Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
BLAKE
After beating Japan soundly yesterday, Team USA is playing Sweden, fresh off their loss to Charlie’s beloved Canada. And I’m… in rare form. That’s the only way to describe the way I’ve narrowly avoided any roughing penalties so far. But honestly, it’s on the horizon.
My blood is boiling, and I lament the double standard for men’s and women’s hockey.
I was raised in NHL culture, and in men’s hockey, when a player puts blood on the ice, he goes to the penalty box.
In women’s hockey, the penalty is much more severe.
I’m used to the Jill Saulnier Rule—insert eye roll here—where we not only accrue a penalty but get ejected and even traded.
Wild behavior from the PWHL, acting as though all the sapphics in attendance don’t want to see a girl fight.
Get the fuck out of here, man. It’s horse shit, but roughing is liable to get you suspended for several games.
So, heard. When we’re up on the board and an opposing player has been at my girls the whole night, I’ll chance a penalty for some mild violence to take them out and proudly leave the game with a misconduct if it’s really worth it. But in the Olympics?
Shit… In the Olympics, if you get a misconduct, you might not get invited back.
You might besmirch your country’s reputation and appearance so severely that the committee takes your medal back.
It’s absolutely not worth it. That’s at least true of both men’s and women’s hockey, so I can’t be too upset about the double standards here in Milan.
However, one of the Swedes is really fucking pissing me off, and I can’t even look forward to going home to the league and taking that bitch’s helmet off.
I’m skating more angrily, pressing forward into the ice more when I retrieve the puck.
I got one assist in the first period, and by now, in the third, I have so much TOI (time on ice), I can tell that Coach approves of how I’m conducting myself.
Unfortunately, my ace performance is not enough to detract from the thoughts circling the drain.
I’m always an aggressive defenseman, but today’s killer instinct is brought to you by my imagination.
Much like how I’m constantly reviewing tape for plays in my head, that mental projection screen has decided to play the last look Imani graced me with as I ran out the door.
I managed to avoid her after our almost-kiss, sneaking into our shared room after she had fallen asleep (or pretended to). It was such a relief to not torture myself further by staring into those deep brown eyes which would hold… lust? Betrayal? Anger? A secret fourth option?
I have to get my shit together for real.
Not for this game—this game is smoking hot.
The tempting pout of Imani that is plastered all over my brain is honestly making me a better player.
But I have to figure out what the fuck I’m doing with her.
She’s so young, and I’m so… well. I’m so me.
I’m not trying to pull a Christian Grey here, I promise.
I don’t think my desires are dark or depraved, and I certainly don’t hide abuse behind dominance.
But the heavy BDSM I’m into is kind of a lot, especially for an 18-year-old.
Sure, I’m making a lot of assumptions here. She could be one of those twisted little perverts who know themselves well enough to know they like the kinky shit young—totally legitimate.
Wow, that’s hot to think about. Focus, Blake!
Breaking from what the real event in my head is, I skate alongside a Swede who just made a breakaway, quickly steal the puck, and pass it to Saint.
When the biscuit flies into the basket via a crisp snap shot, I raise a leg and my stick hand to do a victory slide to her.
Encircling her with my arms, I slam our helmets together as we scream our shared joy at our handiwork.
As the play is called good—that’s two assists for me, thanks for keeping track—we skate to the bench for a changeover, laughing the whole way. Yeah, we were already winning before that goal, but each one tastes like the first bite of decadent chocolate cake.
Squirting Gatorade into my mouth as I rest between plays, Imani flashes back into my mind. Good Goddamn, I’d love to have her squirting into my mouth as a reward for winning this game. I don’t need to hear the negativity about it only being Sweden. A win is a fucking win, yeah?
Coach calls my name, and I look over to see her grinning at me.
Well, even if I’m in the doghouse with Imani, my team still loves me. I’m earning the fuck out of this captaincy.
I stomp my feet while I watch my teammates play Sweden like fiddles, grinning all the while, but I allow my mind to wander again.
Could I even pursue something with Imani? I have no problem with flings, and the way she seemed into me last night, I don’t think she has a problem with them either.
But that’s the thing. The deal was that I’d help her win the media and therefore the audience over, not that I’d fuck her into next week.
If we go into something, we have to have a no-shit conversation.
She needs to know what I’m about. I mean, I guess I could have a vanilla rendezvous…
sounds terrible. Kink and sex are not necessarily married to each other, so it’s not like they have to go hand-in-hand.
I’m just at a point in my journey that if I fuck, I like it to be kinked up.
Either way, there need to be some serious boundaries.
The Swedes pull their goalie with two minutes remaining as I hop back on the ice, ready to fucking go. Ah, we love to see a fruitless Hail Mary. I can’t wait to destroy their dreams.
When my team and I roll into the locker room, Team Canada is already there prepping for their game against France.
“That’s on lesbians, baby!” I yell to Charlie by greeting, who rolls her eyes as she tapes her stick.
Saint echoes, as well as the other sapphics on the team, high on our win. Some of Team Canada join in good-naturedly, as most of our combined players, of course, play together in the league.
In succession, I throw my gloves, helmet, shoulder pads, and elbow pads beneath the bench next to my gear bag, breathing a big sigh of relief at getting out of the suffocating uniform.
Next to go is my upper base layer, leaving me in only a sports bra on my upper body, and the full uniform on my lower.
Still in my breezers, jill, shin pads, socks, bottom base layer, and skates, I noisily fall onto the wood and reach into my bag.
Charlie eyes me, knowing what is to come, and simply waits for the drama while I pull out a can of Bellwoods beer I snuck into Italy.
“To Team USA!” I crow, smashing the bottom of the can against my skate to cut it open. Quickly, I bring the cut can up to my mouth, pop the top, and start shotgunning.
Saint sees my actions and immediately starts a chant for me.
With the cries of “Chug, chug, chug” in the background, I stand as I finish the beer, crush it against my forehead, and raise my arms in victory.
I whoop and try to grab Charlie around the neck for a hug, but she dodges me expertly.
“Come on, Charlie,” I sing-song, but she just flicks an eyebrow, nonplussed.
“I don’t know how Saint hasn’t had enough of your antics at home, but this is just par for the course. You were obviously in some sort of zone, and I need to get in mine. Some of us still have games to play,” she deadpans.
“You’re gonna be unstoppable as always, Charlie,” I say with all seriousness.
She sighs. “Thanks, Blake.” Her eyes run over me and then look as deep into my eyes as she can manage before her eye contact aversion kicks in. “What the shit are you on, anyway?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I bluster.
“That game. You weren’t even there,” Charlie points out.
“Look at this locker room. You think it’s a locker room of a d-man who wasn’t focused?” I grin.
Her mouth quirks. “I can read you like a book. What happened with the figure skater?”
I laugh loudly to cover up what should not be my surprise. I’m talking to the other half of my heart. Why did I think I’d be able to get out of this conversation? I lower my voice. “I may have trapped her in a bathroom and almost kissed her.”
“What do you mean? That’s vague as shit, and I know you’re doing it on purpose. Give me the story,” she pushes.
“After we texted, I asked her to meet me. She did. We were having a couple, I went to the bathroom, and when I came back, she had left her drink on the counter and gone to the bathroom too,” I explain.
Charlie holds up a hand. “To follow you in there?”
“No, no, no. Just to go on her own. I think she saw me coming back and thought it was okay. But I just… You know how I get.” I put my face into my hands.
“She’s basically your crack at this point, right. Little damsel-in-distress, and she keeps needing you to white knight her. Your favorite fucking thing, with your accursed savior complex,” Charlie reads me.
“Exactly. It’s not my fault, Charlie! My will is being tested over here!” I defend myself.
“So what happened then?” Charlie questions.
“Then my dominant came out, I pushed her against the sink, and I almost had her kneeling at my feet on a dirty pub floor.” I pause and pull my head up, cocking it. “Which, you know, would have been incredibly hot. Mm, what a dirty, dirty girl.”
“Blake. Keep it together. I swear to God,” Charlie brings me back to Earth.
“Right, right. Anyway. I came back to my senses and stopped myself,” I finish.
“Good. Stop it there. Do not go there with the young, impressionable, and focused-on-gold figure skater,” Charlie warns me.
“But what if…” I start.
“Blake. No.”
“I don’t know. I thought about it during the game,” I begin again.
“Yeah, I caught that. Luckily, I’m the only one who knows your tells,” Charlie cautions me.
“And I think what could really go wrong if we just come at this like the adults we are? You know I start every dynamic with clear boundaries and communication. I would do that with Imani. She would have transparency, she would be able to refuse, and further, she would be able to safe out or discontinue at any point. So what’s the worst that could happen? ” I finish.
“The worst that could happen is that you destroy a young girl’s dreams of Olympic gold before her frontal lobe is even developed,” Charlie says point-blank.
“She’s not that young,” I argue.
“There’s a 10-year age gap,” she returns.
I look off into the distance. “Hot.”
Charlie snaps her fingers in front of my face.
Coming back to her I ask, “What?”
She sighs. “I don’t even know why I try with you.”
“Wait a fuckin’ minute. What’s happening with that bitch Olive?” I ask excitedly.
Charlie’s face gets stormy. “Don’t call her a bitch.”
“I don’t mean it like that. Just… what’s happening with your crush?” I dance two fingers up Charlie’s uniformed arm.
“Do not turn this around on me right now,” she huffs.
“I’ll be nice about it. I won’t even lecture you.” I give her a Blake-certified smile.
“You can’t snow me. But fine. Shut up and listen, will you?” Charlie asks, nicer than her words would imply.
“Do I still get to gasp in all the right places?” I inquire.
“Can I stop you?” She throws her head back, not even waiting to see the answer that’s written on my face.
I laugh and prepare to listen to someone else’s girl problems. Good. Something should get my mind off the way that Imani’s legs look in those skimpy little leotards. Talk about things I’d like to shotgun—I’d like to shotgun that pussy. I’d just devour her body, and keep going back for more.
But for now, before Team Canada goes on the ice, I’ll listen to my best girl.