29. Penelope
Imade a mistake.
I shouldn’t have asked Tate to come to the Raccoon’s game with me tonight.
The past week has been amazing. I’ve spent almost all my time at the hockey house, but I managed to convince Tate to come out to play a couple times.
We had pie at Get the Fork Out, or rather, I did while he ignored my protests and watched. We went to Bitches Brew for hot chocolate, and we’ve played Monopoly with some of his teammates damn near every night this week. Unsurprisingly, Ares is a sore loser.
Tate’s not one hundred percent, but he’s one hundred percent better than he was last week.
At least he was, until I asked him to come to the game with me tonight.
He needs to get back in the rink. He’s a couple weeks out from getting his jaw wiring removed. He’s been at the gym with one of the other guy’s personal trainers, Phil, four days this week, and he’s been upping his protein in a bid to counter his still declining weight issue and help rebuild his muscles.
But he doesn’t want to watch his friends on the ice during a game from the stands. I get it, I do. At least kind of. He probably doesn’t want to be bothered by fans asking him about his mouth and having to talk to them either.
Maybe it was a silly thing for me to suggest, but I thought he might like watching a game with me. Turns out, he didn’t want that at all. He didn’t snap at me, or raise his voice, but he did decline my game night invitation and told me he’d stay home. Reluctantly, I let him, even though I know he’s glued to his laptop screen from the comfort of his bedroom right now.
I shuffle past Eloise and Tori to get to my seat. It’s a quieter than normal game night, but with Thanksgiving on the horizon, everyone’s starting to wind down and make their way home for the holiday. At least that’s my guess.
By the time we’re three minutes into the first, we already have a goal waved off by the referee. It was a loose puck behind Minnesota’s goaltender, but I think the ref needs to go see his eye doctor because it was over the fucking line.
Fine. I’m sitting pretty far away, I’m not trained to be a hockey referee, and I’m slightly biased in that I’m cheering for the Raccoons—but none of that matters because it was a good goal. No matter what the referee says.
Scott plays the puck across to Artemis who passes it forward to his brother Apollo. Now that I’ve spent time with them, watching them on the ice feels different. It’s weird that I know Apollo loves peanut butter ice cream, and Scott likes fancy cheese, and that Artemis’s tall, dark, and broody exterior is a crock of shit, he’s a sweetheart.
Lamaru, one of the Snow Pirates, tips it in, Scott and Artemis go after it, but Ares is already saving it. He’s the kind of goaltender who seems to be everywhere at all times. And he’s so fucking bendy. I’m glad whatever he pulled in his groin healed up fast. It feels like a lot of sports injuries are easy to make better fast when you have money and a great medical team behind you.
I swallow the bitterness in my throat and cheer as Ares saves it again, Scott ices the rebound, and there’s an icing call. The next face-off happens on the circle to the right of Ares, and once the puck is in play, it’s passed into the corner where a group of green and white Raccoon’s shirts battle for it.
The Snow Pirates try to play for the net, but they can’t get control of the puck and the Raccoons play it out of their zone.
It’s a strong turnover as the Raccoon’s charge toward the Snow Pirate’s net. Rico flicks his wrist, it’s a beaut of a wrist-shot, but the Snow Pirate’s goalie saves big.
It’s a scoreless game so far, but not for lack of trying. With two lesser, or colder, netminders, we’d have a high scoring game. But both these guys are on hot streaks. It makes for some great hockey and some even greater goals.
The puck comes into the middle to Jameson who’s challenged by someone whose name I can’t see. The puck is played up off the line to center, Owen plays it ahead into our offensive zone, and I shift forward in my seat, too.
The whistle blows, one of the Snow Pirates is called for goalie interference, and Scott looks as though he’s ready to rip the opposition’s head from his shoulders. I missed the hit on Ares, but he’s slow to get back up.
The blood in my veins picks up speed and heat as it surges through my body. You don’t fuck with the goalie. Never mind Scott, I want to rip the Snow Pirate’s head off his shoulders.
We’re still scoreless as we enter into the second period. I spent most of the period break in the bathroom waiting to pee—while Eloise grabbed drinks for the four of us, Eloise, Tori, Karlya and me—and messaging Tate at home, but he doesn’t reply which doesn’t soothe the unease in my gut about leaving him by himself to watch the game.
Eloise’s quiet tonight, not her usual peppy self. I think that hit Ares took during the first period left her worried about her boyfriend.
Every game I go to is just another reminder of how dangerous and physical this sport is.
Huh. I’m starting to sound like my mother. We’ll need to put a stop to that pretty quickly.
Right before the players return to the ice for the second period, the people at the end of our row stand up to let someone in. Of all the free seats in this place, they have to come sit with us?
A quick glance at the intruder to my space confirms it’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. My boyfriend, who has spent the last few weeks in sweats, shorts, his underwear and ratty old t-shirts, has had a shower, donned a suit, and is now sitting next to me in the stands.
He leans over, drops a kiss on my cheek, and squeezes my thigh. “Hey.”
I don’t answer him with words, but I feel the high arch of my brow tells him all he needs to know.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. It was dickish to not reply to you. I didn’t mean to be a dick. I know you were just trying to help.”
I wave my hand for him to keep going, like he’s missed a few things, and he needs to ramble on until he gets there.
“I got unnecessarily cranky when you asked me to come back into the rink. I’m sorry, Pitstop.”
When he kisses my cheek again, he lingers, his warm breath caressing my cheek. “Fuck sake. Would it kill you to wear the home team’s shirt?” The exasperation in his voice makes me laugh.
“Yes. It would. It absolutely would kill me to wear a UCR shirt.” An exaggerated shiver rolls through me at the idea. “You look good.” I direct my words to him but keep my eyes on the ice because if I look directly at his face I run the risk of being dragged out of my seat and fucked senseless in a cleaning supply closet somewhere around the rink.
We’ve fucked every day this week. It’s blissfully delicious, but my girl garden needs a little bit of a time out.
My dude has destroyed it with his wiener. It’s achy and sore, and I just need a little recovery time before I’ll be good to go all over again.
“Thanks. You’d look good too, Pitstop, if only you’d wear the right colors to our games.” He’s not going to let it go. He talks about this after every game, or at least messages me about it when he doesn’t see me in the crowd.
“You don’t like Snow Pirate’s blue on me?” I pull the shirt out from my chest. “I think it kinda brings out my eyes, no?”
His snarl is feral, and sexy as hell. “I think you’d suit UCR green more than that dish rag.”
My chuckle is genuine, but when the muscle in his cheek twitches, I keep laughing to stir the pot. “What brings you out of the doldrums downstairs, Satan? Decided you needed a break from the underworld?”
He rakes his hands through his hair. “For some reason, I thought sitting with my girlfriend in the stands would be a good idea. Can’t for the life of me remember why.”
I beam at him. “Because I’m a delight.”
“She is.” Tori chimes in from the other side of me.
“Agreed.” Eloise isn’t staying quiet either.
“They think I’m a delight.” I hook a thumb at my friends.
“Careful, Milkshake Man, she’ll smother you while you’re sleeping if you’re not careful.” Karlya raises her beer at Tate. “Good to see you again, Tate.” She winks at him like they’re old buddies.
I wasn’t sure how it would go, crossing my friendship streams, my cousin and my hockey-slash-girlfriend streams, but Tori and Karlya have laughed so much I might feel a little jealousy if I hadn’t known her since we were in diapers.
“See? Karlya thinks I’m a delight, too.”
He huffs out a breath. “You are. You’re also an epic pain in my ass.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Karlya tips back her beer before nodding to someone beyond us.
At the end of the row stands a little boy, head-to-toe kitted out in Raccoons gear. He’s holding a notebook and a marker.
“Be nice,” I warn.
“What do you mean, be nice? To whom?”
Jerking my head in the direction of the kid, I touch Tate’s thigh. “You have a fan.”
“Something you might not know about me, Pitstop, I have lots of fans. Some people think I’m a delight too.”
I recoil, eyes wide. “No way.”
“I know, right?” He winks at me, and shuffles out of the row past the people at the end who throw him a dirty look.
Look, I’m all for people staying in their seats during play, but if you choose to sit at the end of the row you kind of do this to yourself.
We still have a few minutes before the puck drops, so Tate’s fine to say hi and sign the little kid’s book. As much as I try to pay attention to the rest of the arena and not stare, I can’t help myself.
Tate crouches down next to the hockey kid, he holds out his hand, and the kid shakes it, staring up at his idol like he hung the fucking moon.
At the top of the steps stands a woman in a UCR shirt, she’s hugging an oversized stuffy that has a Raccoon’s shirt on its body and is holding a hotdog in her free hand.
Fuck. Now I want a hotdog.
Tate talks to the animated kid while the clock ticks down to the next period, the stands have filled in a bit more, and I’m starting to feel my toes. That likely has little to do with the arena, and more to do with the warmth spreading through my body at the sight of Tate hanging out with a little boy who adores him.
Tori knocks my leg with her knee. “Ovaries in overdrive, am I right?” She leans closer to me. “There’s nothing hotter than a man being cute with a kid. Nothing. It’s the best aphrodisiac there is.”
The crowd erupts as the team steps onto the ice, and Tate guides the boy back up to his accompanying adult.
My mouth is dry, my skin hot, and Tori’s right, my ovaries are doing some kind of baby-making-dance inside my body.
When he returns, Tate drops onto his seat, casting me a wary glance.
“What?” I shift in my seat.
“Nothing.” He turns his attention to the ice where Scott seems to have lost his shit at someone from the opening puck drop of the period, gloves are strewn across the ice, helmets and sticks, too. And they’re laying into each other.
I say laying into, Scott’s going to fillet his opponent and stick him on a skewer if he’s allowed to continue. He’s not normally this aggressive, which makes me wonder what the fuck the other guy said to him at the faceoff to set him off.
For as big and tough as hockey players are, Dad used to tell me that sometimes it was the most stupid of things that set them off on the ice.
Curiosity about why Tate is staring at me and not the ice, tickles my insides.
“What?” I repeat.
“Nothing.” He repeats. After a longer pause, he says, “You really don’t want to try wearing UCR green? It’d look good on you.”
“What did the little boy say?”
The fight on the ice has broken up, but Scott’s still chirping at the man he fought. Scott looks relatively untouched, but his opponent has blood trickling from his nose and mouth.
“What?” Tate’s eyes haven’t left the ice, but his hand has meandered its way onto my knee, then migrated from my knee to my thigh where it’s resting while he watches the game.
“The kid. Did he say something about my shirt?”
A smile flashes across his face. “Uh huh. He asked why I’m sitting with the enemy. I told him sometimes people make poor choices, but that doesn’t make them bad people.”
I dig my elbow into his ribs.
He shrugs. “Not my fault my girl cheers for the opposition.”
Play has resumed on the ice, Ares is under fire from the Snow Pirates, and with Scott still in the box, I’m not sure how he’s going to keep the puck from hitting the back of the net.
“I cheer for you just fine. I mean, I didn’t always. I kinda wanted you to suffer agonizing loss after loss because I hated your guts with the fire of a thousand hells, but now...” I shrug. “I guess you’re not that bad.”
“I love you, too.”
Despite the noise of the game and the people around the arena, you could hear a pin drop in this moment. Tori tenses beside me, and I’d bet ten bucks that gasp came out of Eloise.
“Yessssss.” Karlya sounds gleeful, and loud as fuck.
They know we haven’t said the L-word out loud to each other yet, not like that. But that... that was it, right?
I turn to my girlfriends, they’re grinning at me, eyes wide. Tori jerks her head at Tate like she’s encouraging me to say it back.
I lean over to him so I can speak closer to his now bright pink ear. “You love me?”
“You can’t tell? Of course I love you Pitstop. If you can’t feel it, I gotta up my game.”