5. Different Jersey, Same Game
DIFFERENT JERSEY, SAME GAME
brETT
Ihit the ice that morning like a man possessed.
I could pretend it’s because I want to make a good impression during my first practice with my new team, but mostly it’s to burn off some of the pissed-that-Red-snuck-out-of-my-room-after-a-spectacular-second-round feeling that’s still lingering in the back of my brain.
She just up and left in the middle of the night. What the hell? That’s usually my move.
So when I woke up with a monster boner and a stomach full of nerves, I’d been hoping to take care of both via an encore performance with the woman who wound me up tight with her sweet smile and sexy red lingerie. Maybe top it off with breakfast in bed and a good luck blowie.
With Red gone, there’d been nothing to distract me from the boner or the nerves, so I rubbed one out in the shower, remembering her all over me, and the nerves and room service took up the rest of the time.
And now I’m here.
It’s weird being on the ice—I’ve played in this rink a bunch of times, twice already this season, but always as a visitor. Getting ready in the other dressing room. Using the other entrance to the ice. Sitting on the other bench.
For the first time in my pro career, I’m suited up in something other than the Portland Storm’s navy and teal.
And to make matters worse, I’m not wearing 42.
And that’s messing with my head, too. My dad wore it during his time in the league, my sister Lainey had it on the back of her Team USA jersey at the Olympics, and from the moment I stepped on the ice at four years old, it’s been my number, too.
But the Wolfpack’s veteran right winger and assistant captain, Yevgeni Orlov, has already laid claim. There are only five other guys in the entire league who wear 42, and of course I have to get picked up by a team with one of them.
Cursed.
Despite all those strikes against me, the warm-up goes well. My body feels good—probably a result of two stellar orgasms... three if you count the shower this morning—and I settle into the rhythm of the practice.
I’m friendly with a couple of the guys on the team, but most are strangers, unless you count opposing-team trash talk.
Still, I know them. Hockey teams are like boy bands that way. Everyone has a schtick—from the no-nonsense veteran team captain, Fletcher Ryan in this case, to the wide-eyed rookie. I should really learn that kid’s name.
Honestly? The stereotypes are pretty accurate. An hour in the dressing room, and I already have a handle on them.
The cocky womanizer? That’s my boy Jace Decker for sure.
The consummate professional who eats, sleeps, and breathes the game? Nik Ehrhoff.
The lone wolf? Lincoln Kennedy, goaltender extraordinaire.
Mason Gray is the brash hothead. Kane Carter is the agitator. Cody McGillis is the good ol’ boy. The dumb jock role is being played by Chase Hawkins.
And the team screw-up... well, it might only be my first day, but I’ve got that shit on lock.
Still, they seem like a decent bunch of guys, and some of the nerves burn off just from doing a couple laps.
The scent of concrete and ice and sweat soothes me.
Hockey always smells like hockey, no matter whose barn you’re in.
There’s familiarity in the echoing of pucks hitting the boards, the tap of sticks and the scrape of skates.
I can do this. It’s in my blood, regardless of what the back of my jersey says.
I’ve got plans to make number 59 my own, and I think my first practice went pretty well. I was solid. Focused. Except for that one time during the breakout drill, when I got a little side-tracked recalling Red and all the wicked things I’d done to her body.
That memory had inevitably led to the one of discovering her bra when I’d moved all the pillows in my quest to find my T-shirt. And despite the round of self-love in the shower, my body had stirred the second my fingers touched the lace.
I told myself she hadn’t left it for me, she’d probably just forgotten it when she’d bailed or hadn’t been able to find it in the dark.
But there’s something unique and sweet about leaving behind the bra that drove me crazy from the moment she sat down beside me, and I sort of hope she left it on purpose.
I even checked it in case she’d pinned her phone number in it or something—women have done weirder shit than that to get my attention—but there was nothing.
So why’d I take it with me? No clue. But even now, knowing it’s back in the dressing room, tucked in the pocket of my leather jacket, is a jolt to my dick.
While I’d been mooning over some grade-A fucking, Nik I’m-Serious-About-Hockey-And-You-Should-Be-Too Ehrhoff capitalized on my distracted state and took me into the boards with enough force to get my head back in the drill.
I owe the big centerman a drink for dialing me in, and I finished the rest of practice strong.
I come to a stop against the boards, grabbing one of the water bottles and squirting some in my mouth before drenching the back of my neck.
“Nice work out there today. I like what I saw in the last drill.”
It was a nice play. Remington passed clean, right on my tape, and I hit Decker in stride, connecting on a give-and-go like we’ve been doing it all season.
“You keep it up, you’re gonna fit in just fine around here.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
Jack Freeson stares at me intensely enough to make me uncomfortable. Catching my right glove under my left arm, I tug my hand free and grab the bottom of the practice jersey, wiping the sweat from my forehead while I wait for the man to say his piece.
“I want you on my team, Sillinger. I need your size. I need your speed.”
I swallow the bone-headed urge to tell him it’s his lucky day, because here I am. Attitude is what got me in trouble in Portland. Instead, I wipe some melting snow off my visor and readjust my helmet over my sweaty curls.
“I know you’ve been through some personal shit. Hell, everybody knows. But you’re here now, and I need you to be a leader.”
Freeson sends a pointed glance toward the other end of the bench, where Mason Gray and Liam Yarrow are peeling off their gloves. They’re not looking over, but I get the sense they’re listening.
“Don’t make me regret fighting to get you here.”
At the far end of the bench, Mason snorts. Loud enough to be heard. Not loud enough to call out. Liam doesn’t say anything, but he doesn't have to. He’s got the supportive-sidekick thing down pat.
I return my attention to where it belongs. “No, sir,” I say. Like a good little soldier.
“Take a lap and hit the showers.”
I don’t need to be told twice. Far away from Freeson is exactly where I want to be. Shoving my glove back on, I push off my back blade, settling into an easy rhythm.
A leader? Ha. Freeson bet on the wrong horse there.
I’m a lot of things, but the guy people look up to? Nah.
I can play hockey, though.
Despite all the bullshit and the scrutiny on me, it’s good to be back on the ice with a clean slate, ready to play.
I snag an abandoned puck by the blue line, alternating between stickhandling and bouncing it off the boards as I circle the end of the rink.
“Sills! Wait up.”
I fling the puck toward the far net. It ricochets off another puck near the crease and both of them slide neatly into the empty net.
Glancing over my shoulder, I slow up as Jace Decker skates up beside me.
Jace and I go way back—same draft class, same desperate need to prove ourselves on the ice, and one unforgettable bar fight in San Diego.
It’s nice to have an ally on the team. So far, my reception has been all business.
Not much chatter in the dressing room before an early skate.
“You comin’ to this silent auction thing tonight?”
“Yeah.” Not willingly, but I’ll be there.
Charity work is part of the gig. I just wish I could have started off with the good stuff—hanging out with the kids at the Children’s Hospital or sitting around with my teammates and signing a truckload of hats so the proceeds can make a difference for some worthy cause.
But no, I show up just in time to put on a suit and listen to a dozen boring speeches while scarfing down some fancy dinner involving way too much silverware.
The rest of the evening will consist of schmoozing rich donors in some hotel ballroom and counting down the hours until it ends.
There’ll probably be an ice sculpture. And yeah, I’m sure it will bring in a shit-ton of money for some deserving local charities, but these gala things always feel so removed from the causes at the heart of them.
I’ll do it with a big damn smile on my face, though. Time to play nice.
“Sweet. Chelsea’s sending a car for me.”
“Your girlfriends have to send cars for you now? Guess it’s true. Chivalry is dead.”
Jace shakes his head. “First of all, I resent the implication that I don't know how to treat a lady. And secondly, chivalry is so alive and well that before you started being a dick, I was gallantly trying to offer you a ride to this shindig.”
I scoop a wayward puck onto the blade of my stick and bounce it a couple of times before knocking it toward the net like I’m batting for the Yankees. Decker and I are the only ones still on the ice. “I’ll take you up on that.”
“Cool. I’ll have the driver swing by your place.”
“I’m at Hotel Burke.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want the heat of the Grand Meridian.”
NHL-affiliated hotels mean staff who recognize you, fans looking for autographs and a bar full of hopeful puck bunnies. And I wasn’t in the mood for any of it yesterday.
Jace raises his brows. “Well aren’t you a master of disguise.”
I snort. “Just trying to keep a low profile.”
As we round the far end of the rink, Decker gives me the kind of look that makes a guy wonder if he’s keeping it together quite as well as he thinks he is.
“Listen, man. All the tabloid garbage that brought you to Montana? It doesn’t matter anymore. You know that, right? No one gives a shit. We’ve all been there.”
That makes me laugh. “There’s something I never thought I’d witness: Jace Decker, ladies’ man extraordinaire, commiserating about the heartache of divorce.”
“I was trying to be supportive and shit.” He gives me a hard shove into the boards. “Besides, I told you not to get married.”
I tug my shoulder pads back into place. “Yeah, you did.”
“You’re gonna like it here. It’s a good group of guys.”
A little standoffish so far, but that’s to be expected. Mostly they’ve been cool.
Except for Mason Gray.
That kid’s a real punk. Just like I was. If he doesn’t watch it, he’s headed for the same wreck I’m still digging out of.
I force a smile. “Yeah. First day nerves. It’s all good.”
“Damn right it is. You on D, me up the right wing. We’re going to take this team all the way to the prize. And when I’m done guzzling Dom from Lord Stanley’s Cup, I’m going to remind you of this moment, and what a moody asshole you were being.”
My grin is real this time, as we hop the boards and head for the dressing room. “You’re all class, Decker.”
“Fucking A.”