Sin Bin Baby (Pucker Up)

1. Dominic

Dominic

“ D avies, you’re up.” Coach Darby prods my shoulder and glares at the Jumbotron.

Two goals coughed up in the first two minutes of the third period, and he’s yanking Maxime Lafontaine off the ice. Poor guy’s been ill with a stomach bug for days but swore up and down he could play.

Obviously not.

I hop over the boards while the opposing team continues celebrating and give Max a tap on the ass when he skates past.

“Feel better, Max.”

Then, I head to the goal feeling hyped as the crowd clamors with approval at the goalie swap.

Those cheers? That applause? I don’t get to hear it that often anymore since I’m not the starting netminder and see only a handful of game action these days. Still, it’s a steady paycheck, and I worked my ass off to get in the league and stay here.

Been in over a decade now, and I’m one of the lucky ones. No major injuries, pretty consistent work. Even better, I get to play hockey in one of Southern California’s most beautiful locales, Soltero Beach. Renowned for its weird concentration of single, attractive eligible bachelors, it’s earned the honor of being nicknamed Bachelor Beach and has been a stunning place to live and play.

But over the last few seasons, I’ve transitioned from the number one netminding position to number two. The spotlight on my goaltending career has waned, and even though I still don’t think of myself as past my prime, my one-year contract renewals are a big hint that my time in the league is limited.

Now I’m just the backup.

I’m only called upon in times of injury or illness or to give Max a break. But sometimes, like now, I’m thrown in to change the momentum of the game.

“You got this, Dom,” Gavin Hammersmith, team captain, barks at me before skating back to center ice. He glares at the opposing team as they loiter, waiting to set up for the next face-off.

He’s seething. This game’s been brutal.

Tracing the edges of the blue paint with my stick, I sweep away the lingering snow and push it to the side. I tap each of the right and left pipes, toss my water bottle onto the goal net, and double tap the crossbar while saying a silent prayer to the hockey gods that the bounces go my way. Tuning out the noise of the arena, I close my eyes for a fraction of a second and drop to the ice to stretch my legs and groin.

Can’t risk any injuries.

Gotta make the most of my opportunities.

I spring back up, shaking my shoulders and shimmying my ass. Then I spin, grab my mask, and do a double take.

There, in the stands to my right. There’s a shuffle of fans as a compact, curvy woman in jeans with her dark hair in a high, sleek pony swishing over the shoulders of her signature black leather jacket. She squeezes past jersey-clad fans to get to the empty seat I always leave open for any visiting friends and family. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder, our eyes meet and warmth spreads through me.

Charisse. She’s here.

She waves, beaming at me, but I act like I don’t see.

Coach will have my ass if he suspects I’m flirting with a fan in the middle of a game. So, I squirt some water into my mouth and snap my mask in place.

Time to focus.

There’ll be time to admire—I mean, hang out with—my long-time best girl friend later.

“You ready, Domino?” Diego De La Cruz skates through my crease, tapping the thick pads protecting my legs from getting snapped by hundred-mile-an-hour pucks. He spins in a small circle, eyes locked on me as he chews his mouthguard.

Eighteen minutes left in the third, trailing by two.

My team’s scowling, looking a little banged up. It’s been a chippy sort of game with tempers short and frustration high thanks to a couple of nasty plays and crap calls.

It’s bound to be an ugly third period.

My fucking favorite.

“Ready. Let’s knock ‘em down.”

For the first five minutes of play, I’m pelted with shots. One after the other in quick succession so that I’m having to holler for help from the blue line. With our trade deadline pick up, Elias Pahlsson, out of the lineup thanks to injury, we’re a defenseman down and Diego’s struggling to keep the swarming Portland Piranhas out of my crease.

He snaps at Jason McIntyre, a call-up from our farm team, to not get caught out of position so much.

But it’s hard to blame the kid. The Piranhas play aggressively, and these fuckers are testing my reflexes right along with my patience.

We set up for another defensive zone face-off, and it brings the Piranha’s power forward Kristian Dahl to line up close to me. He makes no effort to avoid bumping into my shoulder as he passes, and I let out a low growl.

Last season, when Dahl had been with Nashville and not Portland, we’d both turned up with teammates at a club where Charisse was singing. After she’d told me all about the new man in her life—some doctor dude her parents had set her up with—I’d been so annoyed about the news that I’d gotten too deep in my cups and ended up spending the night with Kristian Dahl.

Normally, I try not to smash my fellow hockey players ‘cause it’s just bad for business. And shit like this just proves my point.

Ah, well.

My eyes drift over to the stands where Charisse chants alongside the home crowd, and I squat down into position.

“Eyes on the puck, Domino,” Dahl jeers beneath his breath as he hunches over. “Not on the bunnies.”

Anger kindles inside me as I clench my jaw and keep my eye on the falling puck. That vulcanized rubber disk is all that matters right now. Not this loud-mouthed fool. Not that ill-advised night with Dahl. And not the girl I’ve been crazy about all my life currently sitting in the stands.

Once the puck drops, I track it as the Piranhas get possession and set up camp in our offensive zone. Their center, number 18, takes up residence just outside my paint, screening my view.

“Move that way, pretty boy,” I shout, using my stick to poke him out of my line of sight.

They’re setting up for a redirected shot, and things move fast once I hear the deafening crack of an aluminum stick spank that puck. The Piranhas center tries to tip it, but Diego tackles him, drawing a penalty while I snap that sucker up with my glove at the last second.

The whistle sounds, and before I can straighten up, Dahl skates in and knocks me down. My breath puffs out of me with an oof as my glove pops off, and the puck rolls out of it. The ref blows his whistle shrilly as my teammates skate in to defend me.

As everyone grapples together on the ice, shouting insults or trying to smooth things over, I leap to my feet, drop my blocker, and knock my helmet off. Then I make a beeline for Dahl, who’s mouthing off at Diego.

“What the hell was that?” I shout. “They already whistled the play. You wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning or what?”

Dahl rolls his eyes as Diego pushes him back against the glass and struggles to stay between us. “You wouldn’t know which side of the bed I sleep on, seeing as you bolted like a scared little pup that night in Nashville, Davies.”

“Not this again.” I throw my hands in the air.

“Guys,” Diego says warningly. “It’s not worth it. Personal disputes should be settled off the ice.”

We both ignore him, and Dahl skates around Diego, pointing in my face.

“Tell the truth, Davies. You wanted that singer in your bed, but you couldn’t have her, so you took me instead.”

“I told you the truth.” I push Diego out of the way and grab hold of Dahl’s jersey. Fisting my hand in the thin material, I bring my face close to his. “I made my situation crystal clear that night, and I know you know my reputation or you wouldn’t have approached me. Charisse had nothing to do with what happened between us.”

Not entirely true, but I’m not about to admit that I’ve been in love with my totally unavailable serial monogamist best friend since I was sixteen. Let alone hash that out in the middle of a damn hockey game with some guy I’d had a fling with once.

“I don’t do overnight stays, and I don’t catch feelings.” I lift my chin in defiance. “What do you need to get this out of your system, Dahl? You wanna hit me?”

Goading the younger winger is not the answer, and I know I’m going to pay for it, but there’s an electric charge in the ice-chilled air and the crowd’s calls for a goalie fight rings in my ears. I glance over at the bench and catch the slightest incline of Coach’s head. This is what he tapped me for.

Change the game.

Shift the momentum.

Shit, I’m going to have to be an asshole.

“You’re a fucking prick,” he spits, trying to shake me off. “But I’m not about to give an old man a heart attack.”

“You didn’t care about raising my heart rate when you presented me with that pretty, plump ass—”

BAM! His fist flies fast, and my head snaps back as he clocks me. I try to stay on my skates. Pain explodes in my cheek as I swing, laughing like a goddamn lunatic.

This shit gives me life. I hardly ever get to give the home crowd a show, and the roar in my ears tells me they’re loving it.

A couple of my hits land, sending pain rippling up my arm before we nearly topple over. But when we’re separated, I’m the one still standing, whooping in exhilaration while Dahl clutches his jaw and skates to the box.

I’m going to have to send a text to apologize for that later, but the energy filling up the arena is unmistakable. Their resounding, bloodthirsty cheers power us through the rest of the period. We notch two goals in quick succession during the three-on-three play, and I make sure to stonewall every Piranha that takes a shot at me.

In the end, we manage to stage a comeback and pull off an overtime win that nets us two more crucial points in the standings. As the team skates out to congratulate and thank me, I feel proud of my contributions.

But it’s only when I look over my shoulder at Charisse, who’s standing and clapping for me from the stands, my heart soars.

She’s home.

And while I know I’ll relish the time we get to hang out together, I also know I’ll be spending that time trying to hide my feelings for her. It’s gotten harder to do over these last few years because our schedules are insane and every time we’re together, it’s a struggle for me to stay in my friends-only lane. But lately, hockey and the brotherhood? They’re not enough to feed my soul anymore.

As much as I don’t want to admit it, filling the hole in my heart with a variety of bedmates and barrels full of drink hasn’t eased the loneliness engulfing me either.

There’s only one person in the whole world who’s ever filled up that space inside me with her smile, her laugh, her sultry voice.

But she’s always been someone else’s girl.

And I’ve been wary of putting my heart on the line when I know that at any time, she might just up and leave like my father did.

I wave at her, and she lifts her phone to signal that she’s sent me a message.

So, when I’m back in the locker room, I fish out my phone to see I have a video text from her. I punch the play button and her image animates. Her wide, shapely lips spread open as she beams at me through the camera, bouncing with excitement.

“Surprise, surprise! It’s your girl Charisse—I mean, obviously.” She laughs, brushing her long, sleek black hair over her shoulder while my heart lurches in my chest.

My girl.

I wish.

“Sorry, that was stupid. My mom does that. Calls me and identifies herself, like I don’t know it’s her. Anyway, I’m baaaack! Tour ended two nights ago, and I thought we could spend the weekend together like we did that time in New York! Or was that Boston? Whatever. You shower and do your interviews or whatnot, then come meet me at the Ivory Keys! Promised an old college buddy I’d roll through and sing a bit. Bring your friends, too, if you want.”

For Charisse?

I’ll go anywhere. I’ll do anything.

The word “no” is not part of my vocabulary when I speak to her.

“Hey guys?” I call out, already knowing which of the usual suspects will be game. “What d’ya think about switching up our post-game plans to hit the Ivory Keys?”