by June Winters
But, as the girls approached, Honor wasn't looking my way at all. I kept waiting for her to sneak me a peek as she neared, but it never, ever came.
“Hi boys!” Madison piped as the girls went by. I knew she was staring right at me, trying to get my attention. But I kept my eyes on Honor.
Madison brushed right by me, adding huskily, “Hi Hunter.”
Still, my eyes stayed on Honor. Who didn't say anything to me. Who didn't even look my way. She went right past me, happily smiling at the crowd instead.
Her rejection put a spark of indignation in my stomach. Hey, what the hell? What kind of treatment was that? Do a girl a favor, and she acts like you don't exist.
Once Honor and the girls zoomed past us, every last head on the bench turned, as we stared at the girls' behinds.
“Damn,” Vinny squawked. “Love it when they wear those yoga pants. God bless the person who convinced all these women that yoga pants are a legitimate fashion item.”
From the bench, a Canadian-accented chorus of like-minded, grunts agreed. “Got that right, bud.” “Uh huh.” “Oh yeah.”
“Hey, who's the new girl?” Iggy asked, pointing his gloved finger at Honor.
“I dunno,” Vinny answered him. “But look at that. She can skate. Got a great ass, too. Damn—look at that butt, boys! Mmm!”
The chorus on the bench agreed again. “Uh huh.” “Yup.”
Thanks to Vinny and the boys, that spark in my guts? It hit something flammable and a red-hot ember started to glow, threatening to burn the whole damn place down.
But it was true: Honor did have a nice ass. She also had a boyfriend. So why the hell should I be getting mad about it?
Vinny's mouth kept running. “Who wants to make a friendly wager on who slays the new girl first—”
“Alright,” I growled and banged my stick against the boards to grab their attention. “Enough about the new girl already. Focus on the goddamn game, boys.”
“Oh, great.” Vinny rolled his eyes. “Did you already get to her, Rockwell? You fuckin' dog. Do you have to ruin this one too? Just like you did—”
I slapped my stick against the boards again. “I said enough.”
I'd grabbed the boys' attention, but now they stared back at me like I'd just mangled some poor puppy's neck.
“Her name's Honor,” I grumbled. “And she has a boyfriend, so no one's gonna 'slay' her. Get your head in the game, boys.”
“Since when did a boyfriend matter?” Vinny mumbled quietly under his breath. “But alright, alright. Focus on the game, I got ya.”
Yeah, I thought angrily as I watched my old teammate Cunningham hop over the boards and take the ice. I squeezed my stick between my hands so damn tight I thought it might shatter. Since when.
***
Towards the end of a heated, hard-fought game. We were knotted in a 2-2 tie. I'd scored one of our goals and Vinny had the other.
Cunningham, lousy fucker that he is, scored the two goals for the Bears. Fuck, that pissed me off. And every time he skated by our bench during a time-out, he stared right at me and whistled some goddamned tune with the dumbest look on his face.
Iggy noticed it first. “The hell is he whistling at you? That song mean something to you?”
“I don't know. It sounds familiar, but I can't place it.” I shook my head, my eyes burning into Cunningham's. “He's up to something. He's gotta be. He always is.”
“Jesus, I hate the look on his face. He's so damn punch-able.”
“Tell me about it.”
Iggy's line took the ice. He won his faceoff, and his line started cycling the puck in the offensive zone. Iggy found an opening and sprung into it, leaving the rival defenseman in his dust. But the defenseman hooked his stick around Iggy's mid-section and hauled him down to the ice to keep Iggy from walking in on the goal all alone.
The referee blew his whistle. A hooking penalty against the Bears.
Coach tapped my shoulder and sent me over the boards for the power play. “You know what to do, boys. Make 'em pay.”
Our powerplay unit took to the ice. The Bears threw Cunningham out to take the faceoff against me. We crouched in at the dot, my head side-by-side with the guy I hated more than anyone else.
And he whistled that goddamn tune again. I tried to ignore it while I waited for the ref to drop the puck.
“Don't you know that song, Rocky?” Cunningham asked.
“No. And I don't care, either.”
“Aw, c'mon. You know it. It's Ed Bruce, the country singer.”
“The fuck would I know a country song for?”
Cunningham whistled the melody again. “Still no? Maybe I oughtta sing the lyrics.”
“What you oughtta do is shut your goddamn mouth already.”
I shot the ref an impatient look—what the hell was he waiting for? Drop the puck!
Cunningham started to sing in a country drawl. “Age made no difference / I'd been around and she was young.”
The fuck is he saying? My eyes narrowed—but I didn't have time to think it over. The ref finally threw the puck down to the ice, and I swept my stick at the rubber biscuit as it bounced and wobbled on the ice, like a spinning coin. I won the draw cleanly, sending the puck right back to my defenseman.
With the man advantage, we moved the puck around, setting up our powerplay scheme.
Cunningham stayed pasted right on top of me. In fact, he was blowing his defensive assignment just to try to pester me and take me off my game. If Cunningham wanted to stay right on top of me, all I had to do was draw him away from the net and create an opening for a teammate.
So I did. I backed out of the slot, towards the blue line, and sure enough, Cunningham followed me, whistling that stupid tune.
His coach yelled at him from their bench: “Cunningham! The hell are you doing! Get back on D!”
And I couldn't believe he could be this dumb. But here he was.
Then Cunningham was singing in that southern drawl again. And my heart stopped when I heard the words:
“My first taste of Texas / Still lingers in my heart and on my tongu—”
A curtain of red rage blinded me. I heard the sound of my stick clatter as it hit the ice; I felt my hands shake free from my gloves. And then I felt the impact of my clenched fist striking bone.
POP!
Cunningham's face contorted after I lost my shit and socked him right on the jaw. Not with pain—though that was there too—but with a morbid smirk. He'd gladly take a thousand punches to the face if it meant helping his team.
Cunningham fell to the ice and turtled in the fetal position, his hands protecting his head, as the referee's shrill whistle sounded.
No! I thought with a panic. I'd taken his goddamn bait.
“Get up!” I snarled, trying to pick Cunningham off the ice and fight me like a man.
But he wouldn't. He never did. There was no point for him to fight. He'd set the trap and I fell for it. I'd won the fight, but he won the battle.
And then a skirmish of bodies surrounded me. Bears players threw punches into the back of my head to avenge their leader. The palms of their sweaty leather gloves thrust into my face and ground against my mouth and eyes.
Still I swung at Cunningham, my clenched fists deflecting off the hard plastic of his helmet, until my knuckles were bloody and raw.
And then it was over. The crowd finally separated us. And the refs escorted me to the penalty box.
I was still in the penalty box when Cunningham scored the game winning goal. I hung my head the second I saw the goal lamp go on. There wasn't anything more unbearable than the shame of costing your team the game.
The dressing room was real quiet after the game. The zip of laces being undone in a hurry. Velcro straps being torn apart in a silent rage. Three games remained in our season, and our playoff hopes were on life support again.
“Sorry boys,” I muttered with my tail between my legs. “Fuck, that one's on me.”
Iggy shook h
is head. “The hell did that guy say to you?”
I let out a heavy sigh. “Nothin'.”
Chapter 8:
Hazing
Honor
Tens of thousands of Blizzard fans in that building might have groaned when Hunter Rockwell suddenly snapped and hit that sleazy Cunningham guy right in the face. But us ice girls?
“Yes!” more than a few of us not-so-quietly cheered. Because all night long, Cunningham had acted like a total creep towards us. He'd stalked us any time we were out on the ice, making gross comments, like, “damn baby girl, love that ass. How much would it take?”
Or, worse, “here, kitty kitty kitty!”
Blah.
Madison and the girls assured me that most of the athletes didn't act like him. But the league had a few creeps to watch out for, and he was one of them. I was surprised he even managed to take his eyes off us long enough to score.
So it sure looked like justice was served when Hunter lost his cool and punched him square on the chin. Hunter was strong—it took a whole crowd of men to finally pull him away from Cunningham, who was too cowardly to actually fight back.
Escorted by the refs, Hunter stewed with anger. He'd lost his helmet in the scuffle. A trickle of blood ran from his lip—he dabbed at it with his hand, saw blood, and looked even more pissed. He ran that bloody hand through his sweaty, wind-swept hair as he stormed into the penalty box and took his seat.
Yow. He looked bad-ass.
Madison caught me staring at him from across the rink, and her raspy voice was suddenly in my ear. “Don't get too excited. He looks at all the new girls like that.”
I swallowed, broke my gaze, and shot Madison an innocent and troubled look.
“Wha'?”
“Oh, don't act like you don't know, Honor. I saw the way you two were staring at each other tonight.”
I laughed nervously. Was she joking? I wasn't sure. I thought she was so sweet during the audition, but ever since I told her about my break-up with Todd, she'd flipped a switch.
“I—I haven't looked at him, though …?” I mumbled.
She tutted. “You and Hunter have been eye-fucking each other all night.”
My jaw dropped. I didn't know what to say! I'd gone out of my way to avoid looking at him, or any of the players for that matter. Yet the other girls, including Madison, all chit-chatted with the boys in passing. What the hell was going on?
“Okay, uh—sorry?”
“Just remember the warning I gave you the night I hired you: no fraternization. I will find out.”
“Right …” I mumbled. In moments like those, what can you really do but shake your head and act like you've got the message?
With Hunter serving a penalty, the Bears scored with less than a minute to go. Cunningham scored it—ugh, of course—and he winked at me as he skated past, his arms raised in the air as he celebrated his third goal of the game.
***
After the disappointing loss, we went to our locker room and hit the showers. Locker room chat filled the showers as the girls talked about the highlights and lowlights of the game. I stayed mostly quiet—only chipping in with a comment here or there—since I was still trying to figure out how I fit into the team culture.
“You did great tonight, rookie,” Cora, the assistant captain and third-year girl, told me as we made our way to the shower. At least Cora had been totally sweet to me—and thank God for her. Because without Cora, I'd feel like I was receiving the cold shoulder from the other girls on the team. “You looked so comfortable and confident out there.”
That's good, I thought, because I wasn't feeling comfortable or confident at all. Not since Madison started acting all hostile toward me.
Yet … listening to the banter in the showers? It sure sounded like these girls openly talked about 'fraternizing' with the players. Actually, they talked about doing a lot more than that with the athletes. They talked about late night texts … 'Netflix and chill' … drunken hookups … promises of rings with the next big contract … rumors of exotic get-aways during the off-season …
These girls are openly talking about hooking up with the players, I thought to myself, confused. Why is Madison so on my case about it? I haven't even done anything!
Done with my shower, I wrapped a towel around my body and made my way into the dressing room. Madison and some of the other girls were toweling themselves dry.
“Honor? Sweetheart?” Madison began in a suspiciously cute tone.
“Yeah?”
“Would you mind running across the hall and grabbing some extra bath towels from the janitor's supply? We're running low.”
“Oh, sure.”
Still in my towel, I went out the door and across the hall. But the janitor's supply closet was locked. I headed back to our dressing room to let Madison know, but now that door was locked, too.
I knocked, but only gleeful giggles answered.
Madison yelled back. “Oops! Is the door locked? Too bad. I guess that's what you get for fraternizing!”
And I heard more giggles.
Ugh. Really?
I stood, hoping they'd answer the door—because I didn't know what else to do. Cold beads of water dripped and ran from my hair, and goosebumps began to speckle my damp skin. Commotion swirled all around me, as media personnel and suit-and-tie hockey types passed through the hallway. They gawked at me and muttered things under their breath as they walked by.
“Madison!” I yelled, knocking more urgently. “Please let me in!”
But Madison made it clear she wasn't answering, and she stopped another girl from opening the door for me. (“Don't you dare open that, Cora!”)
A cameraman, passing through the hall, stopped and pointed his camera at me.
“The hell are you doing? No pictures!” I snapped at him—and then I took off, down the hall, checking every doorknob until one finally opened. I slid through the door and pulled it shut.
In front of me, wide-eyed, were the game's officials—two referees and two linesmen. All older men, sitting in their sweaty underwear, and each with a bottle of beer.
“Uhh,” one of the linesman stammered.
“Hi there, sweetheart,” the oldest referee said.
I buried my face in my hands. “I'm so sorry to intrude. Can I hide here for a moment?”
“Pleasure's ours,” the other referee said. “What uh, what happened to your clothes, darling?”
“I got locked out of my dressing room.”
“Oooh.”
A pounding came at the door just behind me. Without any further warning, the knob began to turn, and the door opened.
Oh, great. Here we go!
I hid behind the door as it opened. And in stepped—
Hunter Rockwell?
He hadn't seen me. He stormed forward, into the ref's dressing room, and I quietly slid behind him, my back plastered against the door as it shut.
Hunter hadn't showered yet, and his thick curls were still drenched and glistened with sweat and oil. He had taken off his hockey equipment, but he still wore his athletic underwear: head-to-toe black tights that were practically painted onto every crevice of his tall and chiseled body.
My eyes ticked lower.
Um. Wow.
With those tights, every hard and cut angle of his statuesque physique was on display. His broad, wide back tapered like an arrowhead to his narrow waist. His thighs were as thick as tree-trunks. His calves were sculpted and diamond-shaped. And, who could forget, that high and round butt that defied gravity—just begging me to give his cute ass a pinch.
Not that I ever would! Because not only would that be nuts, I'd probably spook him silly.
But Hunter had come in here with a purpose in mind. He shook his head at the refs, his body language stiff and tense.
“Look, guys, I know you gotta give me a penalty for that sucker punch—but seriously? A five minute major? And no minor to Cunningham, either?”
The senior ref shook his head. “
Give him what? A penalty for getting punched in the face? He baited you, Rockwell, and you fell for it. End of story. You don't think he's in our faces all night, too? But you don't see us taking swings at him, do you? Gotta get your temper in check for the next one, there, bud.”
“I wouldn't have such a temper if you guys would see the things he's doing all game long. The nut taps, the butt-ends to the face, the cross-checks to the ribs, the diving, for god's sake … you guys let him get away with it all night long, and . . .”
I reached for the door knob quietly, trying to slip out of the room stealthily while Hunter pleaded his case. And I almost made it out, until one of the refs noticed. “Hey, where's she going?”
All the refs looked right at me.
“Huh?” Slowly, Hunter turned around, curious what the refs were looking at.
The battle instantly left Hunter's body when he saw me. “Honor? What're you doing here?” His eyes swept down my body—at my bath towel and my bare legs.
I stared at him. My mouth opened, but no words came out—I didn't know what to say. I wasn't supposed to say anything to him. Hell, I was already in trouble for not talking to him. I toed the tile floor—literally toed it, since I had no socks or shoes.
Hunter spied my bare feet, and stepped closer. He lowered his voice. “What're you doing in here? Why are you in a bath towel?”
“I … I got locked out of the girl's dressing room. I just popped in here to get away from all the eyeballs out there.” I gestured through the door, at the noisy hustle and bustle that passed through the hallway.
He looked at me like I was crazy. “Why didn't you just knock to get back in?”
I sighed. “I did.”
He scratched his chin. He hadn't understood.
“They aren't letting me back in, Hunter.” I shook my head. “What was I thinking when I took this job? Those girls already hate me.”
I should've taken Derek's offer and just moved back home, I thought regretfully.
“Hey, c'mon. You looked fantastic out there, Honor.” Hunter rested his goliath hand on my bare shoulder. His huge and salt-gritty hand felt so hot and right on my cold but clean shoulder. “It was your first day on the job. They're probably just hazing you. It'll pass.”