Page 22
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A goal three minutes into the game and now an assist towards the end of the first to put us three to zero with both of my parents watching – something that hasn’t happened since I was playing in youth– as well as my Slayer who told me…in a room full of fucking people…that she loved me.
Yeah.
Not sure the night can get any better than this.
Layvon skates into position beside me, black and gold bearing frame immediately bending over so that we’re eye level. “Guess you gotta score on the ice since you can’t off it.”
Huh.
I didn’t consider the possibility that it could get worse.
“We both know the shit going around isn’t true, aye?”
I adjust my hold on my stick.
Chomp down on my mouthguard harder.
Remain quiet.
“ Pure bugie. ”
They’re not pure lies , but I’m not about to confess that.
“You can’t handle that snipe.”
Keeping my mouth shut increases in difficulty.
“That’s why we may be in your barn but amore mio is gonna be my bed tonight.”
The puck drops ending his taunting, allowing me to regain my focus.
Composure.
Redirect my energy into supporting my team.
Possibly putting another assist in my stats since we’re in their zone.
Looferz manages to skillfully skate around one of their wingers to correct the puck’s trajectory. The tiny black object hits the edge of his skate allowing him to execute a silky-smooth pass over to Matty who’s just waiting to take the shot yet split seconds after it leaves his possession, Layvon sends him sliding into the boards with a dirty and unnecessary cross check that can’t go unpunished.
Dropping my stick and gloves the second I arrive is automatic.
Just like blocking his path.
And grabbing him by the jersey.
And sending a punch straight into his jaw that’s so hard it forces him to abandon the hold he has on his 3P.
Layvon’s response to curl inward, basically turtling up, surrendering before it can even begin, prompts me to pummel faster.
Prevent him from being able to bitch out on the beating he deserves for not only the dangerous play but the bullshit he said about my woman.
My Slayer.
Three hits transitioning into four pushes him into abruptly trying to hit back. A sloppy arm is swung overhead in an effort to create some space; however, it simply spins him into an angle that allows for sharp strikes to his side.
The low, low, high, low combo causes him to crumple, clearly, feeling the agony despite the pads absorbing some of the force. Rage over seeing my younger teammate, basically my baby brother, smash into the hard outer surface, possibly injuring his back or creating a concussion, a concussion like Becks had, Becks who is here in the stadium tonight as a fan versus a teammate because of the drugs shoved into his system over a similar incident, increases the magnitude of my hit.
Has me abandoning jabs for a flat out beating.
Uppercut on top of uppercut on top of uppercut as he’s dragged over to the spot where Matty fell leaves a blood trail reminder to those watching not to fuck with my team.
Me.
One hard yank downward has him hitting the ice like the discarded trash he is signaling to the refs it’s time to intervene.
They finally stop being bystanders and put themselves between us, becoming the barricade needed to stop the scrum from continuing.
It’s bad enough my ass is about to get a major for fighting and possibly a minor for instigating.
I don’t need to guarantee the latter.
With only thirty seconds left in the period, the zebra escorts me to our tunnel as opposed to the box to the sound of thousands of people chanting “ra” and echoes of sticks being clapped in approval of my brainless decision.
Which it was.
That was all instinct.
Not calculated.
Not controlled.
Not anything I’m fucking known for.
Not anything I fucking train for.
Lazily tossing my bucket near my seat precedes me ditching my mouthguard in lingering irritation that I can’t seem to settle.
What the fuck is my problem?
I beat the shit out of Layvon.
I beat the shit out of Layvon in a sold-out stadium.
I protected my team.
My mates.
The adrenaline in my system should be decreasing not idling.
What do I bloody need?!
To piss?
Hydration?
A fucking Snickers?
Grumbles accompany me plopping down to shed my skates, the action being done in hopes of alleviating some of the strain in my system I can’t seem to shake.
By the time the boys and Coach come filing in, I expect to be simmered down yet am somehow still at the same level of unsettled I was when I first left the ice.
“Howe hat trick, boys!” animatedly announces Wahl. “Goal, assist, and a fight all in one game! Clap him in!”
Stick taps on the floor to applaud the rarity for a player – and what I envision to be not only my first but only – are attached to more ras reverberating around the room in approval as I remove my upper gear.
I manage to catch a single nod of gratitude from Matty on the opposite side split seconds before Cap is removing his mouthguard and flopping into his stall beside me. “Problem?”
Uncertainty of how to answer leads to me remaining silent.
“ Ty vyglyadish' stranno. ” He catches the tossed half a sando to him with his left, now gloveless hand and grunts, “Like you’ve got the jitzkies, aye.”
“Yes, but I do not know why .”
“It’s your fight or fuck response,” one of the Goonie Tunes declares after running a towel across his face.
“What?”
“Fight or fuck response,” echoes the other one.
“You don’t know it ‘cause you don’t usually fight,” states the twin standing.
“It’s just science shit,” backs his brother that’s sitting.
“That cannot possibly be scientific.”
“Sure, it is.” He drapes the towel over his padless shoulders. “You light the mental lamp in your brainskies and then your body either wants to fight or fuck, aye.”
“And if you do one but it doesn’t switch off then it means you still need to do the other.”
They’re nodding in tandem is attached to once more firmly claiming, “ Fight or fuck response. ”
There’s no stopping my glare from narrowing as Cap and I lock eyes. “Why does that make bloody sense?”
“’Cause it’s science ,” Wahl chuckles during his walk by. “Duh.”
One of his shoulders bounces on another bite. “ Ponyatiya ne imeyu, no... ” he swallows the hunk in his mouth, “they’re right. You need to flip that switch to get your head back in the game.”
“Too bad your Slayer’s in Montana or Michigan or Manitoba or wherever they said,” Wahl grabs his own half of sando to shove into his mouth. “Means you just gotta take a penalty shot.”
Knowing the truth rolls my head back around to meet Cap’s glare. “I need ten.”
He aggressively sinks his teeth into the snack and grumbles, “ Sem'. ”
“ Deal. ”
We slap palms twice and cross shoulder bump on a loud “ra”.
Ducking out of the locker room for seven minutes practically unnoticed isn’t difficult.
And to my pleasant surprise, neither is finding my Slayer who happens to be at the very end of hall as if secretly hoping I would pop out to see her.
Who knows.
Perhaps she was.
Perhaps seeing me drop the gloves flipped some sort of switch inside her too.
Although, I highly doubt it.
That shit is most likely not actually scientific.
Just…jockatific.
“ Holyfuck… ” Arden loudly proclaims during her slip around security. “That was…” Excitement and disbelief fuse together in her headshaking. “Best ass whooping all fucking season!”
Snatching her palm, the second she’s within reach is speedily followed by stumbling down the hall.
“Definitely one for the highlight reel!”
Checking the first door we pass doesn’t reveal the result I’m desperate for.
“Did you knock one of his teeth out or just break his nose?!”
And neither does the next.
“That much blood on the ice was a bitch to get up by the way.”
Nor does the third.
“I don’t know who looked more concerned, med or his coach.”
This handle turning to grant us access conjures up a gnarled, “ Thankfuck. ” Inside the pocket storage room that clearly houses extra supplies for the locker room, I carelessly shove her against the shelving, wind my hand around her throat, and barbarically command at a hushed volume, “ Say it again. ” Arden delightfully whimpers at the pressure prompting my forehead to fall to hers. “ Say. It. Again. Slayer. ”
The corner of her lips briefly twitch upward. “ I love you. ”
Feral growls precede me smashing my mouth on hers.
Roughly spreading her lips.
Whirling my tongue around while nudging apart her thighs with my knee.
I abruptly pull back at the same time I squeeze a bit harder. “ Again. ”
Initially, she resists, yet the combination of additional pressure and my fingers undoing the button of her jeans convinces her to airily croak, “ I love you, twenty-eight. ”
Like a beast broken free from his choke chain, ravishing the love of my life becomes the only thing I can do.
The only thing I’m capable of doing.
Getting her turned around, jeans and panties pulled down just enough to thrust inside, head banging into the shelf of toilet paper rolls happens so blindingly fast that it leaves my own mind spinning.
Not that I give a shit.
No.
Hearing her cry out for me with my hand curled around her throat and dick relentlessly ripping her in two outweighs all other fucks to give.
“ Again, ” I huff near her hearing aid ear, hips brutally hammering, bucking her entire body into the hard surface. “ Say. ” The perpetual pounding persists. Hastens. “ It. ” My balls slam against her backside while my other set of fingers rapidly rub her clit from the front. “ Again. ”
Arden’s head lifelessly bounces back to the same steady rhythm as her ass, juices worshipping my cock, pussy screaming the words I want her voice to.
“ Whose fucking pussy is this, Slayer? ”
Grazes from her swinging loose locks brush the side of my neck and shoulder convincing me to curl further inward.
Stroke faster with my finger.
My cock.
“ Whose number do you fucking wear? ”
An attempt to speak is felt against my palm yet the vibrations simply spur me to clench tighter.
Pump faster.
More ferocious.
“ Whose name do you fucking scream? ”
Wetness drips to my balls.
Smothers my shaft.
Slathers itself against the edge of my sweater, staining my gear.
The very gear I have to wear back out on the ice.
Wreaking of sweat and sex.
Sex that she only has with me.
Echoes of Layvon’s chirp ignite hotter and heavier huffs as well as heaves. “ Whose bed do you fucking belong in? ”
“ Yours, ” barely manages to leave her lips courtesy of my unrelentingly clamping. “ Yours! ”
“ That’s fucking right, Slayer. ” Stroking her clit is sloppily abandoned to completely cup her pussy, wanting – fuck that – determined to fuck her with my hand, my dick, and my mouth all at once. Latching my teeth onto the top of her shoulder sends her hands behind her to my neck, nails clawing onto whatever skin they can reach. “ You take my fucking cock. ” My mouth on her flesh hardly muffles my snarls. “ You take my fucking cum. ” One sultry spurt splashes against her tight, thrumming muscles. “ You drip for me in the fucking stands. ” Hitched breaths become airy moans as I continue to rapaciously jerk, filling her past the brim, past the edges of where we’re pinned together, past the edges of her trembling pussy to the point she can’t deny what we were in here doing.
What order she was given.
Arden voraciously scratches and pants and writhes and comes undone on a stifled scream of my name, “ Tannnnnerrrr! ”
“ BloodyhellIneededthat ,” escapes me alongside knee buckling shudders. “ You. ” Possessive kisses land on the territory my teeth were tearing at. “ I always need you, Arden. ”
Gently prying my hand from her neck precedes her turning around to lock eyes. “ And you always have me, Tanner. ”
Our mouths slide back against one another except this time it’s softer.
And slower.
Brushes are so light and timid and pliant, it’s almost as though we’ve never kissed before in spite of the fact we have.
When we finally separate, smiles are exchanged in pure, unspoiled silence that indicates whatever had me off my game is gone.
Or…to put it in the Goonie Tunes words…the switch is off.
Equilibrium restored.
Focus for the miles ahead regained.
Shit!
The game!
Frantically redressing is followed by an even more hectic exiting of the closet that not only gathers security’s skeptical gaze but a distant onlooker that I’m glad to be sending her back to full of me.
Like Layvon, Khurana needs a subtle reminder that she’s mine.
I imagine the scent of me and faint finger marks on her neck oughta do well enough.
Popping back into the locker room about ninety seconds late thankfully goes unmentioned.
Whether that’s due to Coach beginning his rallying speech or Cap knowing the quickie was for me as much as the boys goes unknown.
Unlike my cooled temperament.
“Snowman,” Blanc calls to me, expression curious, “you got your head back on?”
Regardless of all the eyes in the room scrutinizing my disposition, I calmly reply, “Yes, Coach.”
“Good. Because I want them to feel the pressure.” He resumes pacing the floor. “I want them to be so worn out from battling our D shift after shift after shift that they have to use their studs to give their D breathers. I want them so fucking exhausted by the time Snowman steps out of the box that they see him and know he’s gonna go for the shot except ,” a single finger is lifted, “I want his ass back on the bench and Peck in to execute it.”
“You want them blindsided,” Cap nods while I begin to speedily put my gear back on.
“I want them worn the fuck out and then blindsided.” An almost vindictive smirk slides into place. “Focus on getting them to skate circles. Turn overs. And blocking those shots. D,” he states to those in that position in the room, “you can handle this. Short shift. Short shift. Short shift. Fucking rotateskies over and over and over again and when Snowman hits that ice, Peck be ready to wheel and put another one on the board.”
“ Ra! ” escapes us as a unit.
“Let go get ‘em, boys!”
Returning to the rink reenergized and rejuvenized, I make one single lap around our goal, deliver a tap of luck to Wheaty’s pads, and park myself in the box.
The instant Layvon plants himself on the other side of the glass, I smugly goad, “Hey, Arden wanted me to deliver a message to you.”
There’s no reluctance for him to shift his attention to me.
“She’s a dragon,” I tug the side of my gear down just enough for him to see the fresh marks, “ but also, a Slayer now. ”