Chapter 2 Griffin
Griffin
“Fuck yeah!” Brody booms across the locker room, ecstatic.
His name’s not actually Brody; it’s Jordan, which isn’t much better, but he’s quite the bro type, and in hockey, that’s all it takes to get a nickname.
Brody flexes and roars out his overhyped excitement before holding up his hands for high fives from everyone around him.
When he gets to me, I reluctantly concede. “I know it’s the orgasmic climax of your mind’s daily highlight reel, but don’tcha think you’re overdoing it for a good practice?”
Because that’s all it was—practice. It’s not like we won a big game or even nailed an important play.
“Good? That was epic, bruh,” he argues, sounding more like a caricature of a California surfer than the upper-crust Upstate New Yorker he is. “And you said ‘orgasm.’” He guffaws, screwing up his face like he’s in pain as he makes a jerking motion near his crotch, which is a visual I do not want.
I’d call him a literal child, but he’s twenty-four.
He’s also a pro athlete, and unfortunately, the stereotype that we all stop maturing around age sixteen exists for a reason—it’s true more often than not.
Thankfully, at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, I don’t fit the stereotype . . . usually. Or I try not to.
I don’t answer, not wanting to engage with a young pup who wouldn’t know epic if it snuck up and kneed him in the balls.
Turning to face my locker, I go about the business of shedding my gear.
With every movement, I evaluate my body for any tightness or strain that’ll need to be addressed before tomorrow’s game with a trainer, the massage therapist, or in the cold plunge tub.
I’m in the prime of my career, playing better than I ever have, but there’s no resting on my laurels when I’m the muscle of the team, so every twinge deserves attention.
Every time I skate onto the ice, I do so knowing it might be my last, because my role, beyond being a defender, is that of an enforcer.
If there’s a brawl—and there’s always a brawl—it’ll be me mixing it up, throwing punches and trying to avoid the other team’s hothead or, worse, their enforcer.
The fans love it when enforcers go after each other.
The enforcers, not so much. Well, most of them.
Me? I don’t mind it. The mano a mano physicality of it releases some darker feelings I’d rather handle with violence than something woo-woo like talk therapy.
Out of nowhere, a hand slams onto my shoulder with a meaty thud.
I tense, every muscle instantly poised for action and my right hand already curling into a fist despite being among teammates, until I hear the voice that goes along with the hand.
“Don’t be so rough on Brody. He’s just excited he made that shot on Howe. ”
I frown at my best friend and teammate, Dominic.
His nickname is Dom, not because it’s short for his actual name but because he dominates on the ice as the Ice Hawks’ left defenseman.
“By ‘excited,’” I deadpan, making sure my voice is loud enough to carry over to Brody; he’s completed his victory lap of high fives and is now shedding his gear in some shitty makeshift version of a Magic Mike show, as if any of us want to see that, “you mean he’s like an ADHD-riddled puppy that’s jacked on espresso and booger sugar, right? ”
I intend for it to be a cutting insult about the youngster, who can’t control his dick, his hockey stick, or his mouth, but Dom snorts out a laugh, which is agreement enough because he knows I’m right.
Half dressed and with his dick hanging out the leg hole of his tighty-whities, Brody holds a palm up to Vernon Howe, our goalie.
Maybe Brody took one to the melon? He must’ve if he thinks Howe is going to congratulate him for slipping one between his legs, and I’m not talking about his dick.
Pigs have a greater chance of growing wings and taking flight than Brody does of getting a high five from the gruff goalie.
Fuck, Howe likes me, and though he has raised a hand at me, it sure as shit wasn’t for a high five.
He once smacked me because I let an opposing forward distract me and sneak a puck through my skates with some fancy footwork.
The rebuff was deserved, and I learned a valuable lesson.
Hopefully, Brody does the same and chills on the over-celebratory moves that are bordering on rubbing Howe’s nose in his slipup.
“Come on, man. You gotta admit that move was slick. Almost as slick as your mom last night,” Brody taunts Howe, even sticking his tongue out in what I fear is his approximation of eating pussy.
If that’s the case, he’s never pleased a woman once in his short life, which I swear he wants to end after that comment.
The three closest guys to them take noticeable steps away, getting out of the danger zone. Someone mutters under their breath, sounding exactly like that kid from The Simpsons, “I’m in danger!”
Deciding to stay out of their impending and inevitable tussle, I ask Dom, “What’s the plan?”
We don’t always hang out after practice, but more often than not, we’ll at least grab food before going our separate ways.
To be honest, he’s not only my best (and only) friend, he’s more like a brother, and we spend a good chunk of time together.
It’s been like that since we were rookies on our last team, hoping to make a name for ourselves.
We did, as a unified team of two on the right side of the ice, and as friends who no one and nothing could break apart.
There’s one thing that could tear your friendship to shreds in the blink of an eye.
I swallow hard, forcing that thought back into the lockbox it’s supposed to stay in, safe and secure and far away from Dominic, who would very likely murder me with his bare hands if he had any idea why I don’t date beyond the occasional casual fuck. Or not exactly why . . . but who.
“You wanna grab protein bowls?” It’s one of our usual pregame dinner options, so I’m already nodding, which makes it too late to say no when he adds, “I just want to swing by Penny’s first.”
Fuck. My. Life.
Dominic’s sister’s place is the last spot I want to go, and seeing Penny is the thing I want to do least in the world.
I’d rather go to the proctologist, or have a glass rod shoved up my dick without lube and then broken, or wherever and whatever is worse than that.
Hell, I’d rather referee Brody and Howe, because they’ve moved on from verbal sparring to some slaphappy roughhousing on the other side of the locker room.
Yes, with Brody’s dick still playing peekaboo, which means Howe is sticking to shots to Brody’s northernmost head. So far.
“All right, I’ll meet you at Pro-Bowl, then,” I suggest, hoping he’ll take me up on the offer to secure our preferred table in the back corner of the cafeteria line–style restaurant that lets us load up on protein and healthy veg while giving us a discount, saying it’s for the good of the team.
“Triple chicken, brown rice, double guac, and veg, yeah?” I confirm, though I know his order as well as my own.
“Nah, come with me. We can give Penny shit and see if she wants to grab food too.”
Dom’s a thoughtful, protective, caring brother.
Did I mention protective? Because fuck, is he.
He’s the only one who can give Penny shit the way he does.
Anyone else, he’d destroy without hesitation.
But it’s done out of love. His whole family dotes on her like she’s the golden child of the household, but the truth is, she’s not.
They take special care of her because she nearly always has some drama happening in her life, and though it’s typically not her fault, it doesn’t change the fact that Dom often spends his time worrying about her, to the point of wanting to make sure she eats, but is just as likely a ruse to do a wellness check and make sure nothing has imploded in her vicinity today. Literally or figuratively.
The first time I met Penny, Dominic and I were rookies.
He dragged me to his parents’ house during an off week, promising good food, relaxation, and some parental affection.
We’d only known each other for a few weeks, but it was like he’d already homed in on my weak spots.
To be fair, food and relaxation are something everyone enjoys, but the family angle?
That’s always been the special seasoning spice in my fucked-up life.
The team was a brotherhood of sorts, and all the guys would have their families—wives, girlfriends, kids, moms, dads, former coaches—come to cheer them on.
Except me. No one ever cheered my name, or came to watch me play, or gave a shit if I was alive or dead.
Back then, I wore that hurt like a chip on my shoulder, which is probably how Dom saw it so easily.
Now I dodge any questions about family and, if pushed, usually say I haven’t talked to my parents since the day I turned eighteen, even though the truth is, I stopped talking to them long before that.
I just existed in their house like a ghost, me ignoring them and them ignoring me for years before the quiet noncelebration of my eighteenth trip around the sun set us all free.
So Dominic had pestered me to go with him until I finally relented just to get him to shut up about it.
He’d spent the whole flight telling me all about his amazing parents and his annoying sister, but even as he bitched about her, he had this stupid grin on his face, so I knew he cared about her.
The picture he’d painted was of a dorky, weird, much younger brat.
What walked out of the kitchen that first night had been anything but.
Penny was then—and is still—an absolute stunner, with curves that beg for a man’s hands, a mouth that you never know what’ll come out of, and a sunny disposition that could make Eeyore smile. Or a grumpy asshole like me.
I’d been smitten before Dominic had even introduced us.
Then I’d remembered the first rule of brotherhood—a man’s mother and his sister are strictly off-limits.
Multiply that rule times a billion, and you’ve got an approximation of how protective Dominic is about his sister.
His mother, too, but I’ve never had any desire to have her sit on my dick.
Penny, though? Yeah, I’ve thought about that particular fantasy a few thousand times over the last five years.
Which is why it’s always been safest to avoid her at all costs. It’s doubly hard when I’m forced to be in her vicinity and treat her the way Dominic does, which is to say, like the annoying brat she can sometimes be.
I sigh heavily, resigned to seeing her, talking to her, and later, a night of replaying the whole encounter and punishing myself for being the asshole I always am to her. It’s for her own good, but also for mine.
Dominic is the one thing I have in this world. My teammate, friend, and brother. And his family is the only family I have. I won’t do anything to fuck that up. Even if it makes me miserable and angry at the unfairness of the world and the hand I’ve been dealt.
The errant thought is enough to make me want to punch something. But my locker walls are made of steel mesh that’ll do real damage to my hand, so I force myself to relax, splaying my fingers to stop me from fighting my own hatred for myself.
“All right. Let’s see if Penny-Nickel-Dime has broken any bones today,” I grunt, using the childish name her family bestowed upon her and rolling my eyes like I’m annoyed by her accident-prone nature and don’t worry about her as much as Dominic does.
Or maybe even more.
“Get dressed, Honey,” Dom tells me, using the nickname I got because my last name is Mahoney.
Well, the name and the fact that I’m sticky as hell on the ice, never losing my footing or a brawl.
I don’t mind it. It could definitely be worse.
Just ask our center, Jack Off, whose actual last name is Jacofovich.
I could delay things, get dressed so slowly that Dom gives up on me and agrees to just meet me at Pro-Bowl, but I don’t.
As much as I don’t want to see Penny, I also want to see her more than anything.
It’s been weeks since we’ve had an actual conversation, though I see her when she’s doing her Ice Hawkette duties during the games.
I try to ignore her then as much as possible, though.
I have a job to do, and if I saw some spectator getting handsy with her in the little crop tops or short skirts the cheerleaders wear, I’d likely end up in jail.
So before Dominic has even pulled his jeans on, I’m fully dressed and telling him to hurry his slow ass up. “I’m hungry, man.”
I am. But not for a chicken-rice bowl. I’m hungry for two seconds of Penny’s eyes on me, full of fire and fury, as she spouts out ridiculous comebacks to my rude commentary. It’s the only way I can keep her at a distance . . . by treating her like a bothersome little sister, just the way Dom does.