Chapter 17
Seventeen
Ezra
Today’s game is as important as the playoffs themselves.
For over a decade, there has been bad blood between the Boston Bandits and the New York Falcons. Each team striving to be the best.
The two teams have the highest and equal number of Stanley Cup wins. So, the teams are eager to make it to the playoffs and sabotage any chances of the other team making it.
That means the Falcons will not play fair and will step on the ice with the intention to kill. It’s bound to be a brutal game. But I’m not worried, knowing that we’ll obliterate them and all their attempts at taking what’s ours.
As the captain, I’ve got to lead our team to success with a great example and take complete advantage of being on home barn.
My teammates are all in the locker room, quietly waiting to be called out to play as they carry on their ritual or superstitious practices. It’s no secret that players and athletes are some of the most superstitious bunch.
I’m no different as I cover my stick with the black tape with precision and focus.
Then ritualistically, I tie the laces of my left skate before my right one.
The sight of the skates reminds me of her, and I shake my head and do well to rid myself of all thoughts of her and her pouty lips and siren eyes.
Today’s a very important game, and I can’t afford any distractions.
Yet the moment I step on ice, my eyes impulsively flicker to Kaeli standing by the glass.
The sight of her blood-drained, pale face does something to the organ inside my rib cage.
It screams for the blood of the perpetrator who put that foreign expression on her face.
I follow her eyes and find no one who could be the reason behind such a visceral reaction from her.
I ask her if she’s okay, and she nods. I don’t believe her for a second. I can see her body visibly trembling like a fallen leaf, even from here. But before I can demand some answers from her, I have a game to win. This will have to wait.
Skating to stand with all my linemates and take my position as a winger, I put all my focus on defeating the Falcons.
Just before the puck drop, as the lights of the arena dim to a glow of red akin to blood, that’s when I hear the Pulse.
It doesn’t happen every game, but on the most important ones.
One can’t forget that the fans are even more superstitious than the players.
The fans of the Boston Bandits make the arena quake under their feet.
The entire crowd pounds once on their chest, then claps once in unison, simultaneously tapping their feet, over and over, slowly, like a heartbeat.
The rhythm beats in tandem with that of our hearts, starting slow and building in speed with the growing anticipation and adrenaline until the puck drops.
The sound echoes in the arena like a drumline, primal and loud. It’s not just a ritual or superstitious practice. It’s a full-body, emotional, and powerful experience–a war cry by thousands, but intimate.
It represents the pulse of the city and the game that beats as one. It fuels us more than any drug could ever do. It powers us, demands us to win the fucking game. And that’s exactly what we do the moment the puck drops.
Noah earns a shutout, and we gain a W with an astounding score of 5-0. I score four out of five goals and assist in the fifth.
Today, there was a fire raging inside my heart, and it desperately wanted to burn somebody. And even though I know the cause of that inferno, I don’t wish to dwell on it, refusing to let myself accept what I already know deep in my heart.
The crowd roars and hazes the Falcons as they look like they could murder people. It was their first loss of the season with such a score. I bet it hurts.
Before we leave the ice, Cillian O’Neill, the center for the New York Falcons, skates up to me. “Enjoy the win while it lasts, Moore. And I’d advise you to watch your back,” he spits, only for me to hear.
He was once my best friend, now just a stranger who hates my guts. He may not have been in the locker room that day in college all those years ago, but he knew what she had been doing behind my back. Yet, not once did he come to me and warn me.
The feeling is mutual, though. Before I can give him a retort, he’s off the ice. Fucking coward.
I don’t let his words ruin my mood, blowing out a huge breath before I enter the locker room.
The sight inside is what you’d expect from a bunch of rowdy players who just had a mind-blowing game and defeated their rival. The boys are in various stages of undress as they scream the room down. Patting Noah and me on the back.
Coach enters and leaves with the slightest tilt of his lips and a nod. And the moment he’s gone, the boys howl in happiness, because that reaction out of Coach is equivalent to winning the playoffs.
Seeing the enthusiasm and adrenaline rushing through the guys, I propose, “Drinks on me!”
“Love you, Cap!” the guys yell, joy rolling off them in waves.
* * *
Half an hour later, I find myself in The Tap, a bar in downtown Boston.
We often ditch high-end clubs and come to this sports bar to keep our privacy from over-eager fans. I hate being surrounded by people. What I hate even more is being surrounded by people I don’t know the first thing about, even if they’re our fans.
Scott, the middle-aged owner of this bar, knows the score, and he doesn’t let anyone else in on the days we visit.
He’s good with his patrons, and that’s why we love to come here from time to time for a drink or two.
Now, we might be here, but all of us know to keep our alcohol intake in check.
We’re in the middle of the season, so losing our senses won’t do any of us any good.
And then there’s Coach to always remind us of this.
The adrenaline still coursing through us after the big win is enough to ride us through our high. “To showing the New York Falcons who we are!” I raise my glass in a toast.
“Cheers!” Seb yells, raising his pint in the air, and the rest of us follow. Ever the young prankster, Seb nudges Noah. “I didn’t think you still had it in you to earn a shutout, being old and all, you know.”
Noah grabs Seb in a friendly chokehold as he gives him a noogie. “Who are you calling old, you baby? I can still kick your ass, rookie.”
“Show him how it’s done, Noah!” Lucas encourages him.
Seb raises his hands in surrender as laughter sputters out of his mouth. “My bad, my bad!”
Laughter erupts as the team gathers around the table, teasing each other over who could eat the most without dropping anything. Someone switched the TV to the replay of the game, and every little highlight drew cheers and playful mockery.
“To our Cap for that score and Noah for that shutout!” Oliver raises his glass, and everyone follows.
“Thank you guys! We all did amazing!” I raise my own glass again, and the team hollers in celebration.
Despite the noise, there was a warmth in the group – an easy camaraderie that only came from long hours together on and off the ice.
For a moment, the game, the stats, the pressure–all of it melted away, leaving friendship, laughter, and the comfort of knowing that these people had each other’s backs, no matter what.
Besides the players, there are some staff members too, celebrating with the team. Taking a swig of my beer, I scan the crowd for her. And there she is, sitting with Stacy and Jodi at the counter.
A frown settles between my brows when I find her lost in thought, even though she’s sitting with her friends as she robotically twists her glass in her hands without drinking. Then my mind travels back to the look on her face earlier, before the game, and my fist clenches in my lap.
Needing to know what it was about, I get up and announce, “Be right back, boys.” They barely pay me any attention and dive right back into their chatter. But Noah notices, as he raises an eyebrow at me, questioning me with that small gesture.
Not yet ready to answer, I shrug at him and leave to make my way to her through the throng of people in the bar.
“Hey,” I say to announce my presence, leaning on the counter beside her.
Too lost in thoughts, she jolts and stares at me wide-eyed before registering her surroundings. “Oh, hey.” Her voice raspy as if she hadn’t spoken in a while.
Her reaction deepens my concern, niggling at that curdling feeling inside my chest again. “What is it?” I don’t pretend to ask if something is wrong, because I know it is. The only thing I need to figure out is what. And she’s the only one who can apprise me of that.
When swiveling her gaze to the glass, she still doesn’t answer me, I change my tactic. With a sigh, I ask her, “Wanna get out of here?” My head jerks toward the exit.
Surprised by my suggestion, she searches my face. Eventually, she agrees with a nod. “Sure.” Standing up from the stool, she takes the lead as I follow close behind her, my hand nestled on the small of her back.
I worry that she’ll slap it away, but she doesn’t. So my palm singes with the heat of her body even through her clothes. Her supple waist begging me to grab hold of her and bury her in my chest.
My jaw clenches with the restraint I practice to keep from hauling her into my arms. We’re out the back exit too quickly for my liking. My hand drops from her waist, and I shove it in my pocket lest I do something that will get me in trouble.
She takes a huge breath in and releases it into the night air.
Silently, I stand beside her, tilting my head up to look at the night sky, the stars barely visible due to the city’s pollution.
Yet the chilly air soothes my inner turmoil, and by the looks of it, hers too, when I find her gazing at the sky.
“What happened today during the game, Kaeli? Who did you see?” I ask her, noting her expressions for a shift or unease.
Her shoulders tense at my question, and her eyes harden. Wrapping her arms around her, she says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She doesn’t meet my eyes as she spews white lies through her teeth.
I twist my body toward her as I take a step forward. “Don’t bullshit me, Kaeli. You looked like you saw a fucking ghost in there,” I grit.
Fire lights in her eyes at my choice of words, and she turns to me, too. And God, if the prospect of arguing with her doesn’t excite me. “What is it to you? Why do you care?” she throws at me, her eyes harboring accusations and animosity.
“I don’t,” I snarl.
“Then you don’t have the right to ask me anything,” she states as an emotion akin to hurt passes through her eyes, but I might be wrong.
I don’t know how I find myself crowding her as her back presses against the rugged brick wall.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Feather. Everything about you is my concern until you’re in my vicinity and that of my team.
I don’t want you causing boy problems and scandals,” I say as I hover over her, her head tilted back to look at me.
I know it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words were out of my mouth.
Her eyes slide to my lips and back again, but she goes rigid when she processes my words, glaring at me. She bites her lips to hold her words back, directing my gaze to the luscious size of them.
But she spectacularly fails to hold back her limbs when she slaps me, sending my head reeling to the side. “Fuck you, Ezra. Fuck you.”
Clenching my jaw, I touch my face as I turn to look at her, only to find her eyes lined with tears and chest heaving, as she again bites into her very distracting, very kissable lips. She notices my stare at them when her pupils dilate, and her tongue peeks out to wet her lips and tease me.
That does it.
That’s enough to snap the thin thread by which my sanity is hanging. “Fuck it!” I growl, and then my lips slam into hers. One second, I want to kill her, the next, fuck her.
Instead of pushing me away, her hands fist my shirt, pulling me closer. Dragging her hands upward, she pulls at the hair on my nape, her nails scratching, causing a groan to slip through my lips. Kaeli eats that groan enthusiastically with a kiss.
Fuck she kisses like her life depends on it. Or maybe mine does.
I slant my head to deepen the kiss as my tongue invades her hot mouth. She fights me for dominance with her tongue, and even though the battle is very intense, I win.
This kiss is neither sweet nor soft. This kiss is a battle of passion and need.
She whimpers when I bite into her soft lower lip, the one I’ve been dying to taste from the moment I first saw her bite on it. And it tastes better than I could ever imagine. She tastes of lavender and honey. My new favorite smell from this day forth.
My hands travel down her body, groping and exploring, gluing her as close to my chest as possible. When oxygen becomes a dire necessity, our lips finally part, and I attack her neck with open-mouthed kisses. She tilts her head back to grant me access with an erotic moan, “Ezra.”
The sound of my name on her lips in a breathy voice spurs me on, and I ravage her throat, licking, sucking, and biting.
I put my hand under her thigh and wrap it around my hips, putting my clothed dick right at her covered center, seeking some sort of pleasure, relief. I groan when the heat of her pussy seeps in, even through my jeans, and I grind into her. “Fuck,” I rasp as the groan reverberates through my chest.
She whimpers and moans as she continues to chant my name, “Ezra, fuck, yes. Ezra.” Her head thrown back against the wall in ecstasy, eyes screwed shut under the weight of immense and intense pleasure.
We lose sense of our surroundings, succumbing to pleasure and primal need until the voice I could live without hearing penetrates through the thick blanket of haze and lust, destroying the cocoon of our bliss.
I breathe a sigh and let my head drop on Kaeli’s tense shoulder as I mutter.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”