Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
SKYLAR
It doesn’t escape my notice how much sharper Koen is as he skates tonight. His blades dig into the ice as he flies across the rink, and I’m on his ass to check and push back anyone trying to come for him.
It works great until the second period, when I’m slammed into the boards.
“Maybe you should stop riding Jeffries’ dick so hard,” the New Orleans Saint snarls in my face.
“Or what?” I ask with a smirk, pushing him back. Our sticks hit the ground as we kick at each other, and our gloves go flying. “Who’s dick I’m chasing doesn’t have anything to do with the game, Carrington. It’s not my fault you’re in the closet.”
Goddamn, I don’t understand why everyone is involved in my sex life. Shoo-fly, before I kick your ass.
“Fuck you,” he growls, throwing punches. I laugh as I hit him back, and I roll my eyes as the fight is broken up.
Skating lazily toward the Sin Bin, I salute my omega as I climb in. His brows knit together as he gazes at me, trying to figure out what’s going on.
You and me both, baby boy. Someone is trying to be a problem, and I’ll gladly put them down.
The second I’m out of the penalty box, I rejoin the players on the ice. I’m being hit hard, but my teammates have figured out that I’m the target tonight because I’m protecting Koen. He’s been on fire this game, and we’re four points up.
If we keep this up, the Saints will be crying crocodile tears with their loss. It serves them right for fucking with us.
Koen twirls in a circle to evade an oncoming player coming to shove him, and passes the puck to me. I in turn send it to Olsson, yelling as I shove back one of the Saints. Man, it’s like the devil is on my ass instead of a saint, and I begin to call them that as I chirp loudly.
I want these assholes as off balance as possible.
Despite our messy practice, the team is focused and clear. I wasn’t expecting Koen to sleep in our bed, but it helped his mood a lot. I won’t tease him about it yet, that’ll have to wait until he’s more used to us.
It’s as if the gremlin was replaced for a much more chill omega and I’m here for it.
Richards tears down the ice ahead of us on the next play, trying to take the puck from the Saints.
“Here, here little Devils!” I call out, skating hard behind Richards.
Skating to his left, I slam into a Saint, disrupting their movement down the ice.
“You’re smart enough to know we aren’t the Devils, or is your head so far up the Captain’s ass that you don’t know the difference?” he asks.
“Huh? I can’t hear you,” I reply, smirking as said captain hits the player next to him.
Koen steals the puck back, but we are very close to Rhodes’ crease. We’re all fighting to move away and Rhodes slides out slightly with his eyes on the puck at all times. I’m very worried we’re going to run into him, but there’s not much I can do other than continue to fight to keep the biscuit.
There's an unspoken rule not to touch the goalie, but the Saints are being assholes tonight. One of the forwards slides into Rhodes as he attempts to hit the puck away from Koen. Instead, he gets punched by Rhodes for his efforts, and all hell breaks loose.
Koen hits the closest Saint to him before slamming the puck with his blade away from him. Now that there’s no way anyone will score on our pissed off goalie, words and fists fly.
The ice is littered with gloves, sticks, and helmets, and it’s all out war. It takes way too long for the referees to get involved, and there’s blood on the ice from the fight.
Everyone is pulled away to disinfect the ice, and Coach looks like he’s about to shit bricks.
Since this is going to take awhile, we’re all called to the locker room to talk.
Once there, our doctor walks around to attend to cuts, shaking his head as Coach Weightman appears to be ready to breathe fire.
“What the fuck was that all about?” he asks.
“They slid into me,” Rhodes says, shrugging. “The Saints have been riding us hard. Should we have ignored the slight?”
“No,” Coach Weightman groans. “Has anyone fucked over a Saint recently?”
“Maybe Carrington has his panties in a twist because his brother has the hots for me,” Olsson teases. “He’s been hitting Skylar non stop, Coach. Enough is enough. We need to bury them. Nothing they do will make them a better team or help them win.”
“At least put a few more points on the scoreboard before the next fight,” Coach says resignedly. “Also, try not to get any more excessive blood on the ice, please.”
I’m pretty sure that was Rhodes’ fault, but none of us will throw him under the bus. Each of us tap our knuckles against his temple gently as we file past, and since I’m the last one, I kiss him hard before allowing him to stand.
“Hard-ons suck in a cup,” Rhodes groans, making me smirk. That’s the point. “You’re sadistic.”
“I can be worse,” I mutter, walking out of the locker room.
The rest of the game is fierce, and Koen skates circles around the goalie’s posts as he hides from the Saints. They want to fight to run down the clock, but my Little Viking refuses to give in.
People misunderstand his willingness to fight with irresponsible aggression. Koen won’t ever allow himself to be any less than his best for the team. That’s why this last practice confused his teammates. It’s not like him, and we’re fucking with his head.
I just want him to see that we could be so fucking good for him. Plus, I owe him a punishment.
I’m currently riding the bench as others defend our captain, and I grit my jaw hard as I watch him.
“I know, I know,” Coach mutters. “I thought maybe they’d let up on him if you weren’t there, but it’s worse.”
My breath is torn from my chest as Koen shoots the puck at the goalie, and he’s swept off his skates. Our captain is laid out on his back, and appears slightly stunned.
Fuck, that had to have hurt.
“Fuck!” Coach screams, ignoring that the puck slipped past the goalie’s shoulder and wins us another point. “Are you going to do anything? Ref!”
The whistle blows as our players push away the Saints, glaring at them as they help Koen onto his feet. My Little Viking is fucking pissed, and we’re close to the end of the game.
“Get back in there,” Coach grunts, watching as the players who tripped Koen are flagged. “I hope they enjoy the penalty box.”
Coach grabs another of our players so I can take his place, and I jump back in to keep the Saints from scoring. It’s grueling, thankless work, but at least they stay away from Rhodes as we play. The horn blares as the clock finally runs out, and I groan.
Damn, am I happy that’s over. We won by a landslide, but that doesn’t mean I’m not sore as fuck. We all line up to do the sportsmanship-like thing to reassure the Saints we played a good game, though not because we mean it. They were complete dicks wearing little hats for helmets.
I’m unsurprised when the Saints refuse to line up and skate off the ice, and Richards mutters a curse under his breath.
“It’s not worth it. Rhodes already had his shot at them. I can’t tell you the last time he lost his shit and left his crease,” I say as we skate off the ice and toward the lockers.
None of us are in the mood to go the long way tonight. We’re all toast.
“Well, they broke the rules and wouldn’t leave our captain alone,” Richards grunts. “That sounds like reason enough to get your ass beat.”
It’s very amusing to me that the team simply takes it as law that Rhodes and I are courting Koen. There’s been no discussion about it outside of the one I had with Coach the afternoon that Fishman destroyed Koen’s apartment.
Now, everyone is pushing us together more and more often, and it’s definitely helping us. I just need Koen to get off his fucking scent blockers so that he can realize he’s fighting against fate.
I have to admit it’s kind of fun that he doesn't know. I’m enjoying wearing down his resistance to us.
The PT assistant calls me over the second my covers slide over my skates as I walk into our area, and I strip off my clothes, pads, and skates to get into an ice bath.
“Fuck, this sucks,” I groan, my face a mask of annoyance. My muscles hurt so fucking much. Damn Saints. I hope they’re worse off than I am.
“You good, Sky?” Rhodes calls out, poking his head out of the locker room.
“Peachy,” I mutter. “I’ll be alright. I just need to ice the giant bruise I like to call my body.”
“Poor Daddy,” Rhodes says with a wince.
“Cover your dicks! Koen and Rhodes, I need you out of here in ten to speak to the press,” Edna calls into the locker room.
“Why me?” Rhodes asks, beginning to get undressed.
“You know what you did,” the PR manager says simply. “Koen, the suit I bought you should fit. You need to go shopping tomorrow for new clothes.”
“Ugh, I do. Thanks, Edna,” Koen calls out from the showers.
My eyes close as I drift, and my muscles slowly begin to go numb from the cold. Knowing Rhodes and Koen are naked in the showers together does nothing for my raging erection though.
“Don’t fall asleep, big guy,” the PT assistant tells me a while later.
Ugh, too fucking late.
“Up you go,” he says. “We need to work on your shoulders and hips or you’re going to be worse tomorrow.”
“Ugh, let me die,” I complain theatrically, forcing myself to move. The skin beneath my eyes begins to twitch from exhaustion, but I know he’s right.
The massage therapist takes over as I lay on the table, and I shut my eyes as I block out the pain.
It fucking hurts as he warms up the muscles after the ice box, and I know he regularly has brought several of my teammates to tears.
I’m not saying he’s not really good at his job, but goddamn is he rough.
“Alright, I managed to release tension in a few places. You’ll still be sore,” he says.
“I figured,” I groan, sitting up.