Chapter 7 Paxon
Paxon
“Well that sucked.”
I grunt in agreement with Hen’s statement. To say the least. We were off our game tonight and in a few minutes I’m sure Coach will be in here to tell us just how much we messed up. We never found our rhythm and Colorado exploited every weakness we showed them.
As I peel out of my gear, I replay all the ways I personally fucked up. I left our goalie unprotected twice, got taken out by Colorado’s defense too often, and missed the chance to block a shot. Maybe I can blame it on the altitude.
The door to the visitor locker room opens and Coach steps inside, a sour look on his face. I brace myself for the cussing out we’re about to get. Coach Willis rubs his forehead while we all quiet down. We fall silent, hanging our heads like disobedient children waiting for our scolding.
“I don’t have to tell you what went wrong out there,” Coach says. “There will be plenty of highlight reels in case you need a reminder.”
I flinch. He doesn’t sound angry, he sounds disappointed, and that’s way worse.
“But, guys, we are so close to the playoffs this year. So close to the cup. Now is not the time to fall apart. Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll expect to see you all at practice. So get your sleep tonight because as soon as we touch down, you’ve got work to do.”
He leaves to mumbles of “Yes, Coach” and grunts of agreement. I finish removing my gear and head to the showers, my mind still filled with how shitty I played tonight. I need to get it together too because we have a string of away games coming up.
Hen appears next to me, twisting the handle to turn the water on. “It’ll be okay. We just had an off night. It happens.”
I grunt again, not in the mood for platitudes.
We’re one of the top-ranked teams in the league this season, and of course we all have bad games, but that doesn’t take the sting away from this one.
My days as a hockey player may be numbered, and I don’t want to walk away from this season feeling like I failed my team.
After my shower, I dress in my slacks and a dress shirt, not bothering with the jacket. I know it’s cold outside, but I’m still hot from the shower and the embarrassment. One of the Colorado players is standing just outside our locker room door when I push through it.
“Bouche.”
I lift my gaze. “Hey, Reilly. What’s up?”
“Let your team know we’re meeting at O’Shea’s pub. It’s just a half mile down the street from here.”
“I’m not the fucking social director.”
Reilly’s lips tilt in a smile. “Come on, Bouche. Let us show you guys some hospitality.”
I blow out an annoyed breath. Andrew Reilly’s an alright guy. All the Colorado players are. It’s not their fault they’ve been dominating this season.
“I’ll tell the guys.”
He claps my shoulder. “Hope to see you there.”
Turning around, I head back into the locker room, announcing the bar location and invitation.
Hen raises an eyebrow in question. I’d rather go back to my room and wallow alone, but maybe that isn’t the best idea.
I can’t change what happened tonight, and at least having a beer would help me sleep.
I nod once to indicate that I’m in. Hen grins.
While I hover, waiting for the guys to finish dressing, I pull my phone out of my pocket, checking for messages. Nothing. I’m reaching to tuck it away when it buzzes in my hand.
Boone: Dude. WTF. Does Colorado have something on you or what?
Rolling my eyes, I shoot back a response.
Me: Pour salt in the wound, why don’t you.
Boone: Sorry, but it made me worry about you. I’ve never seen you play like that. It was like you forgot where you were. Are you okay?
Damn. Was it that bad?
Boone: Palachuk practically invited the puck in, and what the fuck was going on with Greene and Landham? Altitude fucking with your heads?
Me: Maybe. We had an off night. It fucking happens.
Boone: But you’re okay? Personally?
Wow. I played so shitty my messy brother is checking in on my well-being?
Me: Yeah, I’m fine. Just a rough night.
Boone: Okay. You know you can talk to me if something is going on.
I scoff at that. As if. Boone’s attention is fleeting at best, and even if something was wrong, I would never burden him with it. He’s got enough to focus on.
Me: Appreciate it. I’m good though. Promise.
Boone: Okay. See you tomorrow night.
Me: See you then.
I tuck my phone away when Hen indicates he’s ready to go. Since the bar is just down the street, we choose to walk. Denver is a nice city with easily walkable areas, and in this case, it’s probably easier to walk than drive. In fact, I can see some of the Colorado players up ahead of us.
My teammates and I are pretty somber as we walk, but a few drinks will loosen us up and improve our mood.
“Not too much to drink,” Landham shouts. “We have an early flight and practice tomorrow when we get home. It’ll suck if you’re hungover.”
“Yes, Captain,” a few teammates shout back.
“Shots?” Hen asks, bumping his arm against mine.
“Fuck no. I’m having one beer and then I’m out. I’m not young enough to bounce back like I used to.”
“Who is?” He chuckles, sliding his arm around my shoulders and squeezing. “Glad you came out though. It’s good for you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I’d rather get laid, but that’s not happening. Maybe it could if I was at home. I could use the card that’s been burning a hole in my pocket since Wraith gave it to me.
Wraith.
What kind of fucking name is that? I looked it up out of curiosity to see if it was some kind of common name in a different country, but no.
It means a ghostlike figure, often seen shortly before or after someone’s death.
Pretty fucking eerie and very curious why someone calls themselves that.
Not that his name matters. I just want to put my dick in one of his holes.
We enter the bar and join the Colorado players in a section with several tables pushed together. There are pitchers of beer and some appetizers already scattered around the table, and not far away, a group of gorgeous women obviously making eyes at the players.
“Ooh, Denver doesn’t disappoint.” Hen nods in the direction of the women.
“Yeah.” Fuck, I wish I wanted one of them. I could be like all the other guys on the team, openly flirting, agreeing to go somewhere for a quick hookup, but my dick doesn’t react at all. It never has and obviously never will.
“I’m gonna shoot my shot with that redhead,” Hen says.
“Good luck, man.”
Hen is popular with the ladies, and he’s often named as one of hockey’s most eligible players, making even more women cling to him when given the opportunity.
I watch him for a few minutes, but my mind quickly shifts to dealing with my own needs.
I really need to release some of this tension, but I can’t take the chance here.
Colorado fans pay attention to everything.
They’d definitely notice if I walked off with some random guy.
Guess it’s another night of jacking off for me.
“Paxon Bouchard?”
I turn around and have to look down to see the man speaking to me. “Yes.”
“Hi.” His smile brightens his face as he tucks a lock of wavy brown hair behind his ear. “I’m a huge fan.”
“Be careful. You don’t want the Colorado players to hear you.”
A pretty pink flushes across his cheeks. “I’ve been following you, I mean, your career for years. You’re amazing.”
“Thank you.”
“Even tonight,” he offers before swallowing hard. “I know it probably wasn’t your favorite game, but you’re so powerful on the ice. And as big as you are, you’re so elegant on your skates. Because of you, I took up ice skating.”
“Yeah? You play hockey?”
He laughs softly. “No, nothing like that. Figure skating. I’m pretty good though.”
“That’s awesome. I guess you’d know something about elegance on skates.”
He nods shyly. “I’m Miguel.”
“Nice to meet you. Can I sign something for you?”
His eyes widen. “Oh, would you? That’s so nice. I didn’t know if it was okay to ask in this kind of environment.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Be right back.”
I watch Miguel hurry across the bar to a table where a mix of people are sitting.
I notice his tight little ass as he bends over to dig in a bag.
He’s cute. And eager. Possibly into guys.
He’d be perfect, except… I blow out a breath.
There’s no fucking way. Especially someone who’s a fan.
Too tempting for him to tell his friends he hooked up with one of his idols.
That’s what makes Wraith so appealing. He doesn’t give a fuck about my profession. He just wants to get laid and get out of there. I wish he was in Denver tonight.
Shaking my head, I push those ridiculous thoughts away. I need to get him out of my head. He was just a casual hookup. Twice. Based on ease of access. It’s not like I’m gonna call him. It’s not like I even want to.
Miguel returns, gazing up at me with his big brown doe eyes.
He produces a photograph of me in my uniform, posing menacingly with my arms crossed over my chest, a hockey stick resting on my hip.
It’s a few years old, and it’s from the Pride Month theme we had at the arena.
I’m wearing the Pride jersey, which made me feel like an absolute fucking fraud.
“I love this picture,” Miguel says. “It would be awesome to have it signed.” He produces a Sharpie for me.
“No problem.” I scribble my name across the bottom of the photograph as Miguel leans in to watch me.
He smells good—floral and even a little feminine, but in a subtle way.
He’s cute too, with his wavy brown hair and bright smile.
I’m not even sure I would hook up with random fans if I was out though.
Feels unprofessional. But it’s nice to think about.
I hand him the photo and he gazes down at it, letting his smile bloom. “Amazing. Thank you so much, Mr. Bouchard.”
“Just Bouche is fine. Good luck to you, and with your skating.”