7. Braden
Chapter 7
Braden
I keep my gaze trained on the ice as we play the Seattle Sea Monsters at home.
They are on fire tonight, but I’ve managed to ward off most of the shots they’ve aimed at me. Still though, we’re down one goal because of my shitty goaltending. We’re halfway through the second period and the score is two to three.
Probably because my focus is shot.
It has been ever since I helped Bella move her dresser yesterday and saw her sex toys spilled onto the floor.
A hot flush makes its way up my neck and face. My whole body is burning up. And not because I’m sweating my balls off in all my gear.
It’s because the second I saw those toys, I started to imagine Bella using them on herself.
I pictured her sprawled out on her bed, pressing a vibrator between her legs…
I was half-hard instantly. I had to shove my hands in the pockets of my joggers and hunch forward so she wouldn’t notice. Thankfully she didn’t .
I feel bad for imagining her doing something so dirty. But I couldn’t help it. Bella’s beautiful. And watching a sexy woman play with herself is hands-down the hottest thing I could imagine. It’s one of my favorite things to do in bed, watch the woman I’m with use a toy on herself. Nothing gets me harder faster.
But Bella isn’t someone I’m dating or hooking up with. She’s my neighbor. Who doesn’t even like me. And I shouldn’t have thought about her in that way.
Guilt throttles me for fantasizing about her like that. I’m a fucking heathen, on top of being a shitty goalie.
I force myself to refocus on the game. Players from both teams are battling for control of the puck near the Sea Monsters’ net. One of their defensemen, Sam McKesson, tussles with Xander before taking possession of the puck.
He sprints across the ice toward me, and I tense up. He shoots toward the right side of the net and I dive with my stick to block it. I manage to deflect the puck, but at that same moment, Sam crashes into me. My shoulder slams into the side of the net.
Pain blasts through my shoulder.
“Fuck!” I yell as I crumple face-first into the ice
The refs blow the whistle, halting play.
There’s a scuffle on top of me. Probably some of my teammates roughing up Sam. He’s actually friends with most of the guys on the Bashers. Del is the closest with Sam since they played in college together. Whenever we’re in the same city, Sam hangs out with us.
But hockey is hockey, and when someone from the opposing team hurts your teammate, you fight on their behalf.
A couple of seconds pass before the linesmen break it up. Del crouches down to help me stand up .
“Shit. Sorry, man,” Sam says to me. His helmet is askew and he’s breathing hard from the scuffle. “I lost my footing. I didn’t mean to run into you like that.”
I wince. “It’s alright.”
“Do you need the trainers to come out and get you?” Del asks.
“Nah, I can make it.”
The home crowd is quiet as I skate off. Del stays by my side, ready to help in case I need it. When I make it to the bench, I tell him thanks. I sit down and yank off my helmet.
Ritchie takes over for me right as one of the trainers comes over to examine me.
Lyle touches my shoulder. I start to cry out but grit my teeth.
He winces. “You gotta go see the team doc.”
I sigh, pissed off and frustrated. I walk off to the back through the tunnel to the exam room where the team doctor is.
When I walk in, Sophie greets me. “Hey.”
“Hey, Doc.” I pull off as many of my pads as I can without aggravating my shoulder. She helps me up onto the table and starts her examination.
The whole time, I hold my breath, hoping it’s not a serious injury. That’s the last thing I need right now.
For a few minutes, she prods at my shoulder and has me do some movements.
When she’s done, she rests her hands on her hips and looks at me.
Her blue eyes are bright, and she offers a small smile. “Good news. Nothing is broken or torn. It looks like it’s just a mild sprain.”
I let out a breath, relieved. “Really?”
She nods. “You’re out for the rest of tonight’s game. I’ll have you ice your shoulder and rest it for the next couple of days, but after that, you should be fine to play.”
She hands me an ice pack, and I hold it against my shoulder. “I’ve had sprains before. They didn’t hurt this bad. Am I just getting old?” I joke.
Sophie smiles and rolls her eyes. “You’re twenty-eight. Not even close to old, even for pro hockey. It’s probably the impact of hitting the metal part of the net. And the impact of a guy like Sam slamming into you.”
Sam is my height at almost six-foot-three and is built like a brick shithouse.
“Good point. Thanks for fixing me up, Doc.”
She offers a bright smile and tightens the ponytail holding back her strawberry blonde hair. “Anytime.”
I huff out a breath, relieved that I’m not seriously injured.
Despite that, tension and anxiety riddle my body. I’m still in a rut, and my career is still in limbo.
“Braden, how’s the shoulder holding up?” a reporter asks during post-game press.
“It’s fine.” I tug at my shirt while I stand in front of my locker.
I knew I’d be up for post-game press, even though I didn’t last the whole game. Ritchie was up last time, so now it’s my turn.
Usually, I don’t have a problem answering reporters’ questions after the game. It’s part of the job of being a pro athlete. But since I’ve been playing like shit, that’s all they want to talk about. And it’s why I’ve been dreading post-game press ever since this season started .
“Is that why you’ve been having so many issues so far this season? Because of your shoulder?” a different reporter asks.
I shake my head and hope that I don’t look as bothered by the question as I feel. “Nah, my shoulder’s been fine.”
“Why do you think you’ve been struggling so much these first few games?” that same reporter asks. “Is it because of how you lost the game for your team against Boston during the playoffs last season?”
I grit my teeth in frustration. I look him in the eye. “No.”
I don’t elaborate. I just hold his gaze and let the awkward silence fill the room. Sometimes the discomfort of a pissed-off “no” and a glare is all it takes to get reporters to back off with their bullshit questions. But sometimes it eggs them on.
This reporter starts to smirk and opens his mouth to say something more, but someone else cuts him off.
“Are you afraid you’re going to lose your spot as starting goalie and be replaced with Ritchie Fox?” she asks. “He was a backup goalie all last season, but he had a strong showing tonight and last game.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. They’re trying to get a rise out of me so they can get some juicy soundbite for all the sports news outlets.
“I don’t think about things that way,” I say, relieved of how even my tone is, despite how annoyed I feel. “All I can do is focus on improving my performance. I think Ritchie is an excellent goalie, and I’m happy he’s playing well.”
I can tell the reporters are annoyed at my answer, but I don’t care. I just want to be done with these questions and leave .
Post-game press wraps up, and the reporters leave the locker room. Xander walks over and pats my shoulder.
“Way to go for not telling those reporters to fuck off,” he says.
“Thanks.” I look up at him as I start to put on my sneakers. “You kicked ass tonight.”
Xander scored two goals in the third period, securing the win for us. He grins. “Thanks, dude. Wanna go to Spanky’s and get fucked up?”
“God, yes.”