. She looks at me and doesn’t say anything right away.

She just watches, like she’s trying to figure out which version of me showed up tonight.

The answer is: the worst one. The one who just spent all day getting his ego punched in the face.

“Hey,” she says, soft.

“Hey,” I echo.

She starts to say something, but I’m already inside, already backing her into the wall.

I need to touch her, need to push all the noise out of my head and fill it with her instead.

My mouth finds her jaw, her neck, the line where her collarbone pulls at the cotton.

She tastes faintly salty, like she just finished a long run or hard workout.

I don’t care. I press my body into hers, pinning her between drywall and muscle, and her hands slide up under my shirt, cold on my skin.

She gasps when I bite, harder than I mean to.

Her body arches and I feel her smile against my mouth, but her eyes stay wide open, searching.

I don’t give her time to find what she’s looking for.

My hands grip her hips, thumbs digging in, and I lift her off her feet, carrying her to the bedroom before I say another word.

She kisses me hard, grabbing fistfuls of my hair, tugging until my eyes water and I taste blood on my tongue.

“Slow down,” she whispers as I tear her shirt over her head, but she’s already pulling at my zipper, nails scraping my thigh. “Jasper, slow down—”

“I can’t,” I growl.

She gives up, lets me take what I want. Her sports bra is still damp from whatever I interrupted her from.

I push it aside and mouth her nipple, biting down until she shudders.

She digs her fingers into my shoulders and drags me to the bed, knees on either side of my hips.

Then I flip her onto her back and hook my fingers under the waistband of her leggings, dragging them down and watching her squirm.

I leave a trail of spit and bruises down her ribs, stomach, the inside of her thigh.

She’s not even trying to hide the sounds she makes, little choked-off moans every time I bite or suck or press too hard.

I fuck her hard, messy, like I’m trying to erase something.

I probably am. I want her to know she belongs to me, that nothing else matters, not the game, not the locker room, not the voice in my head telling me I’m not good enough.

Just her, right here, right now. I drive into her with everything I’ve got, every thrust loud against the headboard.

She wraps her legs around my waist and holds on, breath hitching every time I slam her deeper into the mattress.

She says my name, sharp and desperate, over and over until it’s all I hear.

I can’t look away from her face, the way her eyes roll up when I hit just the right spot, the flush rising up her throat.

I want to stay in this moment, suspended, where nothing else exists.

I feel her clench around me, then go tense, her head thrown back and mouth open.

I keep going, chasing the feeling, until I finish with a grunt, collapsing onto her, both of us sweating and gasping for air.

For a long time, we don’t move. She strokes my back, gentle now, and I nuzzle into her neck, tasting the salt and the echo of her heartbeat under my tongue.

After a while, she rolls away and stretches, staring up at the ceiling. “That was—” she starts, but I don’t let her finish. I turn her on her side and pull her close, spooning, one hand on her hip, the other tracing lazy lines over her stomach.

She’s quiet, thinking, always, probably about me, about the things I won’t say out loud. I feel the question in her body, the way she tenses when I squeeze too tight, the way she breathes my name like it’s a warning.

I lay there for an hour, staring at the ceiling.

The clock on her nightstand glows 11:58 in soft blue.

My fingers drum against her skin, restless, and she twitches every time, but doesn’t tell me to stop.

My mind runs circles, replaying every second of practice, every word from Coach, every joke from the locker room.

Cougar, GILF, silver fox—fuck, maybe they’re right.

Maybe I don’t deserve her. Maybe I’m just a kid who doesn’t know when to quit.

I watch her sleep, the line of her jaw, the freckles on her cheek, the tiny bruise on her neck where I got too rough. I wonder if she’ll still want me in a year, or if she’ll realize she’s better off with someone older, calmer, less likely to destroy everything he touches.

I listen to the fridge hum and the cars drift by outside, the city never really quiet even this late. I trace her spine, memorize each bump and hollow, each place my lips have been. I wonder if she dreams of me, or if she dreams of something better.