Most people assume that if you played the previous year, you automatically get a spot the next.
You don’t.
You have to prove you deserve to be out on that ice every season.
It’s an honor to be bestowed ascendancy here in Hockey Heaven where we – the players are what they worship like ancient Gods never to be forgotten. Even before we took our official title back as champions during Stiles’ first year as head coach, we were still viewed as deities among mortals. Legends to be written about long after we’ve moved on to other things and in some rare case up to the pros. Regardless of the losing rut we were previously stuck in, the reputation of the warriors who preceded us were still strong enough for us to sustain their way of life. Indulge in all the treasures of glory without any of the work. Vlasta, Wisconsin is all about hockey. Has been for as long as anyone can fucking remember. Hell, they included the shit when discussing anything related to state history as early as grade school. Apparently, the fact this prestigious city has a multitude of other more important institutes – such as a booming scientific community leading the charges of crucial developments in biophysics, biochemistry, and biotechnology – pales in comparison to the possible NHL players it may be cultivating.
For most people in this city hockey has never been a choice.
Whether that’s playing it or watching it or being a victim to the effect of it.
I’m one of the few and fortunate.
Neither of my parents were raised here.
Neither of my parents believe that a person should be forced to do anything they don’t want to do.
They are huge on consent and choices.
My hockey obsession, much like my poetry one, is all self-grown, parents supported.
“You know, your refusal to say shit has me unnecessarily rambling,” Stiles grumps while giving his bald head an uncomfortable scratch.
“Or, maybe it’s the fact you’re fucking worried that your sons are gonna burn the house down in your absence forcing you to return home to nothing more than bones and ashes and a bleak future.”
His eyes swell to the size of his head.
“Choose peace over worry, Coach. Always.”
Silence is only permitted a handful of seconds to pass between us prior to him releasing a mirth-filled grunt. “Go get your Dalai Lama ass geared up for practice. It may technically not be mine, but expectations are the same.”
The corners of my mouth twitch the smallest smirk which brings him some sort of relief by the way his shoulders shift downward a fraction of an inch.
I turn on my heels without another word and head the direction of my team for what will be our last summer of practices together.
I think maybe that’s also what’s got Coach stressed out.
We’re setting up for our last year together.
His rambunctious, problematic but devoted sons he’s spent the last couple of years grooming and teaching to grow the fuck up are preparing to lace our “skates” for life after college hockey.
Life after him.
Life after each other as a unit.
Or, maybe that’s what really got me twisted in knots that only knocking someone out on the ice can undo.
There’s less than a year left of me actively being able to protect the people I give a fuck about so consistently.
What happens next?
Who’s going to be watching their backs?
What am I going to do without a group that constantly needs my overbearing presence to remind them that they’re safe even when they think they might not be?
I guess the real question I need an answer to is…will anyone actually need me on their team when we’re done putting on the pads for these games and the rest of our lives truly begin?
Chapter 2
I’ve either seen that Angela Basset movie one too many times – my mom has always been super jealous of her toned arms – or I’ve still got last night’s “Disco Inferno” performance stuck in my head.
A performance this motherfucker – who I can’t believe I’m still sleeping with – missed.
Just as he always has.
Just as I’m sure if I keep giving him the chance he always will.
He’ll always be “too busy” with his centralized basketball existence where he practices like he’s on the heels of LeBron James and has to host insta-session after insta-session to build some brand he assumes he’ll one day have and fuck every piece of fame-chasing pussy he can get his stubby, pasty fucking fingers into.
Those same stubby fucking fingers that have no problem rubbing my cock over my jeans while begging me to blow him.
Those same stubby fucking fingers that have no problem balling up into a fist to hit me.
How he can hit me like I’m just another random guy who’s pissed him off but fuck me like I’m just another one of the girls that comes the instant that he texts, is a mindfuck that I am too hungover and distraught to deal with like a “sensible” person.
Not that I’m usually a sensible person.
I admit I love a good flare of the dramatic.
In makeup, clothes, shoes, music, and, of course, a performance.
And, since life is just one giant stage we’re constantly on, why not add a good dose of glitz and glam and glitter to it?
Another ache thrums on my tan cheekbone from where I was struck a few minutes ago.
Fuck. Me. That shit hurts.
Never ever does it seem to hurt less over time like it’s easy to think it would.
And, being hit in the face doesn’t hurt any less than being punched in the ribs or chest or back as you’re trying to walk away from an irritating situation.
Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have looked over at his fucking phone.
But maybe he shouldn’t have been texting some bowlegged bitch in her knock off designer lingerie to come over for a fuck while he was still in bed with me.
Maybe his ass should’ve made sure I was actually passed out instead of just lying there with an untouched semi I was wishing would go the fuck to sleep.
And…yeah…maybe I shouldn’t have told him his dick was small – toddler small was the exact comparison I made – or that his cum smelled like spoiled goat’s milk.
And, maybe…there’s a small chance…I shouldn’t have kept yelling about how pathetic he is in the sheets.
And, maybe…just fucking maybe…I should’ve simply taken the usual beating, gone to my apartment to cry my gray eyes out, and accepted the dozen roses or chocolate or jewelry he’ll send as an apology like I always have, continuing the clearly toxic cycle we stumbled into one night after a victory party here in The Village – the huge stretch of private property that houses luxury apartments for Vlasta athletes only.