31. Tate
It’s Thanksgiving morning, and I’ve just been given the golden chalice, the Super Bowl ring, the fucking Stanley cup.
Stepping out into the cool winter sunshine from the hospital, I’ve got more of a spring in my step than I did before. I open my mouth, wiggle my jaw, and slide my fingers up the side of my face.
Freedom.
It’s a little early, but the surgeon said the films looked good, my mouth is healing, and it’s time to take out the fucking wires.
So he did.
I haven’t told anyone yet. I wanted it to be a surprise. Though I’m seriously not sure what I’m looking forward to most, licking my beautiful girlfriend’s pussy, or Thanksgiving dinner.
Tough call.
I’ve been training with Phil at the gym as much as I can manage. Guy’s a tank. He’s also an exceptionally good personal trainer. No matter how much I tell him I’m fine, no matter how much I tell him I’m ready for more, that I crave more, need more, and plead with him to challenge me in our sessions, he’s insistent we take our time.
My body feels strong despite losing so much weight. I’m at least twenty pounds down since my accident, maybe twenty five. I need to take a couple weeks to rebuild my body before I can play on the ice again, I know that, but it’s back within my grasp.
I’ve been studying every single fucking game that I’ve missed, I’ve been watching practice from off-ice, and I’ve been paying attention to all the other teams in the league. And my mind is sharp. My girl, and my friends got me back on track there.
Penelope and her razor-sharp tongue kept me from the depths of depression, she pulled me back from the darkness, and helped me get my mojo back.
I feel good.
Better now that I’ve had my jaw unwired.
The doctor suggested I pay a visit to my chiropractor to see if there’s anything he can do for me in recovery. Pitstop is already going to help me figure out how to chew and shit, though from the way my stomach’s growling my body can’t wait for some real food. And I’m going to have Thanksgiving dinner if it kills me.
Everything’s back on track.
In a few weeks I’ll be back on the ice, adrenaline coursing through my body as we work toward a playoff slot.
Since I’ve had more time off the ice, I’m back on top with my grades, too. I’ve spent so much time reading, and working on assignments, that I’m actually pretty proud of myself.
And my relationship with Penelope couldn’t be better.
Well, it could be. It’s about to be. Because I pull out my phone, resist the urge to track her using Find my Friend, and message my girl.
She replies that she’s in Bitches Brew.
They have a big enough restroom that I could take her in, give her a seeing to with my tongue, and let her go back to whatever she’s doing, but it’s not enough.
Instead, I ask her to meet me at the hockey house. I tell her it’s urgent. Which is a dick move, but considering the fact I’m drooling to taste her, I feel validated in my decision.
By the time I get back to the hockey house—which I’m thinking of more and more as my home—she’s already there. She’s on the couch with Rico and Mikko playing Mario Kart and laughing so joyously I almost don’t want to pull her away. I guess they’re not going home for the holiday, so I make a mental note to bring them leftovers from Mom’s later, or at least make sure they’re going to the de la Pe?as for food before we leave later.
I’m also warmed that Pitstop has forgiven them enough to at least sit in the same room and kick their asses at a computer game. Shows she’s a bigger woman than I am, because I’m still salty as fuck about what was said to her.
“Satan.” She greets me without taking her eyes off the screen.
“She Devil. Can I steal a moment of your time when you’re done kicking my teammate’s asses please?”
“Hmmmm. I’m not sure. Pretty busy woman you know. You summoned me away from my friends. I can pencil you in for four minutes, but you better make them count.”
She has no fucking idea. She also hasn’t seemed to notice that I got my?—
“Wait.”
Here it comes.
She turns to look at me, pointing her finger at my face. “Something’s different.”
“Finish your game.”
She bounds off the couch, dropping the controller on the well-loved cushion. “Fuck the game. Your mouth.”
I wiggle my eyebrows at her. “My mouth.”
“B-but... it’s t-too soon. They said another couple of weeks. I don’t... I... Oh my god your mouth.” Her eyes fill with tears as she cups my face. “Upstairs, now.”
With a roll of my eyes I head toward the staircase. “This is what I’ve been saying, woman.”
She smacks my ass as I climb. “Shut your sass or I’ll find something better for you to do with your tongue.”
I toss a warning glare at her over my shoulder. “The fires of hell couldn’t stop what I’m about to do with my tongue, Pitstop. Prepare to meet your maker.”