Chapter 13
Paxon
Something feels off tonight.
Like the energy in the air is tainted with something I can’t name but can definitely feel.
“Minnesota is going down tonight,” Hen says, clapping my shoulder as he finishes putting on his shin guards. “I can feel it.”
“At least one of us is feeling good.”
“What’s up, man? Is it Boone?”
Blowing out a breath, I sort of nod and shake my head at that same time. “I don’t fucking know. I think something’s going on with him, but he’s acting like everything’s fine.”
“Why do you think that?”
“He says he has this job and they’re sending him out of town for a project.” I shrug. “Doesn’t ring true. I’m worried it’s something illegal or dangerous.”
Hen frowns. “Sorry, man. I know he worries you, but…” His words trail off as he scrunches his nose.
“I know. He’s an adult and I need to let him do what he does, but fuck, he’s my last relative and I promised…” I rub my forehead. “Anyway, for the next few hours I need to push it back and focus on the game.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
I sure hope so. We need to win this next game to keep our playoff chances alive, and I can’t let my team down. It’s just that my head is a fucking mess.
Once my gear is on, I check my phone one last time, hoping Boone will suddenly tell me he made it back in time for the game so I can see his face and know that he’s okay. I have a text, but it’s not from my brother. It’s from Wraith.
All it says is ‘Good luck tonight,’ but it triggers a calming response in me. Could he help?
Me: Thanks. I’m in my fucking head tonight. I hope I play well.
Wraith: What’s wrong?
Me: Just some shit I’m dealing with.
Wraith: You can unload it on me if you want to. I’ll carry it for you.
My body tingles reading his words. That’s not what we are to each other. We fuck around and that’s it. In a few weeks, this whole thing will cool off and I’ll never see him again. Just like all my relationships.
Still, it’s nice. I could use an ear to bend but I’m not ready to talk about Boone minutes before a game starts.
Me: Maybe later. I need to get out of my head right now.
I see the dots pop up but it takes several seconds before his message comes through, and when it does, my breath catches.
Wraith: Think about me and all the things I’ll do to you later for helping your team win the game. Think about how good it feels when I bend you over and put my dick in your perfect ass. Think about letting everything go except your pleasure. That’s waiting for you. Your reward for a job well done.
Jesus, this man. My cock immediately hardens, and I gotta say, it fucking worked. Now all I can think about is getting dicked down after the game.
Me: And if we don’t win?
Wraith: Then we’ll both be disappointed.
Ooh, that stings. I don’t want him to be disappointed in me. Fuck, how does this guy twist me up like this?
Wraith: So be a good D-man and do what you do best. Your reward is me.
Blowing out a breath, I twist my neck back and forth, slowly releasing the tension I was carrying. I’ve got this. I can push my worry about my brother to the back of my mind for a few hours.
Me: Thank you. I feel better.
Wraith: Good. I’ll be watching.
I put my phone away and shake out my shoulders, letting the rest of the tension slip away. Wraith seems to have some kind of insight into exactly what I need to hear to calm my chaotic thoughts. I clap Hen on the back.
“Let’s fucking do this.”
“Fuck yeah, man.”
Minutes later, we’re skating onto the ice, our fans shaking the arena with their cheers. Closing my eyes for a moment, I soak it all up, letting their excitement spur me on even more.
“We’re winning this fucking game,” Landham shouts. “We’ve beat Minnesota plenty of times and we can do it again. The cup is ours.”
The adrenaline is flowing now as I take my position on the line. The Minnesota players look tense, determined, out for blood. Good. Bring it on.
Landham wins the face-off, and then it’s on. I skate out to support the team, blocking shots and players from getting too close, and within minutes, Landham passes to Greene and we get an early score.
“Let’s gooooo,” Hen shouts, knocking his helmet against Landham’s.
The crowd goes wild, and it doesn’t take long before all my worries melt away and there’s nothing but the ice, my team, and this game. Hockey does this for me, and fuck if I know what I’ll do when it’s over.
Minnesota has the puck and they want to score on us bad.
I focus on their center, ready to see what he looks like slammed against the boards, but I turn just in time to see a Minnesota D-man slam into Andres in an illegal hit.
Andres is flat on the ice, and I see red, launching myself at the Minnesota player and laying into him.
“Fuck you, Troy,” I yell while tussling with him.
“Get the fuck off me, Bouche!”
“Make me,” I growl as I drop my gloves.
Some of my teammates join me, the Minnesota players jump in, and within seconds everything’s a blur of bodies, anger, and too many egos. I pummel Troy, but he definitely gets a few hits in. The refs aren’t even trying to break up the fight yet, and even if they were, I wouldn’t back down.
The game is paused and loud whistles screech in my ears, but by the time I’m pulled off Troy, bloodied and sore, my grin is a mile wide, despite my busted bottom lip.
“Get in your corner, Bouche!” the ref yells, and Landham drags me by the arm to the penalty box.
The crowd is chanting my name and the arena shakes with their stomping and cheers. I’m not exactly known for keeping my cool, and the fans love it.
“How’s Andres?”
“Medics are checking him out.” Landham wipes a smear of blood from his forehead. “Fucking hell.”
“If you’re waiting for me to apologize, you know I’m not going to.”
“I’m not,” he grunts.
I sit out my five-minute penalty, pumped to get back in the action.
While I’m waiting, I scan the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of Boone I know isn’t happening, but instead, my eyes find Wraith.
He’s not in a seat but near the boards not far from where I’m at.
He’s so close I can see the curve of his lips as he studies me.
My body reacts to his attention, little dots of electricity skittering up and down my spine, my cock twitching, my mouth literally watering.
I want to fuck him.
Want to be fucked by him.
Want his cock down my throat.
My penalty time is up, and I nod at Wraith as I get to my feet. The fight shifted the momentum in our favor and we scored again while I was in the box. It’s time to bring this home so I can get my reward later.
I skate onto the ice to deafening applause and cheers from our fans, and I let the sound bolster me. I’ve got this. We’ve got this.
“You good, man?” Hen asks.
I tap his helmet. “So good. Let’s win this game.”
Minnesota doesn’t let up on us, and we have to work hard for every play, but we pull it out at the end, winning by a single goal, but that’s good enough.
As we line up at the end, I tap gloves with all the Minnesota players, but when Troy gets to me, he snarls, his left cheek bruised and swollen.
“You’re a fucking dick, Bouche.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know, Troy.”
He huffs as he passes me, but I just chuckle. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to win games, and that’s what we do.
Finally in the locker room, I strip out of my gear and head for the showers, keeping my body folded slightly to hide my half-hard dick. I can’t wait to let Wraith get his hands on me.
“You coming to Chirps after?” Hen asks.
“Can’t. I have plans.”
“Plans?” He waggles his eyebrows at me. “Do tell.”
“Not my style.”
I wash quickly but pay attention to the parts I hope Wraith will have his mouth on later, even though sweat clearly doesn’t bother the man. But post-hockey-game sweat is next level, and I wouldn’t let him touch me like that, no matter what he said.
I’m out of the shower in record time, drying off and throwing on my suit. I grab my phone just as Jackson, our PR guy, enters the room.
“Bouche?”
“Yeah?”
“Media’s out there. They want your reaction to the fight.”
Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. “Can’t you just tell them something?”
“They don’t want me.” He grins, showing off his perfect white teeth. “They want you. Five minutes.”
“Fine.”
“You know what to say?”
I blink at him like he switched to a new language. “Are you serious? I know it’s been a while, but I don’t need media coaching.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Then what did you mean?” I straighten my sleeve. “Don’t worry, Jackson, I won’t embarrass the team.”
“You sure we can’t get you out for one drink?” Hen asks, pouting.
“Not tonight.” I wink and smile, then push through the doors to brave the media.
I don’t know why tonight’s fight got their attention. I fight all the time. Maybe because we’re so close to playoff contention, or maybe because it’s been a while since they’ve had their microphones in my face.
“Bouche!”
They shout my name and cameras flash as I make my way to the tunnel, stopping about midway.
“What do you think of Patrick Troy as a player?”
“Did you think it was an illegal hit?”
“The refs said it was a clean hit. How did you feel about that, Bouche?”
“Will you be playing next season?”
“Are you going to retire?”
The questions come at me like heavy rain, making it difficult to process all of them, but I find myself quickly enough.
“I don’t think of Patrick Troy as a player. The refs can see whatever they want, but I saw what I saw and I didn’t think it was cool. Good night.”
“What about next season? Are you coming back? What do you say to the fans who think you’ve already lost your edge?”
Oof. That one stings. I stop walking and glare in the direction of the reporter who asked that question.
“I’ll ask them what they think when we’re holding the cup in three months.”
A few of the reporters chuckle before I continue.