Grudge Puck: A Hockey Romance

by June Winters

  ***

  I went for a walk through the bowels of Madison Square Garden, hoping to get some peace and quiet and clear my mind and figure out what the hell was wrong with me.

  I didn't get it. I got what I wanted—the grudge-fuck. It was every bit as hot as I hoped it'd be, too.

  But deep down? It wasn't satisfying. It was the opposite of satisfying. It was like I'd picked and picked at some scab until I finally tore it off—only for it to start oozing blood. And then I think to myself, 'well, what the fuck did I do that for?' because soon I'd have a new scab to pick off all over again …

  I clenched my fist. I should've known better. Hell, part of me did! Before we left the club, I told myself it'd be better not to fuck with Camille's heart. No matter how hot I thought it might be. It just felt like I'd be doing something wrong.

  But then her friend zonked out. Camille needed help. And then we were in the car together. And one thing led to another.

  And then old, heartless Beau took over. Beau, who thinks with his cock.

  And now I was acting like a crazy dick. And my heart felt like it was getting ripped out of my goddamn chest.

  ***

  With a 6'3 athlete in full gear, walking around the halls of MSG on skate guards and swearing under his breath?

  It was only a matter of time before someone from the media noticed me.

  My old buddy Larry Graves from the Times spotted me first.

  “Beau!” he shouted, rushing to my side. “Beau, have you heard Dave Leroux's response to the statements you made yesterday?

  I didn't care about this shit right now. I shot him an impatient and bewildered look. “What? No.”

  Larry put on his reading glasses and began to read from a mini-notebook.

  “And I quote: 'You mean to tell me Beau Bradford made some idiotic comments to the media? Wow, color me shocked. What Beau Bradford ought to focus on for once, instead of trying to piss everybody off, is how to actually play the game of hockey with skill and integrity. I heard that Beau didn't always play this way? Apparently, he used to actually be good at hockey and avoided the dirty stuff. Funny, I can't even imagine it now. But everyone has to make a living, I guess. Some people make a living cleaning up [expletive] from toilets. Even that's too honest of a living for Beau Bradford. The guy's just heartless. Scum. Scum on the ice. He makes a living by dredging up everyone's vulnerabilities and exploiting them for his own selfish—'”

  “Stop!” I roared, nostrils flaring, a finger held in Larry's face. “I don't care what he said, for fuck's sake!”

  “Is that on the record, Beau?” Larry asked.

  “No! Fuck no!”

  I turned around and went right back to the dressing room.

  When I barged back in, it was like somebody lifted the needle from a record. Whatever the boys were talking about immediately stopped, and everyone looked at me with expressions of concern.

  “Everything alright, Beau?” Hunter asked.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I lied.

  “You good to go tonight?” he asked.

  “I'll be fine.”

  I hunkered down in my stall and got lost, deep in thought.

  Leroux.

  Leroux said all that about me.

  A guy I respected.

  The worst part is, you know he's right.

  The others were still chatting it up, but I couldn't focus. I had to do something. I got out my cell phone.

  My thumb, operating on muscle memory alone, went straight for the MeatMarket icon—the way I normally distracted myself.

  But I stopped myself from tapping it.

  Instead I opened up my photo gallery. There, the first pic, was that selfie I took last night in the club. Me and Camille. Something about the picture wrenched at my aching chest more. We looked good together. We looked cute together. In a weird way. Not your normal couple.

  Her smile had the slightest up-curl in her upper lip. Like at any moment she could snap, and snarl at me, and those arms she had draped around my neck might wring my throat instead. But her tits. Man, her awesome tits. She really was pushing them up and out, right by my face, like she were daring me to look.

  And me?

  Well, I just looked happy.

  I sighed, put that picture in a text message, and sent it to the number she typed in my phone last night.

  Here goes nothing.

  Chapter 14

  Goth Phase

  Camille

  For the second time in two nights, I knocked on Piper's apartment door.

  Piper, wearing an over-sized blue-and-red Scouts jersey, dramatically swung the door open.

  “Hello, darling!”

  “Hi,” I muttered as I stepped into her apartment.

  “Feeling dark today, are we?” Piper asked, noting my outfit. I was not wearing a hockey jersey. Instead, I was wearing a see-through black-lace blouse, with a sexy black bra beneath; well-worn and torn black jeans, with fishnet leggings below that peeked out from the denim's holes; and, finally, black boots that said I can kick your ass, fucker.

  Which was exactly what I was hoping to do. Especially after I got Beau's sleazy-ass text message an hour ago. It was that revolting selfie of us, along with a caption that read, “Had fun last nite. How'd the opening go?”

  Yeah. I bet you did have fun, Beau. I bet you did.

  My finger-tips whipped up a reply and mashed the send button before I could stop myself:

  “Fuck off and die, asshole.”

  Oops! Maybe Beau was right. Maybe I do have a dark side after all. Oh well.

  “I am feeling a little dark today,” I answered Piper in an ironically cheery tone. “And I'm still not happy you're making me go to this game, by the way.”

  “I know you're not. But a deal's a deal, and this is what you get for having dirty, sweaty sex in my bed.”

  I sighed. “Thanks for that reminder. Really. 'Cause I needed it.”

  She giggled. “What'd you do with my sheets, anyway?”

  “They're sitting in a garbage bag in my apartment. I thought I might burn them, actually. They don't have a right to exist in this world anymore—”

  Piper squealed. “No! Don't do that! Those are my favorite sheets and I want them back.”

  “You wouldn't want them back if you'd seen the sweat-and-cum Jackson Pollock we painted all over—”

  “Okay okay okay!” Piper plugged her ears and shouted over me until I stopped. “You know, I might be acting surprisingly cool over the fact that you fucked a guy in my bed while I was passed out on the couch, but I really don't need you putting visuals like that in my head!”

  I snickered.

  “Seriously though, what's up with the gothic look?” she asked, offering me a drink and a spot on the sofa.

  I relaxed into the couch. “Well, we're sitting first row, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So he'll probably be able to see us, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Perfect.” I smiled wildly. “Last night, Beau said he thought I was 'smoking hot' back during my high school goth phase.”

  Piper's eyes lit up. “Really? So you dressed up for him? That's so insanely thoughtful and cute, Cam! You guys are going to make the sweetest—”

  “Oh, yeah. That's exactly it, Piper,” I interrupted sarcastically. “No, actually, the idea is to get him to stare at me just long enough to distract him. Hopefully, he'll be drooling over me just long enough for one of his enemies to come crush him and make his head bleed all over the ice.”

  Piper chortled. “Um. Wow. Not exactly where I thought this was going, I'll admit.”

  “It'd be kind of neat to see him writhing on the ice in pain. You know?”

  “Yeeeah,” Piper trailed off. “Maybe we shouldn't go to the game.”

  “Oh no. We're going.”

  Piper looked at the clock. “Well, if you truly want to be responsible for getting Beau killed, we should probably get going.”

  I stood up and cheered. �
��Let's go!”

  The two of us hurried out of her building and hailed a cab out front. Destination: Madison Square Garden. To see millionaire fuck-boi Beau Bradford play a hockey game.

  ***

  We made it to the game after the big rush through the doors and breezed through security. Piper stopped at the concession stand and paid way too much for two giant cups of beer.

  “This one's for you,” she said, offering me one of the beers.

  I waved her off. “No thanks. I had enough yesterday.”

  She shrugged. “Shoot, guess I'll have two, then.”

  An usher pointed us in the direction of our seats. We walked down the stairs as the arena announcer roared each name of the hometown Scouts players, growling each syllable with a froth-mouthed, rabid roar. The primitive sports fans reacted like Pavlov's dogs, launching into a wild, hooting frenzy.

  “Here we are!” Piper chirped, and we took our front-row seats, right behind the glass. “Wow, these seats are great!”

  She was right. The seats were great. Only a sheet of plexi-glass separated us from the players. I looked all over for Beau, but couldn't find him until Piper pointed him out at center ice.

  “Oh! He's in the starting lineup,” she said.

  “Of course he is, Piper, he's Beau Bradford.”

  The arena announcer read off the Blizzard lineup—only, instead of growling each name with thunderous excitement, he rattled off each player's name as if he were reading a really boring grocery list.

  And then he got to the name I was waiting for.

  “Starting at left wing, #17, Beau Bradford.”

  I cupped my hands around my mouth, took a deep breath, and—

  “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

  The crowd at Madison Square Garden beat me to the punch. Not a single breath had left my lungs before the city of New York let Beau know, loud and clear, that he was hated here.

  Hey, maybe I could get into hockey after all! Beau haters unite!

  I broke into a gleeful smile and jabbed Piper for answers. “What's this about? Why do they hate him so much? Besides the obvious, I mean.”

  “You didn't hear?” she asked, giggling.

  “About what?”

  “Beau had some quotes in the pre-game report. The guy's a riot. Here, look.”

  She pulled up her phone and showed me the Times' sports section. The headline read: NYC Residents Live 'Like Sewer Rats,' and Other Controversial Takes from Beau Bradford.

  Piper added, “He also slammed this Scouts player named Dave Leroux. Made fun of his contract and stuff. And Leroux obviously didn't like it, because he fired back calling Beau 'scum on the ice.' Sounds like a lot of bad blood between them heading into the game.”

  I slapped my forehead. “Shocking, isn't it? That is so—him. It's like he has this deep-seated drive to make people hate him.”

  Beau, out on the ice, didn't seem to even register all the negative attention. He looked like he was in his own world instead. He stared straight ahead, at nothing, his features cold and hard.

  “Do you think there might be a method to his madness?” Piper asked. “Like maybe there's a reason he says things to piss off the crowd.”

  I gave a snort. “Doubt it. Just the same prick he ever was. A sociopath who feeds off of negativity and conflict.”

  “But you said he wasn't always that way. You said he used to be quiet and shy.”

  “Yeah. Before all those violent male hormones kicked in at puberty.”

  The ref dropped the puck, and the two teams started battling with each other. Off Beau went, galloping forward like a race horse into the opponent's end. Competing for the puck, Beau threw his shoulder into a rival at top speed. The Scouts player hit the ice with a thud, and the crowd groaned sympathetically.

  Meanwhile, Beau's teammate Hunter had the puck on his stick. He juked a defender, then stormed into the open ice he'd just created, and ripped a shot that zipped past the goalie but clang'ed off the goal-post and out of play. The New York crowd sighed with relief as the play came to an end.

  And as soon as the ref's whistle blew? There went Beau again—ready to mix it up with the other team. He shoved the palm of his glove in somebody's face, and that guy angrily shoved Beau back, and the two tussled and almost came to blows before the referees got in between them and broke the scuffle up.

  “See what I mean?” I said to Piper. “He can't help himself.”

  One of the nearby Scouts fans said aloud, so everyone in our section could hear him: “That Beau Bradford is one huge pain in the goddamn ass.”

  I stood from my seat, gave that fan a thumbs-up and yelled, “You said it!”

  A ripple of laughter went up in our section.

  Beau's shift was over, and he glided back to the bench. A new set of players came off the bench. I kept my eyes trained on Beau, to see if he would look for me in the crowd while he waited. But he didn't. He just watched the action out on the ice and never even took a glance to see if I was here.

  He'll see me eventually. He has to.

  ***

  The first period ended with the New York Scouts leading Beau's Colorado Blizzard, 1-0.

  Beau still hadn't been close enough to our section to see me yet. But for the second period, the two teams switch sides—which meant Beau would be attacking my end of the ice for a change.

  As the two teams returned from their dressing rooms to start the second period, there was a deafening jeer when Beau stepped onto the ice.

  He circled the ice to warm-up, and fans banged the glass around him, hollering and yelling obscenities at him.

  Jeez. He lives like this? Kind of crazy.

  Piper nudged my shoulder. “I guess it makes you pretty happy to see how much he's hated here then, huh?”

  “I love this, Piper.” But then I paused. “But … to tell you the truth? It almost feels a bit too much.”

  She raised a brow at me. “A bit too much?”

  “Yeah!” I said, with more conviction. “They haven't earned the right to hate him like I have. I'm not cool with bandwagons, remember? Either for or against. So he said New York stinks. So what? He's got a point; it does stink. That's not really a legit reason to hate somebody.”

  Piper smacked her forehead. “Sometimes, Camille, you can be a pain … I'm starting to wonder if that's the reason you guys are so hot for each other. You both get off on being extremely difficult.”

  “That's not true! And you know what else? Ever since Beau walked into our bakery, you've been running this non-stop commentary that Beau and I are actually madly in love with each other. And I've gotta say, I think you planted the seed in my head that led to my drunken mistake with him last night. Don't you feel any guilt over that? Or remorse? Or anything?”

  Piper just laughed. “Hell no! Maybe after we sell this vegan bakery for millions of dollars, I'll start up a dating service. I'm telling you, I can see things other people can't. I've got a special ability.”

  “Right. Sure.” I buried my face in my hands. “So you still think we've got a thing for each other, in other words?”

  Piper raised a palm. “Um, hello? Isn't it obvious? I mean, you dressed up all sexy and gothic in order to—” Piper made super sarcastic air-quotes with her fingers—“'distract him' on the ice.”

  I bumped my shoulder against hers. “I don't like what you're implying, Piper.”

  “Oh, I know it.”

  The referee threw the puck on the ice and the two teams went back to battle.

  With each passing minute, the tension on the ice grew and tempers began to flare. The Scouts players started really gunning for Beau—each hit they threw into him had a little extra oomph.

  It was like they really wanted to hurt him.

  Naturally, I started to get my hopes up. (Even if a small part of me started to grow sick with worry. Call it a woman's intuition that danger was lurking—but wasn't that the whole point of me coming to this game in the first place?)

  Five minutes
later, the Blizzard were on the attack in our end of the ice. Beau was out, and he worked the puck along the boards, engaged in a shoving match with two other Scouts.

  That's when he finally noticed me.

  Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Beau glanced up—saw me—began to smile—and sure enough, his eyes dropped to my cleavage.

  … Where my middle-finger was already waiting for him.

  Time was still crawling along when my gaze darted over his shoulder and saw what was coming from behind and heading Beau's way.

  It was Dave Leroux.

  I tried to warn Beau with my panicked eyes, but he didn't notice.

  Like a run-away train, Leroux charged forward, eyes enraged and mouth twisted with anger.

  I shrieked when Beau's face smashed into the boards. But all I could hear was the sickening sound that went over the arena, an awful hollow crash, like a bowling ball exploding into ten wooden pins. Was that the sound of Beau's head?

  And time ran even slower when I watched Beau's body compress against the glass in front of me like an accordion, his neck bending in a grotesque manner. His body dropped to the ice like a bag of sand and my heart stopped beating.

  Worst of all? The crowd cheered. Everyone was happy to see him get hurt.

  Time resumed, in fact, it sped into fast-forward as mayhem broke out as a result of the hit.

  Beau's enraged teammates grabbed a hold of Leroux and began swinging at his helmet with wild punches. Players jumped off both benches and started fighting. The referees skated around, blowing their whistles furiously, trying in vain to break the fights up.

  But Beau didn't move. He laid face down on the ice and didn't even twitch.

  I don't know if I grabbed Piper's hand first, or she grabbed mine, but we squeezed each other tight. My palm was absolutely damp with worry.

  Oh my God, oh my God, I thought, fearing the worst. Oh my God—I did that. I distracted him.

  “He'll be okay,” Piper reassured me, but even I could hear the doubt in her voice.

  Please get up, so you can keep being a jerk your whole life. I won't even complain about it anymore. Please, just be okay.