36. You Got Laid
YOU GOT LAID
PARKER
“Practice is canceled, everyone,” Rogers announces through a megaphone he absolutely should not have access to. “Coach said we can all go home and pursue our dreams.”
He gets whacked in the ass with a hockey stick almost immediately. “Ow—Jesus Christ,” he yelps, whipping around.
Matty lowers her stick slowly, fully unbothered. “Get your ass on the ice before I make you bag skate until you throw up.”
“You’re a mother now,” Rogers says dramatically, rubbing his backside. “How would you feel if somebody hit your babies with a hockey stick?”
“I’d probably ask what they did first.”
A few guys laugh as Rogers skates away muttering under his breath.
The rink smells like cold air, sweat, and sharpened steel. Sunday morning practice after a six-game losing streak has everybody dragging ass, and the mood around the team has been tense enough lately that even the music blasting through the speakers can’t really lighten it.
Matty stands beside the bench with one of her twins strapped to her chest in one of those baby carriers that looks deeply unsafe for a hockey environment. “Take the baby,” she tells me.
“Are you even supposed to be here?” I ask, nudging her shoulder lightly when she hands the newborn over.
“Support the head, Morozov,” she snaps automatically. “Look at Bish. That’s how you hold a baby.”
I glance across the bench. Bishop is sitting there with the other twin tucked against his chest like he’s done this a hundred times before.
Which, to be fair, he probably has. The man has a million kids and the emotional stamina of a suburban mother—the true heroes.
“Bish is an actual father,” I point out, adjusting the fragile baby more securely in my arms. “I’m just trying not to drop him. ”
“For the sake of your future children, I hope whichever poor idiot marries you knows what they’re doing.”
“That’s what nannies are for.”
Bish snorts loudly.
Matty points her stick at me. “See? This is why you’re single.”
If only she knew the truth.
Eventually practice wraps after another miserable hour of drills and line adjustments.
I know I’m going to miss this. That realization hits harder lately.
Especially the loud rooms after a night on the ice.
And the sacred routines no one dares to break.
And definitely the way our team can go from hating each other to being brothers after a single clean shot.
It’s not that I’ve taken it for granted, I know I haven’t.
I just think it isn’t the most important thing to me anymore.
I’m midway through stretching when Matty walks past me with a clipboard tucked under one arm and one twin balanced against her hip. “Morozov.”
“Coach.”
“You look like shit.”
I nod, accepting it. “Thank you.”
“I’m serious. Your recovery times are slowing down.” She lowers her voice slightly. “We need you good tomorrow. Vandy plays better when you’re on his wing.”
My chest tightens a little at that. The kid trusts me. Makes me feel like I’m doing something right as captain. “Got it,” I say.
She studies me for another second before softening just slightly. “You alright?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Umm…” Not remotely. I’m exhausted in ways that have absolutely nothing to do with hockey. Anders has completely destroyed my ability to function like a normal human being. I’m thirty-eight years old and somehow getting bullied by a twenty-one-year-old with blond curls and insomnia.
It’s been five times a day. Minimum. His stamina is at superhuman levels.
“You’re smiling again,” Matty says suspiciously.
Fuck. “What?”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
She grins. “That little soft old man smile. It’s precious.”
“We’re the same fucking age.”
“I just wanna take a picture of it and frame it. I’ll hang it in between the twins’ baby pictures.”
Before I can defend myself, my phone buzzes beside me. Instantly, everything else in the room dulls.
“You’re good to go,” Coach says, stepping away.
“Thanks, Matty.”
I grab my phone and limp toward my locker before answering. “Hey, sweetheart,” I murmur, digging through my bag for clean clothes. “You just wake up?”
“No, Parker,” Anders says slowly, already irritated. “I’ve been awake all morning.”
I grin. “You sound mad at me.”
“I am mad at you.”
I play dumb. “What’d I do?”
“You were supposed to be home already.”
Around me, guys are still talking and moving around, so I lower my voice instinctively. “I’m finishing up at the rink, baby.”
“That was twenty minutes ago.”
“You counting?”
“Yes.”
I lean back against my locker, rubbing a hand over my face to hide my smile. “What’s the emergency?” I ask quietly.
There’s a pause. Then, softer now, “This morning was really fucking mean of you.”
Heat immediately buzzes low in my stomach. “Mean?” I repeat innocently.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
I absolutely do. Unfortunately for him, hearing him frustrated like this only makes it worse. “You’ll survive,” I murmur.
“I don’t want to survive,” he says flatly. “I want you to come home and let me come.”
Jesus Christ. I close my eyes briefly.
“Thirty minutes,” he warns. “And if you stop for coffee, I’m changing the locks.” After that the line disconnects.
I’m still smiling at my phone like an idiot when Vandy drops onto the bench beside me. “Who the hell was that?”
“No one.”
“Cap,” he says slowly, “you’re glowing. It’s like you’re with child.”
“What?” I laugh. “I am not glowing.”
“You are literally sparkling like Twilight.”
“I think you might have a concussion.”
“Nah.” He bends down to untie his skates with a pained grunt. “You got laid.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head at him.