Chapter 3 #2
There was more silence, and then Alexio grunted out, “Sorry. Sit your ass down unless you want to keep bleeding all over your shirt.”
It was only then that I realized my head wound was still sluggishly dripping down the side of my face.
I probably looked like a horror show. I took three steps back before I felt the toilet against the backs of my knees, and then I reached down to make sure the lid wasn’t up because it would be just like this fucking guy to make me sit on it while it was open.
When I was down, Alexio grunted again, and I had the sudden urge to reach up and touch his shoulders to see how big he was. The only people on my team who talked like a goddamn caveman were the D-men, and considering there was only one Alexio on the Glaciers, I knew exactly who he was.
Alexio Zeki—veteran, dickhead, defenseman.
There was a soft clicking sound, then rustling noises, then paper tearing before Alexio sucked in a breath and said, “This will sting.”
I braced myself…but nothing happened. Fuck, did he walk away? My hand shot out and met with a solid wall of muscle, and then I froze as I realized I was grabbing his fucking tit.
“Um.”
“I just wanted to see if you were still here.”
“Please remove your hand.”
I snatched it back like he’d caught fire and gripped the sides of the toilet seat instead. “Maybe you should give me whatever you’re holding since you seem to be incapable of cleaning a simple cut, and—”
“Shut up. I’m trying not to manhandle you.”
Something about the way he said manhandle made me feel…weird. Very weird. My mouth went dry, and my stomach clenched.
“I’m going to touch your face now,” he added.
I swallowed heavily. “Okay.”
With a low, rumbling hum, I felt him lean forward, and I caught a whiff of what was definitely very expensive cologne. “Burberry? Or is that Old Spice? Maybe it’s—”
I didn’t have the chance to keep guessing.
“I—oh. Ouch! Fuck!” He dabbed at the cut on my head, and the stinging sensation traveled all the way to my fucking navel. “Oh my god, what is that? Sulfuric acid?”
“Yes,” he snarked. “I’m cleaning your cut with sulfuric acid.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and, on instinct, turned my head away when he started to wipe the spot again. A rough, calloused hand gripped my chin and turned my face back, and oh god. There was that feeling again. My neck and ears were hot.
“Stop being a baby. You get worse than this in your games.”
“Oh, fuck you. I—wait.”
His hand froze mid-swipe, letting the disinfectant soak even further into the wound. The stinging was terrible, but at least it was distracting.
“What do you mean, my games?”
“Your games? Hockey?” he said slowly, like I was a toddler.
My jaw clenched. “Your brother told you?”
“What?”
I yanked back from his grip and narrowed my eyes in a mimic of a glower. The guys taught me how to do it, but never told me if I looked normal when I tried. “Your brother. I fucking told him not to tell you I was a player—”
“I know who you are, Jonah. We literally play in the same arena.”
I froze. Well…shit. I guess that made sense, considering we shared the arena with the NHL team, but I didn’t expect him to know my face. Fucking sighted people and their fucking sight. “Uh. Okay then.”
His hand returned to my chin, a bit softer this time, and then I heard another ripping sound before something very cool and very soothing touched the cut. “Why didn’t you want me to know you play hockey?”
“I don’t know? Because you guys are always dicks to us?”
His fingers stilled for a moment, then disappeared entirely. Before I could attempt to stand up, I heard another ripping sound and then the telltale noise of Band-Aid tabs being peeled off. “We’re not dicks to you just because we don’t appreciate having our arena stolen—”
“Stolen? Oh, bud. Fuck you.”
“No, thanks.”
The moment he smoothed the bandage over my forehead, I shoved him back and stood up, gripping my cane tightly. “We didn’t steal anything. Just because you never learned to share doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole.”
I heard him stand and take several steps back. “I don’t know why you need what’s ours when the city could have built you your very own.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “Do you say this shit to the NWHL players?”
He was dead silent.
“Yeah. Three guesses why, and the first two don’t fucking count.”
“I don’t know what you mean—”
I didn’t let him finish. I shoulder checked him out of the way and followed the path we’d taken down the hall until the left side opened up to a room. I could hear the TV and the sound of my dad snoring. So at least there was that.
Leaning my shoulder against the wall, I pulled out my phone and began to scroll my favorites for Tucker. He was going to be pissed as fuck that I was missing this game, and I was definitely going to get in trouble, but what else could I do?
“Are you calling an Uber?”
“No, dickhead,” I snarled. “I’m calling my fucking coach because apparently, my mom wasn’t content to just run along to the goddamn UK to find herself. She also had to make sure it would wreck my life and my ability to go to work.”
He was silent for a moment, then, “Why are you skipping your game?”
I turned to face him, my mouth slightly open in shock. “You want me to leave my dad here like this? Alone?”
“That’s what you’ve been doing.”
My chest puffed out with rage. “I didn’t. Fucking. Know. You have no idea how—” I stopped. “You know what? I don’t owe you an explanation.” I hit Tucker’s name, and it rang so long I thought he wasn’t going to answer.
“Bro,” he finally said. “If you don’t get your ass down here in the next five minutes, I’m going to take you over my knee and spank you.”
“Amedeo would kill you.”
“He’d join. This isn’t a joke, Jonah.”
“I know. Fuck, I know. It’s just…I’m—”
Before I could get the words out, the dickhead next to me snatched my phone. “He’s going to be late.”
“Who the fuck is this now?” I heard Tucker screeching through the speaker.
“I’m Alexio Zeki.”
“Alex—wait. Zeki? Like…”
“Yes,” Alexio said, not letting Tucker finish. “I was helping him with a problem. He’s going to be late, but he’ll be there.”
“I—whatever. Just tell him to hurry his ass up before I have to paint it red. I have a goddamn paddle with his name on it. In braille!”
Then there was silence.
“He said—”
“I fucking heard him,” I snarled, holding my hand out. When Alexio did nothing, I growled. “Phone!”
It was slapped against my palm, and I squeezed it so hard I was surprised the screen didn’t crack. “What fucking game are you playing, dude? I can’t go tonight.”
“Do you like being spanked?”
“I—dude.” I swallowed heavily. That feeling was back, and oh god. I didn’t like it. I think. Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and tried to find my calm. “I can’t leave my dad like this.”
“I’m aware of that. I’ll stay.”
I felt my eyelids blinking rapidly. “What do you mean?”
“Is your English as bad as mine?”
“No, but…you don’t even know him.”
There was a beat of silence, then, “Yes I do. You don’t know him.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to be pissed off. But he wasn’t wrong. My dad hadn’t given me much choice in the beginning, but I’d made the decision for myself the moment I was old enough to. I hadn’t tried to understand the person he was.
I hadn’t wanted to.
I still didn’t.
“It’s complicated, but it’s still my problem. And anyway,” I added weakly, “don’t you have work? Your brother said you were heading to the arena.”
“It was a meeting. We don’t have a game tonight since your team does.” He did not say that with kindness. “It can wait until tomorrow.”
I wanted to argue with him, but I also didn’t want to fuck over my team, especially with Chessy out for the week. “Normally, I’d say fuck you and stay, but—”
“You’ve said fuck you several times tonight. It didn’t get you anywhere.”
My chest burned with anger, and I wanted to punch him. Or…something. I licked my lips, and he made a soft grunting noise. “Your superiority complex isn’t cute. Whoever told you it was lied to your face.” I pulled out my phone and began to scroll my apps for Uber.
“How do you understand that? That thing is speaking a million miles an hour.”
“Years of practice and better processing than you,” I said with a tight smile. I ordered my ride, then shoved my phone back into my pocket. “One of the many ways I’m better than you.”
“Hmm.”
I lifted my brows. “Am I lying?”
“You don’t think you’re lying.”
“Right. You wouldn’t last five minutes on my team. Shit, you wouldn’t last thirty seconds. You’d set a skate on the ice with compromised vision and piss your pants and cry.”
I heard him take a step closer. Then another. Then another. His chest bumped mine, and I lost my breath as my back hit the wall. Fuck, he really was huge. It took everything in me not to put my hands on him from shoulder to ass, but he’d made it clear how he felt about me touching him.
Though apparently, that didn’t extend to him touching me.
“You need to tell yourself that to sleep? Go ahead.”
“You’re fucking lucky we don’t play your bitch-ass team, or…”
There was a buzzing sound that made me jump, and I threw my arm around him to steady myself before I realized what I was doing. He went stiff, and I wrenched away.
“Sorry. Sorry.”
His big hand fell on my shoulder to steady me, and when he spoke, he leaned in to do it right against my ear. “Your ride is here.”
In spite of myself, in spite of everything, I shuddered. “Uh. Thanks. I’ll be back after the game.”
He grunted a quiet assent, then let me go and didn’t offer to help when I turned around, realized I was lost, and had to feel my way to the door.
When it closed behind me, I let out a heavy breath, then realized—against all odds and all better judgment and everything else I thought I knew about myself—I was half-hard.