He Shoots He Scores

by Tricia Owens

  It took another two minutes of pounding before he realized someone was knocking on the door. Another thirty seconds passed before he remembered he wasn’t home. He was in Las Vegas. In a hotel room.

  He sat up with a gasp and then whimpered at the ache in his head. Looking around, he struggled to make sense of what had happened.

  And then he remembered.

  “Shannon,” he whispered in shock.

  The Snowdevils winger was gone and so were his shoes and clothes. If it weren’t for the empty beer bottles and cups the two of them had used last night, Adrian would have believed he’d imagined it all.

  But it was real. He’d hung out with his crush. They’d talked. Laughed a little bit. And then Adrian had run Shannon off by revealing his hand. Or make that, his dick.

  “Shit.” Adrian fell back on the bed. “Holy shit. Tell me I didn’t flash my dick at him.”

  The truth couldn’t be avoided, and neither could the message sent by the other winger’s absence. With dread, Adrian rolled off the bed and crawled along the carpeted floor until he found his phone. Not a single text from Shannon.

  “You blew it,” he breathed, dropping his forehead to the floor. Someone continued to pound on the door. Probably Darla, here to pick him up for their flight back to Chicago. “You fucked up, Maggy. You stupid asshole.”

  Miserable in head and heart, he snagged the sheet off the bed. Wrapping it around him, he stumbled to the door.

  Chapter 4

  Seattle Kraken Sign Winger Adrian Magnusson to 7 Years

  Seattle, WA - Seattle Kraken general manager George Kushner announced today that the organization has signed free agent right winger Adrian Magnusson to a seven-year contract worth 12.8 million AAV.

  Magnusson is coming off a career best season with the Chicago Knighthawks, leading them to the club’s first Stanley Cup victory in its history. Magnusson, the scoring leader in both the regular season and playoffs, followed up with wins in June for the Hart and Ted Lindsey trophies. Trade rumors suggested Chicago was pushing hard to re-sign the winger, but last-minute negotiations with Seattle sealed the deal.

  “This is an extraordinary player we’re talking about,” said Kushner. “Adrian is a generational talent and as we all know, you only get one shot at them. Our owner, Frank Wassel, is committed to taking the Kraken to the Finals this year, and Adrian is the key to accomplishing that. By signing the league’s best player, we’re investing in our club and in the city of Seattle. We’re all tremendously excited to welcome Adrian into the arms of the Beast.”

  “Seattle is a new team—only two years old—and that excites me,” said Magnusson. “The slate is fresh, and I believe Mr. Wassel when he says he’s going to do everything he can to help me and this team bring home the Cup. You’ve seen how he’s turned this team on its head. I like that willingness to take risks and go for it. I’m that way, too. I’ll miss Chicago. It was my home for many years, and I love all its fans. I’ll never lose my love for them or their passion. But it’s fun to start over and blaze a new trail. I’m looking forward to the challenge of building this young team into a true contender.”

  The Kraken made waves in its inaugural season when owner Wassel took out a full-page ad in the Seattle Times, promising that the team would make the playoffs in its first year. When the Kraken failed to do so, GM Kushner publicly apologized and traded six players, including the team’s entire top line. In its second year, the Kraken made the playoffs but were eliminated by the Boise Bisonheads in the first round. Immediately following the elimination, Wassel took out another full-page ad, promising to do ‘whatever it takes and grab whoever we need’ to bring home the Cup in the club’s third year.

  ~~~~~

  “Twelve point eight million a year,” Neil panted as he skated to the back of the line. “I thought he’d get a lot, but not that much.”

  Joey leaned on his stick as he watched the next line of teammates skate forward into the drill. “You think he’s worth it? Because I don’t. I think Wassel is crazy. He thinks he can buy the Cup.”

  “That’s what all the owners do,” Neil pointed out wryly. “They buy the best players they can afford and hope they’ve guessed right.”

  “But Wassel doesn’t know shit about hockey. The guy owns a fashion line. Keshner could tell him they need to bring Gretzky out of retirement for ten million a year and Wassel would say, ‘where do I send the check?’”

  Neil hooted as one of the wingers scored a flashy backhand goal on their goaltender. “Half these owners are bored billionaires,” he pointed out. “This will hardly be the first time for a clueless one.”

  Joey’s turn came up next. Neil watched his friend join the rush toward the net, critically noting that the other man might be bumped up from the third line to the second line this season. Joey’s hard work during the off season appeared to have paid off.

  Then it was Neil’s turn and he exploded forward, legs and arms pumping, the blade of his stick sliding across the ice.

  “Neiler!”

  He extended his stick and felt the satisfying snap as his teammate passed the puck directly onto the white tape covering his stick blade. He skated forward, deke-ing around the defenseman. The net loomed ahead. The goaltender’s right shoulder was low, leaving an opening for Neil to shoot—

  He hesitated, his right forearm clenching. He thought he felt pain in the muscle, so he skated a loop, veering away from his shooting lane. He tried to pass, but the defenseman crowded him into the boards and Neil lost the puck.

  The assistant coach blew the whistle. “Shoot that, Neiler!”

  Neil nodded, breathing hard, and skated back to the line as the whistle blew and another set of players entered the drill.

  “You had an opening,” Joey remarked as Neil skated up behind him.

  “Puck was bouncing,” Neil muttered, eyes on the other players. “Couldn’t get it to lay flat.”

  “How have your workouts been?” Joey asked him.

  Neil shrugged. “Good. Didn’t lose too much strength in my arm. Legs are same as usual. Didn’t lose a step.” Except just now.

  “You still getting hate mail from Magnusson fans?”

  Neil chuckled. “It’s tapered off a lot. It’s only the diehards who think I snubbed him at the awards, and nothing I do or say will endear me to them so I’m not sweating it. My agent wasn’t too thrilled about that night, though. He really laid into me.”

  “Optics were pretty shitty, but you’re the second-best player in the league. You can do what you want.”

  Neil tapped him in the leg with his stick. “Get out of here with that talk.”

  Joey idly spun. “What? You don’t think you’re right behind Magnusson? Or is it you don’t believe you could get away with murder? I’m telling you, if it came down to fan polling to determine our salaries, you’d be earning more than our least favorite Swedish winger.”

  “Sadly, that’s not how I earn my money, so this season better be a good one or I’ll be on the chopping block. The second to last year in a contract is always when a player is most vulnerable to being traded.”

  Joey frowned comically. “You’re not vulnerable. Shit, are you fishing for compliments? Is that what’s going on here?” He playfully shoved Neil into the boards. “On the bright side,” Joey said as they watched their teammates run through the drill, “Magnusson has signed himself into a black hole. He may be making a ton next season, but he won’t be a factor in anything. Kraken is going to suck just like they have their first two years. It’s career suicide for him, even though I guess he probably doesn’t care. Boy already got paid.”

  “He cares,” Neil murmured.

  “Suddenly you know this guy?”

  “No, but slacking off now that he scored his big contract doesn’t seem like him.”

  “Seems exactly like him. You can tell he’s shallow. The way he celebrates after a goal—guy acts like he won the Cup each time. It’s obnoxious and he only does it to get highlights.”
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  “Then he would care that he’s set himself up for ‘career suicide’ in your words.”

  “Maybe he’s just too dumb to realize his mistake.” Joey cleared moisture from his helmet visor with a finger. “I think that’s likely, don’t you?”

  “Guess we’ll see. Right now, all I care about is my career.”

  “If you’re healthy, you’re fine. With Magnusson relegated to the blackhole of Seattle, no other team will be standing in our way to the Cup.” Joey slid forward, his turn next. “Think about that, will you? We have a clear path to the Finals now. This is our year, Neiler.”

  Neil shared a grin with him. “Here’s to kicking ass.”

  The rest of practice passed quickly before the players moved off the ice and into the gym. Neil worked through his usual lifting routine, though he caught himself letting up slightly on the weight when it came to lifts that put any strain on his forearms. None of the trainers noticed, so Neil continued through the workout. After lunch in the dining room, where he shot the shit with his teammates about Magnusson’s new contract, he headed home.

  Tightness at the back of his skull threatened a headache. He was paranoid about headaches these days, but he thought he had a good idea where this one originated and it had little to do with an injury to his brain. More like stress. Stress over some things he’d been trying not to think about these past few weeks. Fortunately, he had a good source of distraction. After stripping off his clothes on his way to the bedroom, he pulled the lube out of the nightstand drawer and settled on his bed, knees up, to think about Adrian Magnusson.

  The Swedish winger had sent Neil a couple of texts after the NHL Awards. Neil had been afraid to look at them for a week. His phone had felt like a ticking time bomb. When he’d finally summoned the courage to get it over with, he’d been relieved to discover that Magnusson didn’t mention anything about Neil ogling him naked. He’d asked if Neil was feeling better and later, in a second text, had bragged that the free agent market had just opened and he was the fresh meat up for sale. That had been over six weeks ago. A lot had changed for Magnusson since then, what with becoming the big fish in the league. Neil wasn’t surprised that his interest in texting Neil—who never responded anyway—had waned.

  Neil’s lust for him certainly hadn’t waned. He wrapped a lube-slick hand around himself and slowly stroked while he brushed the fingers of his other hand across his chest, playing with his nipples. He could picture the scene in the bathroom again so easily: Magnusson’s thick thighs and that tight, globular ass. When he’d smacked it, only his skin had rippled. His shoulders and back were as impressive as his front, but nothing held a candle to the heat Magnusson was packing between his legs.

  Neil but his lip as he dropped his free hand to his groin to scoop up some lube. He slid his fingers down behind his balls to circle his hole. He wanted what Magnusson had right here. With a groan, he slid his middle finger inside and closed his eyes.

  That night in Vegas could have gone so many ways. He’d struggled with regret in the weeks since for not attempting something completely foolish and career destroying. He and Magnusson had been drunk as hell. They’d both been horny for whatever reason. And something had been in the air—something in the Swedish winger—that in hindsight made Neil wish he’d pushed it, just to see how far he could go. He could’ve blamed it on the alcohol, or his head...

  What if, while Magnusson was staring at him in the mirror, buck naked, Neil had said something flirtatious? What if he’d rolled onto his side and revealed his own huge hard-on? He pumped his finger slowly inside him, imagining Magnusson turning around and leaving the bathroom. He imagined the big blond looming over him on the bed, maybe pinning Neil by the shoulder to the mattress.

  He slid a second finger inside.

  What if all that alcohol had lowered a wall somewhere inside Magnusson and, being the confident man that he was, he’d looked at the bulge in Neil’s pants and decided to cup his hand over it? Maybe he’d give it a good squeeze and then massage it—joking that Neil was big, but Magnusson had him beat. He’d prove it...

  Neil groaned at the stretch of three fingers. He’d need a fourth to get anywhere near the girth of the other man. Muttering to himself, he reached over with his dry hand and dug into his nightstand drawer again, finding his largest dildo. He slicked it up and then began easing it inside himself, all the while thinking of Magnusson between his legs, easing himself into Neil.

  You can take it, Shannon. I told you I could nail you. Now look at you, stuffed full of my big cock. Yeah, it’s big, isn’t it? Too big for you?

  “I can take it,” Neil groaned as he pushed the dildo all the way in to its base. His muscles twitched around it, straining, but he didn’t feel any pain. He wanted Magnusson in deep like this, wanted it touching the back of his throat. “Give it to me, Maggy. Come on.”

  He pressed the dildo down just so, his breath hitching when the tip grazed his prostate. Panting hard, he stroked himself off while rubbing the toy against his prostate. He pumped it into himself, trying to mimic how he hoped Magnusson would fuck him. It didn’t take long with fantasy Magnusson egging him on with dirty talk while the dildo stuffed him full. Neil bucked up, gasping, and spattered his chest and throat with his own spunk. He collapsed on the bed, his hands splayed out beside him and ass throbbing. It felt good, but also, it felt kind of incomplete. He rolled onto his side and tried not to think about a hand stroking his hair or a kiss pressed to the back of his shoulder. Those kinds of fantasies never led anywhere pleasant.

  He’d staved off the loneliness, but guilt pierced him when he pictured Adrian Magnusson’s friendly, open smile. The guy didn’t deserve the way Neil was perving on him. It was disrespectful and irresponsible, and if there was one thing Neil was not, it was irresponsible.

  As a matter of fact, he had a charity event in the morning, the last before the preseason started up. This charity was particularly dear to him, for it brought seriously ill children and homeless pets together for a day of carefree fun for both. Neil thought of their laughter and joy, and then he thought of what he’d just done and to whom, and it bothered him. It bothered him a lot.

  ~~~~~

  Snowdevils Report. Neil Shannon fully healthy for season opener.

  Denver, CO – Snowdevils left winger Neil Shannon is expected to start Tuesday night in the club’s season opener against the Atlantic City Aces. Shannon suffered a concussion and broken right arm in game six of the Stanley Cup Finals against Chicago but was cleared for play in early September. Shannon got off to a slow start in the Snowdevils’ preseason games, notching just two assists in four games. It is the first preseason he has not scored at least four goals.

  “I’m getting my skates under me again,” said Shannon after Saturday’s afternoon loss against the Victoria Islanders. “Preseason is where you want to work out the kinks, so I’m not worried. Everything is on track. I’m looking forward to the regular season and working our way to the playoffs again.”

  ~~~~~

  NHL Opener Round-Up: Kraken dominate behind Magnusson, New Orleans show depth of young defensemen, Snowdevils’ Shannon struggling early

  ~~~~~

  Thanksgiving was typically the benchmark for judging a team’s chances for making the playoffs in the spring. If a team hadn’t accumulated enough points by the holiday, chances were strong they weren’t going to make up the difference later in the season. That is, not unless a team committed to a major change, such as signing an expensive impact player. It happened, but not very often. Most teams knew to hang on to someone good and those who were willing to sell asked for a fortune in players and/or draft picks in return.

  For the first time in his career with the Snowdevils, Neil questioned whether they needed to be a buyer. At the Thanksgiving break, the Snowdevils were on track to miss the playoffs by a good ten points. It was a huge drop from the prior season. An epic drop according to the sports media. The Snowdevils hadn’t missed the playoffs in eight straight
seasons. Potentially doing so now pissed him off. It kept him awake at night, because he knew exactly why they weren’t winning.

  “If you say it’s your fault, I’m going to disown you as a brother.”

  “You can’t do that,” he told Moira as he rubbed wearily at his eyes. He was freshly showered and had just finished dressing in the team’s practice facility when his sister called. He sat on the bench in front of his stall, ignoring a naked teammate who walked past on the way to the showers. As fit as the other player was, he was no Adrian Magnusson. Not that Neil was able to appreciate an attractive guy these days. His sex drive had fallen into the toilet along with his team’s record.

  “And it is my fault that we’re terrible. I’m underperforming in every metric. I’m regressing as though I’m forty years old.”

  “Every player has an off streak every once in a while. It’s a fact. No one is consistently good.”

  “Gretzky was.” Neil grimaced. “Adrian Magnusson is.”

  “The Swedish Stallion is the star of a crappy team. He looks good by comparison.”

  “Never call him that again within my hearing,” he muttered. “And the rest of his team isn’t awful. One player can’t lead an entire team to the playoffs.”

  “Exactly. Which means the reverse is true and one player can’t tank the team. Your teammates blow, Neil. You need to tell them to pick it up, that you’re tired of carrying them on your back.”

  “That’ll go over well. Captains are supposed to inspire, not deep-six your confidence.”

  “Then start being a captain. Where’s that fire, Neil? You play like you’re nervous or like you don’t want to be there, which I know isn’t true. Hockey is your life. You made it to the Finals last year. Where’s that Neil?”

  Still lying on the ice, Neil thought as he stared at the carpet.

  “Neiler.”