23. Hank
HANK
Alittle while later, we finally untangle ourselves from bed. We have a hockey game to win. I just had the best sex of my life, a capper to one of the best nights of my life, so I’m feeling optimistic about everything. Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket, too, while I’m at it.
“Did you want to hop in the shower first?” I ask Nick, lying with his head against my shoulder, the light scent of sweat damp in his hair.
“Yeah. Sure.” He sits up, seeming a little distracted.
“You okay?” Is fucking a person’s brains out a real thing? I don’t want to give myself too much credit, but then again, I’ve never seen a man come that hard or that plentifully. Now I know what those poor people experienced when the tsunami wiped them out at the end of Deep Impact.
Whatever was clouding his mind, he shakes it off. He looks over his shoulder, a vision of post-coital glow. “Actually…would you want to shower together?”
Would I? Like something out of a horny Looney Tunes, my dick instantly tents the blanket it’s resting under currently.
“Hell yeah.” The more I have of Nick, the more I want. But then I remember the actual size of my shower. “I’m not sure if we can both fit. It’s not one of those fancy walk-in ones.”
Nick leans forward and kisses me. “You’ve proven yourself quite adept at squeezing into tight spaces this morning.”
He leaps off the bed, and I watch that fine ass shimmy into my bathroom. Is it normal to be this blatantly happy?
We take a luxuriously long shower capped with hand jobs. I tried using Head & Shoulders as lubricant, but quickly realized what a horrible idea that was. Ow.
When we get to the locker room at Summers Rink, it seems that Nick and I are the only ones in a good mood.
Mitch is sitting on the bench with his head in his hands.
Des is lying flat on his back on the floor, one arm draped over his eyes like a Victorian widow.
Tanner leans against his cubby in a daze.
Griffin is aggressively rubbing at his temples, his skin a pale white.
“Don’t take this personally, but you guys all look like shit.” I drop my bag in my cubby.
Bill is the only one for whom it’s business as usual, as he finishes suiting up. The man is a tank. If you told me he slept with both eyes open, I’d believe you.
“Some of us had too much to drink last night,” Bill says. “Everyone keep drinking water.”
The guys each take a sip from their water bottles.
“I didn’t drink, but I still feel hungover. I had two servers call in sick on the busiest night of the year for us. I was cleaning up until four. I have no idea why I’m here this morning,” Mitch says.
“For the camaraderie,” Nick says.
“Look at Nick with the jokes.” Des laughs to himself, then winces with a bad headache. “I knew I shouldn’t have had those martinis. They were made with cheap, off-brand gin.”
“This is all Griffin’s fault,” Tanner says in a hushed tone.
“Yeah. He’s a witch. Get him!” Des points an accusatory finger at our teammate, who looks in the worst shape of everyone.
“I didn’t force you to go out,” Griffin says.
“Yeah, you did,” Des shoots back. “Told us it was our patriotic duty.”
“Everyone is speaking way too loud. Indoor voices, everyone.” Tanner gestures the international symbol for “keep it down.”
“Why did I expect a bar with an open trough in the men’s room to use Bombay Sapphire in their drinks? I would’ve settled for Aviation.” Des massages circles on his temples. “Does anyone have a cucumber face mask I could borrow?”
“Last night was fun,” Griffin says. The guys all boo at the statement, except for Nick and me. We share a knowing smile. Last night was very fun for us.
“For who? Your boyfriend and his friends? You didn’t look too happy to be there. You were trying way too hard,” Bill says. He takes Griffin’s water bottle and refills it.
“Fuck off. I had a blast.”
“I am so glad my younger husband doesn’t force me to do this shit. I got him into grilling,” Mitch says of Charlie.
“It’s just a hangover. We’ve all survived hangovers. Everyone needs to chill. Once we get on the ice, we’ll get in the zone,” Griffin grumbles, not really believing himself. “How come you and Nick don’t seem fucked up? You two looked rip-roaring drunk.”
“Indoor voices, everyone. Please,” Tanner says in a half-whisper.
“We switched to water halfway through.” I feel fine. Really fine. Like, maybe I should run a marathon after this. Sex with someone I’m rapidly falling in love with turned out to be a great cure for a hangover.
Nick gives me a small, secret smile. My stomach flips despite the locker room stench. Des catches us and despite feeling like shit, shoots me a supportive wink.
“Thank you for being responsible,” Bill says. He turns on our ‘90s jams and paces in front of us. “My Own Worst Enemy” by Lit comes on. “We still have a game to play. I bet you anything, the twentysomething pricks on the Blades aren’t hungover after that bar crawl.”
“Jack is pretty hungover,” Griffin says, shaking his head. “Even after a 3 a.m. Taco Bell run.”
“I like Taco Bell,” Tanner mumbles. “Whatever happened to that little chihuahua? Is he still alive?”
“Why are you hungover, Tan? You left after one drink,” Griffin says.
“I have four kids. Two of them couldn’t sleep last night, and my husband was too wiped to help. So I’m functioning on two hours of sleep. Does anybody have a pillow?”
“Here, babe. Lean on my back.” Des sits next to Tanner. They lean back to back, supporting each other.
“This is bullshit. How are we supposed to play?” Bill paces around the locker room. “Where the hell is Derek?”
He storms out.
Griffin looks between me and Nick. “You two were the hit of the bar crawl.”
“We won an award,” Nick says. “Cutest Couple.”
I thought I had imagined that, but the memory is real, and it’s golden. The trophy is sitting on my dresser.
Cutest couple. What a title. My soul sings. I really missed being in a couple.
“Are you guys…” Tanner points at us. “That?”
Nick and I exchange a loaded glance. We called each other boyfriends, but was that something only said in the heat of alcohol and lust?
“We had a lot of fun last night,” I say, leaving it there. I wait for Nick to chime in with his opinion, but he’s blushing too much to speak.
Bill rushes in holding steaming cups of coffee, Derek coming behind him with breakfast pastries and a shopping bag of Gatorade bottles. We rush up to them and gobble up the coffees and carbs until they’re empty-handed. Bill passes out Gatorades to each of us.
“Thank you.” Griffin kisses Derek on the cheek.
“I read that hot coffee is better for hangovers instead of iced,” Derek said.
“You are a lifesaver,” Tanner says.
Nick and I clink coffee cups and drink. Despite feeling fine, the coffee helps us become more alert. Bill smacks a blue Gatorade bottle in my hand.
“I don’t like blue,” I say of my Gatorade. “Can I switch with someone who has red?”
“You’ll drink your blue Gatorade, and you’ll like it.”
When we hit the ice, it becomes immediately clear this is going to be a disaster.
Des and Tanner are usually magic together up front—years of chemistry, no-look passes, that smug little nod they give each other before carving through a defense. Today? They look like they’re trying to assemble IKEA furniture without the instructions.
Des feathers what should be a clean tape-to-tape pass, but it wobbles off his blade and dribbles uselessly into open ice.
Tanner lunges for it half a beat too late, over-skates, and nearly collides with him instead.
They end up tangled along the boards, arguing softly about whose fault it was while the other team skates the puck the other way.
Bill claps his hands at them. “Skate! Move your feet! You look like you’re underwater!”
“I am underwater,” Des pants. “I ingested cheap liquor!”
On their next shift, Tanner actually gets a clean breakout and feeds Des across the slot—prime scoring chance, the kind Des buries in his sleep.
He fans on it completely. Just whiffs. The puck slides past his stick like it’s embarrassed for him.
Des stares at his blade like it personally betrayed him.
Griffin is normally the steadiest guy on the blue line—calm clears, smart positioning, the human equivalent of a safety net.
Today he looks like his internal GPS is buffering.
He pinches at the wrong moment and gets caught flat-footed when the puck slides past him, forcing a scrambling back-check that’s more enthusiastic than effective.
On the next rush, he winds up for a confident slap shot from the point and instead sends a sad little dribbler that doesn’t even make it through traffic.
The Blades aren’t looking too hot either. They wobble on their skates and move at a slower, lethargic pace. They get two shots on Nick at goal and miss both by a mile.
From the crease, Nick calls out, voice steady. “We’re all right. Reset.”
He’s manly and confident behind goal, but that only makes me remember him bouncing on my cock earlier this morning, shaking like he was possessed with the Holy Spirit.
This shameful first period is almost done. By sheer luck, Des and Tanner manage to score a goal. Bill lines up for a face-off against Jack at center ice.
Jack looks worse than we do. His helmet’s slightly crooked. His skin has that faint greenish tint where you can feel the alcohol and Taco Bell seeping through his pores.
Right before the ref drops the puck, Jack bends over, hands on his knees.
I think he’s catching his breath.
He is not catching his breath.
There’s a horrible, unmistakable retching sound. The entire rink goes silent.
Jack rips off his mask and throws up on the center line, his projectile vomit splatting across Bill’s skates and hockey pants.
And here I thought I was the only guy who needed a poncho today.
There’s a collective gasp from the stands. Someone yells, “NICE!”
“You have got to be kidding me,” Bill yells, dropping his stick ready to throw down but…how do you throw down against a player puking his guts out?
The ref backs away like the ice has personally betrayed him. I bet the ref has seen a lot in his days, but definitely not this.
Jack straightens slowly, wipes his mouth with the back of his glove, and says, “I’m totally fine, Dude.”
Bill rips off his mask. “Don’t. Call. Me. Dude.” He shoves Jack, which only makes him throw up again.
“Get off him, Bill!” Griffin charges at our captain. But once he gets to the vomit streaked across Bill’s uniform, it causes him to retch as well. Griffin races to the penalty box where he proceeds to throw up.
“What the hell is going on?” Marcy barges from the bleachers onto the ice to scope out the scene. The guys on the ice are reduced to quivering schoolboys in her presence.
Nick, bless him, is trying so hard not to laugh. I can see his shoulders shaking from across the rink.
The refs huddle with Marcy. There’s a lot of pointing. One of them looks like he’s reconsidering his life choices.
After a few minutes, they skate over.
“Game’s canceled,” the head ref announces. “Ice crew can’t safely clear that before it soaks in.”
Bill stares at the ceiling, most likely cursing everyone and everything involved with that bar crawl.
Des bends over, hands on his knees. “I can’t believe we lost to vomit.”
“Indoor voices, Des.” Tanner pats his back.