14. Tate
My girl is pissed.
She hasn’t spoken to me in two days. There has been no retaliation, no prank, no loud music, no door slamming... Nothing. I have to admit, silent Pitstop is far more terrifying than a sassy, spunky, mouthy Pitstop.
I don’t like this at all.
I keep checking behind doors, around corners, and every time I walk into my dorm room, I put my backpack in front of my chest in case she’s hooked up some kind of knife throwing murder contraption.
I wouldn’t put it past her.
If anyone can, my Pitstop can.
I guess the bowl of corn starch in the bathroom pushed her over the edge. I’m kicking myself. I thought we were having fun with our prank war, but this silence... This brutally painful silence is insufferable.
It’s practice time. Or rather, should be. I’m fucking around in the locker room because I’m distracted. Did she put itching powder in my jockstrap? Did she fill my skates with shaving foam? Is she going to steal my clothes when I’m on the ice?
I’m a confident guy, but getting back to the dorms either naked, or while wearing all my hockey gear isn’t my idea of fun.
But the worst thing I can think of? Is that she never talks to me again. That thought does something to my chest I’m not sure I want to give a name to.
The team is huddled around my locker, as I approach, they part like the red sea. There’s a pink and mint colored, foot-long sized cardboard box sitting open on the bench. The white, cardboard lid says ‘Eat A Dick.’ My Pitstop has struck again.
My teammates snicker and whisper as I get closer. They point at the giant dick-in-a-box. It’s almost as big as the box, incredibly veiny and bulbous. Fuck. Is that what our dicks look like to women?
The girthy, chocolate dick is circumcised, has a bigger ball sack than I’ve ever seen, and it’s got a drizzle of white chocolate coming from the tip like it prematurely blew its load before it got to me.
There’s a card sitting on the bench in front of the cock-box, it says ‘Congrats! You just got dicked.’
“Who’d you piss off this time, Myers?”
“Dude couldn’t handle something that size. It’s too big.”
“Is it solid the whole way through?”
It doesn’t matter what my friends say to mock me, the unbearable tightness in my chest has loosened just from knowing my girl hasn’t tapped out of our petty little foreplay war.
I take a few selfies of me with the tip of the giant chocolate cock on my tongue, in my mouth, and when one of the guys pretends it’s a strap on, I start to step out to quickly message Pitstop before things get weird... Weirder.
Before I hit the door, I decide I want my cock back. I’m not leaving it unattended with these jerk-offs. I dunno where it’s going to end up when I leave this room.
Armed with what feels like two pounds of solid chocolate, I make my way into the corridor to send Pitstop the pictures.
She reads the message but doesn’t reply, and I’d be lying if I said my heart doesn’t sink—just a little. She read it though, so maybe she’s just busy.
I go through the motions of practice, trying to figure out what my next move will be with the She Devil next door, and when I step out into the parking lot, I stutter to a stop.
It takes a moment to realize what I’m looking at. Did she?—?
“Who the fuck did you piss off, man?”
I don’t know which of my teammates are standing behind me staring at my vehicle with me, but Ares is standing next to me, his phone out, camera turned on, and his shoulders are shaking with laughter as he snaps pictures. Probably for Eloise, or Tabitha’s next newsletter, or his social media account. Considering what I’m staring at, probably all of the above.
I underestimated the fire of Penelope Lindstrom.
This... this is a step too far.
“?Qué es esto?” Apollo saunters up next to us asking what’s up. “?Ay, Dios mío!” He pats me on the chest, rolling his lips like he’s fighting a smile. “This is epic.” The awe in his voice makes me even madder.
Raking my hands through my hair, I can’t think straight.
The ridiculous woman next door has saran-wrapped my fucking car to a streetlight. Not just a little wrap, either. In the time since I arrived at the rink, had practice, showered, and got changed, she’s covered every square inch of my car in plastic wrap, tethering it to the pole.
The wing mirrors are covered, the door handles are covered, the tires... everything. It’s going to be a pain in the ass to get free, and until I unwrap it, I have no idea if there’s been any actual damage done to the car itself.
“I’m going to need help getting my car out.”
Apollo snorts. “I’ll say.”
Ares is too busy laughing and sending pictures to Eloise to answer me.
“We’ve got you, boo.” Scott steps up next to me, flipping out a pocket knife from his key chain and starting to cut the plastic.
She’s gone too far, this time. And to think that I spent that whole practice distracted by her, while she was outside wrapping my damn car.
I growl in frustration, tearing at the piece of self-adhesive film that Scott cut free. Unwrapping this thing is going to take forever.
Tomorrow night is game night. When it’s over, we have a week or so with no games. I can figure out what punishment I’ll wreak on her then.
We’re well into the second period, we’re up by two, but the game could always turn on a dime, so it’s never enough.
Apollo gains control of the puck at center ice and sends it forward to me, it’s a short pass though, and it’s intercepted by a Snow Pirate before I can reach it. He turns it over, makes his way back through the neutral zone, and passes it to one of their offensive line but he crosses the blue line before the puck and the offside whistle blows.
Just a step over the line, forcing the offside, but it was a step too far.
Sucks to be him, I guess.
There’s an energy in the air, a shimmer of electricity around the rink. And when the Snow Pirates chip one into the back of the net from a sneaky pass after the face off, I can’t help but groan.
The down-shift after a conceded goal is always the biggest one. But Ares stands tall and solid, blocking three attempts at his goal, and both rebounds that came with it. The guy’s a freakin’ force, even under good pressure from Minnesota—it was a great response from the Snow Pirates for sure. And it pains me to admit—even to myself—that they’re playing decently.
I’ve had a look around the crowd, there are a couple of Snow Pirates shirts in the stands but none of them are being worn by Penelope. I guess she couldn’t make it to the game tonight.
The puck is in the Snow Pirates zone, it’s picked up by McArthur. He looked like he was going to play it away but Artemis intercepts with a centering pass. Robbins couldn’t get to it as he was checked by Scott.
We get a line change, and I’m back on the ice, legs burning. Chandler, a rookie Snow Pirate, pulls up on the backhand and puts it in deep to his teammate. It heads back to the blue line, but I manage to keep it in. I shoot, but it’s deflected by their goaltender back out into open ice.
I chase the puck, stumble when my skate gets caught in one of the opposition’s sticks. I spin, and before I can blink, breathe, or cuss, my face explodes in unimaginable pain.