Puck Buddies

by Tara Brown

  Friggin’ William Fairfield ruins everything.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Seven Nation Army couldn’t hold me back

  Matt

  Sami-fucking-Ford.

  She’s the kind of girl you fall in love with before you even know you’ve tripped. She’s a problem.

  And yet I don’t bother dusting myself off when I feel myself falling. I just lay in the dust and confusing feelings, unsure of where this goes from here.

  The last two days I’ve spent contemplating everything we said and didn’t say.

  And now I’m at the end of the game, thinking about her instead of focusing on beating the Ducks to a pulp.

  Fortunately, the game is going well for us even if I feel like I’m stuck in slow-mo, with everyone moving at a snail’s pace in my eyes.

  I spin, collecting the puck and passing it along, listening to the sound of it scraping the ice.

  My skates dig in as I push ahead of the player next to me to get the puck back.

  But to me it looks like we’re under water, floating across the ice.

  When the pass is made the puck slaps my stick and I flick my wrist, shooting it at the top left corner as my eyes stare directly at the right. The goalie falls for the trick shot, his eyes meeting mine and he follows. He dives right and I swear I can hear the shift in his gear as he panics and tries to go left, but it’s too late.

  The puck lands in the net and the lights and sounds go off, signaling a score.

  But I hear nothing.

  I see nothing.

  I’m reliving the moment she finally smiled at me, just the once.

  It ruined everything.

  Ruined me.

  Hands slap my back as Laramie embraces me, dry humping but only slightly so he doesn’t get in shit from Coach. He hates it when we act like footballers.

  I flash back into the game when I realize I’ve scored.

  Coach gives me a nod. It’s his version of patting me on the back. He’s not showy with his love. Whereas our goalie is screaming that if I get one more of those he’ll suck my dick himself. That makes me laugh and I blink Sami Ford outta my head and relish the moment. The stadium spins and I realize it’s my second goal of the night.

  “One more, big boy, and you got your first NHL hat trick!”

  “All right. Well, let’s make it happen.” I’m back. I don’t look at the scoreboard. I size up the team. They’re everything in this moment.

  We skate back to our positions for the puck drop. No more slow motion or moving like we’re under water. I’m sharp and alert and ready.

  The ref wipes his brow and centers himself as the sticks hit the ice. The stands are quiet, not silent; they never get quite there.

  The captain’s eyes dart to mine and then to the centerman’s and then back to mine. It’s a signal.

  As the puck lands on the ice the sticks clash and slap, fighting for it already. The guys grunt, shoving each other just within the range the ref allows. The Ducks are an amazing team. But we seem to have God on our side tonight and our center gets the puck, shooting it through skates as it heads for Laramie and then the captain. I see it in my peripheral but I keep moving forward, not to cherry pick but just about there.

  A flash of black covers the captain as he’s hip-checked into the boards by a huge defenseman. I weave, receiving the pass and using my skates to ping-pong it through the two defensemen eyeing me like they might ask me to be their prom dates.

  I spin and pass back to our captain who has just recovered from the dirty humping he took in the boards. He fakes a pass to the center but flicks it back to me as I pause to avoid a shoulder in the face. Ducking the first defenseman doesn't stop the second one from hitting me hard. I take the hit and spin, letting him slip off my shoulder so I can get the pass.

  It’s three on two and the defensemen aren’t fast enough to keep up with the passing and zigzagging we are doing.

  Me, the captain, and the center glide smoothly through the middle, taunting them until we’re close enough. Then I whizz past the left side of the goal, staring straight in the goalie’s eyes as I flick it to the right corner.

  The lights flash and the buzzers scream as the team mauls me like a pack of wild animals.

  Coach grins wide and holds his hand out for me to take my victory lap.

  The crowd goes nuts. It’s a mixed reaction. Some of them are screaming like they might riot any second, but the Ducks’ fans are booing and calling for unsavory things.

  I lift a hand, offering a gloved wave as I weave my way through the hats littering the ice. Our fans are waving their hats and shirts. One girl rips off her jersey and tosses it at me, jiggling her bare breasts as she jumps up and down in a frenzy.

  The feeling of a hat trick in a regular game, in a regular league, is one that can’t be described by a regular person with no poetic capabilities. But this is a whole other level of excitement and adrenaline.

  Everyone skates around, clearing the ice of debris by flinging caps back over the glass, but when I make my way back to the center line, it seems like there are more than when I started my lap.

  I do a slow circle, watching the stands still going crazy as the announcer tries desperately to explain this is my first NHL hat trick and seventh in my career since starting with the University of Michigan.

  I don't know how to react to this moment.

  So I don't.

  I just watch them go berserk.

  The captain skates over, slinging his arm over my shoulder and laughing. “What a way to make your mark, kid.” He squeezes and skates back to hat cleanup.

  It takes a full five minutes to get everyone back in their seats which is mostly done with insanely loud music.

  “Seven Nation Army” blasts as we all get back into position.

  There’s a minute and a half left on the clock and the song pulsates through me.

  We’re leading by two, the last two goals I got.

  It’s an incredible feeling.

  When the puck drops, the Ducks’ centerman aggressively hits ours, taking the puck. Our defense comes to life. The captain heads that way while us wings wait for the pass. A Duck takes the puck along the boards, just close enough to enjoy the captain’s elbow as his next meal. He drops like a sack as our team gets the puck and sends it sailing to middle ice. Our center grabs it fluidly but before he can turn, the Ducks are on him, making the mistake Coach discussed with us. Under pressure they fall apart and start to get sloppy. They’re known for going violent instead of skilled. I didn't see it in the videos but I see it here. Our center drops, losing the puck. The ref calls it.

  They have a penalty for roughing and we have the advantage. Not much of one though. Our center grins through the pain but it’s slowing him down.

  I turn at the wrong moment, taking a hit as I pass. The ref calls the penalty, again roughing.

  The stands are going nuts, Coach is screaming at us, and every Duck remaining looks like he might come at me.

  We pass but it isn’t graceful, it’s painful. Captain takes a hit as the buzzer goes and the game is ours.

  “Fuckers!” A glove flies at my face. I try to duck but someone hits me in the back, launching my face at the fist. It rings my head in my helmet.

  Gloves drop to the ice and the benches clear.

  My helmet’s ripped off before I can see who I’m fighting. I take a bare knuckle to the cheek and a shot in the back. The crowd of players is a mix of black and white but it’s almost impossible to make out faces.

  A third shot to the face brings me to life, although I’m struggling to see through the stars and pain gripping my face and head.

  It usually takes me that many to get my blood pumping.

  I start grabbing jerseys, flipping them down and forcing faces into the feeding of my fist. As a dark jersey drops I grab another. A shot to the back of the head spins me, still holding the other jersey. I smash the two of them into each other, tearing jerseys off. Something grabs me jus
t as I see red.

  “I’ll fucking kill you!” I point at the bleeding face of the nearly stripped guy in front of me. It takes a second for him to smile a bloody grin. “Brimstone!”

  A bitter chuckle leaves my lips as I nod. “Drink after the game?” I shout at my old center from Michigan.

  “Fuck yeah, man!” He gives me a thumbs up as a fist flies at his jaw. I wince but lose him in the crowd.

  Coach’s red face is the next thing I see as I’m flung into the boards. “Nice fucking game, kid!” He nods once and stalks off.

  It’s chaos and reminds me a bit of a scene from a movie.

  “Dude, you need some stitches.” Laramie hands me a towel as he spits one of his teeth into his hand. “Fuck, I just got this one fixed.” He glances up from the bucket he’s bleeding into. “I think your nose is broken, eh?”

  I lift a swollen finger to it, trembling as I make contact with the torn skin. “Yup.”

  Getting down the hall to the locker room is hard but listening to the coach tear us a new one as he reads the suspensions for conduct is much worse.

  “Half the team is bleeding and three guys are out for a game each! This is some shit!” He cracks a grin. “But what a game!” His eyes dart to the captain. “Merry Christmas! I expect to see all your pretty faces at my party on Boxing Day.” He leaves the dressing room in the captain’s capable hands.

  He stands and smiles. “All right, ladies, that was a good game. Bad ending, but we didn't throw the first punch, so whatever.” He glances behind him down the hallway we can’t see as a cart filled with champagne comes around the corner, led by a girl dressed as an elf. She’s drop-dead gorgeous. The kind where you almost start looking for flaws because otherwise she’s a unicorn. “Tandy has a toast for us all!”

  Of course her name is Tandy.

  She lifts a bottle, pointing it in my direction. “To the first hat trick!” She shakes the bottle and uncorks, hosing my broken face in champagne. I close my eyes and open my mouth. The comments fill the air with Tandy squealing and everyone else cheering and clapping.

  “He likes it when you shoot in his mouth!”

  “Nice position, Brimstone! One you’re used to no doubt.”

  “Bend over, Brimstone, show her where you really like it shot!”

  I lift my middle fingers in the air, waving them back and forth as she attempts to drown me with cold booze.

  When it stops, glasses are handed out and toasts are given, none of which dull the ache in my body.

  I haven’t been part of a rumble in a while.

  “Have a merry Christmas. Like Coach said, we will all see each other Boxing Day at his place. Hope you have something nice under the tree.” Captain winks at us and hugs Tandy into his gear. She giggles and rubs her giant boobs against his chest. Her tiny elf costume hides nothing. She clearly digs pucks.

  We all take a drink.

  “Rest well and enjoy your four days off with your families. January is going to be fucking brutal and it starts on the twenty-eighth of December with the Predators. See ya on Boxing Day!” He toasts again and we all drain our glasses.

  No one wants to party with the team. We have four days to get home and be with family.

  But I don't have family. I have Laramie and McNulty from the Ducks for drinks.

  The shower isn’t a relief. It hurts and burns the places I need to have taken care of by a doctor. I stay in extra long, trying to work out a couple of knots in my shoulders.

  “Hey, big boy!” a girl’s voice rings out in the steam.

  I spin, blinking like I might be hallucinating as Tandy crosses the large shower room with her elf costume pulled down, hanging her giant breasts out over the neckline. The creamy white breasts jiggle perfectly with each step.

  “Hey, bi—” I almost say “big girl” but stop myself.

  Her eyes lower to my cock which, I can’t lie, has started to twitch a little. I know it’s the steam and the adrenaline and the boobs, because PFs aren’t my thing. I lift my hands. “I’m not really into—”

  She gets in close, rubbing her chest on my abs and grabs me by the balls as she bats her amber-colored eyes at me. “Somebody deserves an aftergame kiss.” She drops to her knees, before I can say anything, lifting my partially erect cock into her warm mouth.

  “Oh fuck.” I’m thrusting before I actually think about the fact she’s sucking me off.

  She works the shaft, sliding her hands up and down in the steamy water. Her mouth expertly sucks the head and down to about the middle. I close my eyes and see things I shouldn’t. I see someone I shouldn’t. It feels wrong—it is wrong—but it’s also amazing. Her lips part wider and she takes it all, like a fucking snake. She deep throats. It’s my first time meeting a girl who can take it all in.

  She massages my balls, slipping her fingers close to my asshole.

  It’s too much. I grab her head, fuck her face as hard as I can, and come down her throat.

  It’s the best orgasm I’ve ever had.

  She pulls back, wipes her mouth, stands up and leaves, sashaying her sweet ass out of the shower.

  I grab the soap, massaging my still rock-hard cock with it, praying I’m dreaming and that I didn’t just have the greatest orgasm ever with a PF.

  The dirtiness washes away in the water as I justify every second of it and rinse off once more.

  When I’m done in the shower I wince as I towel dry and pull on my clothes. Every bit of me, dick included, is sensitive.

  “Lucky we don't need coats, eh?” Laramie strolls over and bends down to get his shoes on. He has a funny look in his eyes.

  “Yeah, New York is gonna be brutal to go home to. But it might help to ice my face in the snowbanks though.”

  He laughs and grabs his bag of gear. “So, we still drinking after this?”

  I lug my huge bag over my bruised shoulder and nod. “Yeah. McNulty is coming too. I texted him to meet us at the hotel bar.”

  “And here I thought you had a thing for Sami Ford.”

  “What?” I say it too loud and too fast.

  “You and Tandy. I just assumed you had a thing with Sami.” Laramie’s shit-eating grin grows.

  “It’s not a thing, not really. We sort of—it’s nothing.” I hate the dirty feeling in my stomach that he knows about Tandy.

  “She’s a hot little number, eh?” Laramie laughs.

  “What?” My blood boils.

  “Calm down, champ, I meant Tandy. She deep throats like a porn star. She’s my favorite.” He nudges me and laughs harder.

  And there it is. The absolute grossest part of hockey. Pass around girls. “Yeah.” They’re like the groupies of hockey, the girls who just want to fuck. She doesn’t even want to have a conversation with me. She just wants to fuck and leave, like I’m a piece of meat. Fifteen-year-old me thought it was amazing. Now, not so much. I should have known Tandy was in the locker room for a reason. I never even thought about it.

  “So you and Sami are sort of on or what?”

  “I don’t know. Sort of. We’re hanging out over Christmas, rich orphans do that.” I try desperately to change the subject. Discussing a girl deep throating us both makes me want to relive the shower scene from Ace Ventura with “The Crying Game” playing and all.

  “She’s not going to like this new look you got going on. What day do you see her?”

  “Two days.” I sigh.

  “Oh shit.” He laughs and holds the door for me. “That's not long enough to heal, bro. Your tux will match your eyes. They’re swelling hard.”

  “Yeah, she won’t like seeing this. She’s not a sporty girl.” Thank God. I’ll never have to worry about other hockey players nudging me and laughing about how tight that ass is. “I think that's one of the things I like most about her.”

  “And there it is, sports fans. He admits it!”

  “Was I that obvious?”

  “Yeah, dude. You stare at her way too much. And last time we got drunk you bitched about her nons
top. Even Henrik noticed.” Laramie nudges me. “Sami Ford. If you weren’t a Brimley I’d tell you to be careful with that one.”

  “Rich girls only scare you ‘cause you’re Canadian. You’re used to girls who fish and hunt and drive their own dogsled teams.”

  “I’m from Kamloops, bro. The girls from the Okanagan are well known for tans and plastic surgery. Especially in Kelowna. It’s like little California.”

  “Sounds like a nice little inlet on the Arctic Circle.”

  “It’s the desert, moron. It’s hot as balls there. Summer is like eight months long and we barely see snow.” He stops walking. “You know most of Canada isn’t arctic, right?” He’s completely serious.

  “No. Every time we play in Canada I almost die. Vancouver is the only place that’s not cold, and it’s always raining there. The weather in Canada is shit.”

  “I won’t argue that point, but not all of Canada. The Okanagan is actually quite nice. And Vancouver Island is nice in the summer. It doesn't always rain in Vancouver.”

  “You called it Raincouver last time we were there.”

  “I’m allowed to call it that.” Laramie sighs and heads for the SUV waiting for us.

  “So you think the Sami Ford thing is a bad idea?” I can’t believe he said that. He doesn’t even know her. But Laramie is a smart guy, so I’m intrigued.

  “Yes. I do. I’m sorry. She comes across as a rich, snobby, fake, plastic toy. All the girls I know like that are fake. Even in their souls. They smile for the cameras and go to the right parties with all the right people. Everyone cares who she dates and who she screws. You’ll be stalked nonstop by the paparazzi.”

  “You forget that's the world I grew up in. My parents are the same.”

  “Yeah, but she’s been in rehab more than Nick Carter, bro. How many coke parties you going to before you’re in rehab too?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know if she does coke.”

  “Look, she seems like a hot mess and your career is just starting. You have fought harder than anyone I know to get here. You’re on your own, man. Your family is the only one in the world who couldn’t give a shit about their son’s hockey, and they’re always trying to get you back to being a rich dick. You want a girl to drag you back into that world too?” His face becomes solemn. “I’m sorry for the harsh honesty, but I don't like bullshit. If I were you, I’d have fun with that girl somewhere no one can see you, and call it a weekend. Or have her be the dish on the side. But I wouldn't publicly date her. She’ll ruin you before you even arrive. The first thing I had to learn when I got here three years ago was that there are wives and there are girls like Sami and Tandy. PFs are fun for the night or the weekend when your wife isn’t looking. But don't get caught slumming.” He says it in the nicest way he can, which is pretty nice since he’s from Canada. But it still hurts like a knife slice in the ribs, especially when he calls Sami a PF. My face is pounding, my stomach is killing me, my back is throbbing, and now, because of what he’s said, my heart seems to take the lead in what stings the most.