Page 7 of Whirlwind (Seattle Blades #4)
F uck, I get it. Isla is amazing, but Cillian never shuts the hell up about her.
Not that I would, either. But it makes it damned hard to quit thinking about her when I have constant reminders.
I’ve had a different woman in bed with me almost every night since my first game with the Blades.
All in a vain effort to rid myself of the image of her that plays behind my eyes when I close them.
It’s not working.
Hell, this morning, when I was pleasuring myself, it was her face trying to creep in. Every time, I’d pause my movements, try and shake her away, imagine any other hot as hell woman, but those freckles kept coming back.
I’m an asshole, but I’m not the asshole who’s going to beat off to the image of his teammate’s wife.
In the end, I gave the fuck up. She wouldn’t give me any peace and I was frustrated all day because of it. Then, we got to the arena for today’s game and Cillian was recounting his earlier conversation with her and Sadie.
I don’t know how to escape this. It’s not like I can just turn off my feelings.
After the game, I brought a woman…the guys would call her a puck bunny, back to my room. It’s frowned upon by the league and team management, but it happens. I didn’t even ask her name. Instead, I avoided conversation, fucked her, and politely kicked her out.
It was a day game, and now I’m left with the evening to myself, wallowing in self-pity.
When your life consists of as many nights in a hotel as it does at home, you learn ways to cope.
Every guy is different. Some hit the gym, some take baths, some watch sports.
Some, like me, travel with a game console.
It’s a way to relieve aggression, to relax, to spend some down time without getting into trouble.
This trip, it’s my spare Xbox. When I power it up and log on to the internet, I’m happy to find HookersNBlow is online, too.
She accepted my friend request. I haven’t known many women gamers.
The ones I do are careful about who they let into their world.
Men, and boys, are brutally misogynistic on mic.
I’m glad I made her cut.
Within seconds, Kit sends me a message through the console.
Kit:
We need a fourth. Do you have a mic?
Me:
Yeah. I’ve mainly played killer.
Kit:
I assume you can learn new tricks.
An invite to her party chat pops up. I accept it and put my headphones on.
“You know what they say about assumptions,” I say.
“We have no problem showing our ass here, sir,” an unfamiliar female voice says.
“Tyson, that was Ramona,” Kit introduces. “Sydney is also in here.”
“Hi, Tyson.”
“Hi, everyone,” I say as I load into Dead by Daylight .
It’s a game where you play as a killer trying to eliminate survivors who are trying to repair enough generators to power up an exit gate.
Or as a survivor trying to escape the killer.
It’s intense, but a great time, if you don’t take it too seriously.
“What killer do you main?”
“Ghostface,” I answer. “But I’m more the type of killer to help survivors get their challenges done than the type to be toxic and go after a 4K.”
“Ah, we love a fun killer,” Ramona says. “Micheal Myers is my favorite, though.”
“Only because you’re weirdly diabolical,” says Sydney.
“What can I say? I love a man in a mask.”
“Okay, I’m in the game.”
“Sending an invite,” Kit says. “Can you skill check without blowing the generators?”
“With the right perks equipped.”
“Do your best to keep out of sight, we’ll do the heavy lifting,” Sydney says.
“Protect the baby at all costs,” Ramona says.
“I’m the baby?”
“You are now, sweetheart,” she says. “It’s okay, though, I like kids.”
I laugh, going with it. Comedic relief is what I need. A good time. If I am the brunt of playful jokes, I’m okay with that.
“How does everyone know each other?”
“I stalked these two on a women-in-gaming Discord group until they relented to being my friends,” says Ramona.
“No matter how many times we blew her off, she just kept coming back. She’s like a stray dog,” Sydney teases, as Ramona barks and whimpers.
“Syd and I met at school,” Kit says as the loading screen starts up for the game.
“At U-Dub with Willa?”
“You know Willa?” asks Sydney.
“Yeah, I dated her sister for a time.”
“That’s how you know Kit,” she says.
“Yes, but we’re also neighbors.” The game loads us into the map. There are different ones, some inside, some outside. This one is outside, which I prefer, as it will give me more places to hide. This is one of the bigger maps, too. “Rotten Fields, nice.”
“Tons of corn for you to hide in, kid,” Ramona says.
Following instructions, I crouch and start creeping around.
I won’t be dead weight to the ladies, but I don’t want to be a burden to them, either.
Cautiously, I find a generator and start repairing it.
An easy enough task, but it takes several minutes, and you can’t drop your alertness. The killer can easily sneak up on you.
“Oh, fuck! It’s a Pig, don’t ask me how I know,” Kit shrieks. “I’m going to loop around the house.”
“I’ll work on the gen in the barn while you keep her busy,” Sydney says.
“Headed your way, Syd,” Ramona tells her. “You good, Baby Boy?”
“Yep, on a gen on the other side of the map, Mommy.”
They all titter.
“Oh, this must be a baby killer. They’re whiffing like crazy,” Kit says.
“Let’s make some progress, then we’ll ease up. See if they’re a fun killer,” Sydney says.
“So, what’s your story, Tyson?” asks Ramona. “Married, dating, kids? What do you do for money?”
“Single. No kids. I play hockey.”
“Like, for fun?”
“No, for money. I play pro.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. Just moved to Seattle to play for the Blades. Was in Vancouver before this.”
“Wait a fucking minute,” Sydney says. “Tyson Murphy?”
“That’s me.”
“We’re playing with Tyson Murphy? A heads up would have been nice.”
“You would have been weird about it,” Kit says. “Like you’re being now. He’s just a guy who plays video games in his spare time.”
“Fuck,” Sydney curses. “I should have put it together from the cheesy gamertag.”
“Ouch.” I fake outrage. “You follow hockey, eh?”
“Not really. But I have brothers and I grew up in South Dakota. It’s not something you can avoid. They’re going to freak the fuck out.”
“Shit, I lost her. Not sure what way she went,” Kit says. “I’m going to jump on the gen upstairs.”
“Almost done here,” Ramona says.
We manage to complete all but the last generator without the killer hooking any of us.
Further proof that this killer is inexperienced.
We decide to go easy on them and form something of a conga line, following one another around the map until we find them.
Eventually, we do, and they join in for a few minutes before we let them get some points on us.
The next couple of matches don’t go quite as easy, but these ladies are fun as hell to play with, and by the time I log off for the night, my cheeks hurt from laughing so much.
I send a message through the console to Kit.
Me:
Thanks for tonight, I needed some fun.
I give her my cell phone number, telling her I’m being neighborly. A few minutes later, a text message comes through.
Kit:
Thank you for joining. We hate playing with randoms. Glad we could help, hope your trip is going okay.
Me:
It’s going well enough. Still a little awkward.
Kit:
Because it’s a new team?
I weigh my response before sending anything. Kit isn’t someone I know, but I have to assume she knows more about my situation than the average person. Does that mean I can trust her with my secrets? My feelings?
My heart tells me I can. My brain strongly protests. This is someone deep inside Isla’s circle. If I were to tell Kit how hard this is for me, it could get back to people it would affect the most. It could jeopardize the team dynamic that I’m already on the outskirts of.
Me:
Basically.
For my own self-preservation, I keep my response vague.
Kit:
I imagine it’s difficult. A new team, a new city. Especially when you’ve been in your hometown. You have family there, yeah?
Me:
I do. Mom, Dad, and my sister, Lottie. I don’t have anyone in Seattle, outside of the team.
Kit:
I didn’t have anyone when I moved here, either.
I’m an only child though, and didn’t really have anyone back in Maine either.
But I found Willa. Found family counts. Hopefully you’ll find something like that.
In the meantime, at least you have a friend in a crazy little barking ball of fur across the street.
Me:
Just the fur ball? Not his friendly owner?
Kit:
His owner barely plays well with others on her best day.
Me:
I feel like that’s not true.
Kit:
Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to trust your feelings?
Me:
The opposite, actually.
I’m smiling again. It comes easy with this woman; and suddenly, moving into my own place, out of Calvin’s, doesn’t feel like something I need to rush. Kit’s right; I need to find my people here. Until then, it might be nice having her close by.
Kit:
Wow. You must have shitty parents.
Kit:
I’m kidding! Shit, we probably don’t know each other well enough for jokes like that yet.
Me:
Relax, I knew you were kidding.
Kit:
Okay, good. I’m…awkward with people sometimes. I apologize in advance.
Me:
Consider me a safe space for awkwardness. My sister is on the spectrum. I don’t judge.
Kit:
Thank you, that means a lot to me.
Her words hurt me. Partly because I hate that people with autism, general anxiety, or who are simply prone to social awkwardness are made to feel worse because people refuse to take the time to understand.
Partly because I know Lottie’s lived with that her whole life.
I’d be her protector forever, if I thought that’s what she needs.
It’s not, though. She needs, and wants, to be independent.
Even if that means her life is harder. I respect that.
Me:
I mean it. I need to crash, but thanks again. Hope you let me play with your crew again.
Kit:
Anytime.