Hooked: A Hockey Romance

by June Winters

  Damn. Did I just scare her off? Fuck me.

  This girl wanted me to be something more than I was. More than just a hockey player who wooed girls with my fame, my money. But at the end of the day? That's all I knew. That's all I was. A dumbass hockey player who couldn't keep his dick out of trouble.

  I lifted my deflating cock, gave it an angry stare, and let it fall limp against my abs. It toppled like a fallen tree, splashing into a puddle of cum.

  Fucking thing always gets me into trouble.

  Chapter 13:

  Whoops

  Honor

  I woke up with my head in a dense, swirling fog.

  Am I sick? was my first thought.

  And my second thought, oh, right. I'm hungover.

  That was my punishment for staying at the bar with Cora and watching the entire game. We hadn't planned on watching the whole thing … and we certainly hadn't planned on getting as smashed as we did. But with the way the boys played against Montreal, crushing them 7-0? Well. It was easy to get carried away.

  Carried away. That phrase echoed in my head, like a giant ringing bell, and a disturbing realization struck me.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  I had phone sex with Hunter Rockwell last night.

  Hoping that memory was just a sick dream, I sat up and kicked my heavy comforter off my legs. But my worst fears were confirmed when I realized my bottom was nude. A deserted pair of panties laid between the bed and my body, pressed into a flat, wrinkled mess.

  The memories came flooding back: I'd hastily yanked those panties off once Hunter started sweet talking me. Wait, 'sweet' talking? Is that how deluded I've become? He didn't sweet talk me at all; he just lured me in with the rhythmic tugs of his fist on hard flesh, wap wap wap, as he pleasured himself over the phone.

  God, that was so dirty of him.

  But I can't deny it. It worked. Because the sound of his smacking flesh possessed me. His manly grunts and weakened groans made me do something I couldn't take back: I started to play with myself, too. I didn't think he'd know—I thought I could do it in secret. But oh, he figured it out, and he figured it out real fast. And once the cat was out of the bag? I couldn't stop myself.

  We urged each other on with our sounds of passion, moaning and groaning into each other's ears. Our private little sex party. The fact that I knew it was a bad idea only made it that much more delicious.

  Worst of all, I actually came over the phone. I let him listen to the most personal and intimate sound of all: my screams of orgasmic bliss.

  I slapped my forehead. “I am so fucked.”

  Hunter was definitely going to chase after me now. Like a shark who'd caught a scent of blood in the water. And then it'd just be a matter of time until the girls knew that something was up.

  If there was any silver lining in this … it was the fact that the team was going to stay on the road for a little while longer. So I had a small amount of time to get my act together—and push Hunter away again.

  I hopped out of bed and checked my phone. One text from Hunter. My heart quickened as I opened it. A series of texts, all sent last night, after I'd passed out:

  “Hope I didn't scare you off.”

  “I wanna take you out on a date when I get back. Just me and you. Dinner. No one has to find out.”

  And his last text, at 2:00 AM?

  “Goodnight beautiful.”

  ***

  I mulled those text messages for two more days, wondering if or how to reply. The prospect of a dinner date excited me, even if I knew it was yet another bad idea. I guess I just wanted to believe, more than anything else, that Hunter really liked me. His confession last night about Allison, and how he'd been 'spiraling' out of control sure seemed promising. And, if he was telling the truth about not smoking cigarettes anymore, that was promising, too. And the fact that he changed sticks told me he was willing to listen to what I had to say and take it seriously.

  But based on what Cora told me, I couldn't trust Hunter. Because he and all the other athletes just wanted to get laid, and they'd say and do anything to get it. That meant I couldn't trust my own intuition, because I was dealing with a known liar.

  So I didn't reply. Better to take time and space and let things cool down. I made a call back home instead. My parents had been waiting to hear from me for over a week. I told my parents that I was doing fine without Todd … that my new roommates were great … and that I was serving tables at a diner in LoDo.

  Yeesh.

  I still didn't have the heart to tell them that I was now a professional cheerleader of sorts. Of course, Mom and Dad were both super-excited and curious for details of my new life in Denver. And since I was giving them details of a fictional life, I struggled to find anything to actually tell them. And all that did was make them worried that I was depressed about Todd, and not getting out of the house or meeting any new people.

  “Trust me, I'm not depressed about Todd. I've blocked his number and all his social media and I barely even think of him anymore.”

  Then I asked them to put my brother Derek on the phone. He answered, we traded insults and made some small chat, and then I cut to the chase. “Hey Derek.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I wanna ask you something.” I stalled. “It's kind of personal and kind of embarrassing, too. So, uh, kindly escape Mom and Dad's presence, if you haven't already.”

  “Gimme a sec. I'll go to my room.”

  I waited.

  “Okay. Lay it on me, sis.”

  I took a deep breath. “First, don't judge me. Second, how do you treat a girl when you actually like her, versus just wanting to sleep with her?”

  Derek whistled. “Wow, you really are moving on from Todd!”

  “I said, don't judge me!”

  “I'm just givin' ya shit, sis. You're single now, why not date around? Just remember, if you need someone to pound anybody's face in, give me a call. I need an excuse to visit Colorado, anyway. Cheap, legal weed? Oh, hell yea—”

  “Jesus, Derek. Answer the question.”

  “Okay, okay. Sheesh. When it comes to scoring pussy? Less is more.”

  I huffed. “I don't know what that means, but it already sounds gross.”

  “Listen, you're asking me to go against the guy's code and divulge our secrets, here. Don't act all prissy if you really wanna know this stuff.”

  “Fine. Go ahead.”

  “Point is. If I'm only interested in getting laid, I'm not going to invest myself too much in a girl who wants to be chased. Because if a girl sees you're willing to jump through hoops for her, well … guess what. She'll suddenly want to know how high and how many more hoops you'll jump through. That's a losing proposition for the man who only wants a pump and dump.”

  I resisted the urge to urp all over my phone.

  “So if she's just a piece of ass, I'll only talk to her on my terms. A text here, a text there, and only when I feel like it, never because she wants me to text her. The idea is to give just enough contact for her to know that I'm not all that serious about her, and if she gets her hopes up over me, that's her fault, because I'm obviously not Prince Charming, here.”

  “Okay … and if you do like the girl?”

  “Well. Very rarely is that the case. But if a girl comes along who is so magical and captivating that I, for some reason, feel compelled to date her? Yes. I will jump through all those goddamn hoops, as many times as she wants.”

  “What if a guy is willing to jump through all the hoops just to get laid, though? Is that a thing?”

  “You mean, the kind of guy who will say I love you if it means getting his dick wet, and you won't realize he didn't mean it until it's already too late? Yeah, sure, they're out there, too. Not much you can do about them, I guess. The world's filled with all types, y'know?”

  “So … there's really no way of knowing which he might be.”

  “Yup! Pretty much.” Derek smacked his lips. “So, who's the lucky
guy?”

  I stammered. “Oh, um. Just—a co-worker.”

  “Oh, at the diner? What is he, the fry cook? Or the dishwasher?”

  I laughed. “Trust me, no—he makes good money.”

  “Oooh, so he's the manager, then. Damn, Honor! Shootin' high! Does he drive a sweet, beat up '92 Ford Taurus?”

  How did older brothers always know exactly which buttons to press?

  “Actually,” I snarled, “he drives a Masera—”

  I cut myself off and squeezed my eyes shut.

  “Uh.” Derek chuckled. “You were about to say Maserati.”

  “I meant to say Mazda.”

  “Bit of a difference between those cars,” Derek said. But his tone had changed—he went from playful and teasing to suddenly skeptical. I knew I had to get off the phone before he started digging.

  “Well hey, Derek, I should go. But thanks for revealing the secrets of dirtbag men everywhere.”

  “Sure, sure. Just tell me one last thing, sis?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You ever hear back about that ice girl job?”

  Fuck. He knew.

  I gulped. “Oh, ah, no. I guess they hired somebody else.”

  “Ohhh. Okay. Because if were talking about an athlete—”

  “Alright! I really gotta go now! Thanks again! Bye Derek!”

  “Mm-hm. You bet, sis. Later.”

  I hung up, tossed my phone on the bed and stared at it as if it were an evil thing that could only bring bad things into my life.

  As if on cue, my phone vibrated. I peeked. Another text from Hunter: “What's up? Haven't heard from you in two days. Mad? Say the word and I'll leave you alone.”

  “Ugh!” I yelled. I didn't want him to worry about me when he should be focusing on his hockey game, but I still didn't know what to say. Because which guy was Hunter? Was he the guy jumping through hoops for my heart, or he was the psychopath who would say anything to get laid?

  I fired back with a salvo of texts of my own, powered my phone off, and sighed.

  Whew. It's done. Whatever happens, happens.

  Chapter 14:

  Test

  Rockwell

  The team had just finished up our morning skate, which wasn't so pretty. Once we left the ice and made it back to the dressing room, I made a bee-line to my stall and reached for my phone.

  “Jesus,” Vinny laughed. “You with that phone all week, man. What's going on? You got somebody you're finally interested in, Rockwell?”

  “Hell nah,” I forced a smug grin. “Just seeing if any girls in Toronto wanna meet up after the game. You know me.” It was a lie, but I couldn't have the boys thinking I was going all soft on them or anything.

  But I glanced and saw Honor still hadn't replied to any of my texts over the past two days, ever since the phone sex incident—and my heart crumpled like a shitty piece of paper tossed into the wastebasket. Damn.

  After the morning skate, we went back to the hotel and ate lunch. After lunch, we always take a pre-game nap. But I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned in bed. I figured Honor needed space after last night, but I needed to know if she hated my guts or what.

  I texted her. “What's up? Haven't heard from you in two days. Mad? Say the word and I'll leave you alone.”

  And, finally, her reply came in, one text after another: “Not mad. We both got carried away that night and I wanted space. Date? I dunno if that's a good idea. Win your game tonight, and maybe, MAYBE I'll say yes.”

  My crumpled-up-paper heart popped right out of the wastebasket, and back into my chest, where it happily pounded. Was this a test? Sure, but I didn't care. I just wanted that date. I was probably only putting off the inevitable—when she'd find out that beyond the money and prestige, there wasn't a whole lot to love about Hunter Rockwell.

  But was that really my problem?

  “Deal,” I texted her back.

  ***

  I had it tonight: that pure, concentrated power of will that elevates men to greatness.

  But the rest of the team? They'd explored the Toronto club scene last night, and didn't get back until late—drunk as skunks, too. Coach was furious over it, but we couldn't change that now.

  As the game wore on, their fatigue started to show. Their feet stopped moving. On the bench, they bent over, sucking air and looking like they might spew.

  Late in the third period, we were trailing Toronto by one goal.

  “C'mon, boys!” I yelled to rally the troops on the bench. “I'm not fuckin' losing this game! Get it together!”

  My shift came next. I hopped over the boards and charged into the play, my legs chugging along the ice like a runaway train.

  I threw my shoulder into the Toronto d-man and let my momentum surge right through him. He flew off his skates and crashed into the end boards—Boom!—leaving the puck for me to steal.

  Stick on my puck, head up, battling through slashes on my wrists and hooks that yanked at my mid-section, I drove behind the net and flipped a quick backhand pass into the slot to Vinny.

  Vinny slapped at it, and the puck rocketed right between the goalie's legs.

  Tie game.

  I took a breather on the bench, nervously watching my hung-over teammates get pinned in our defensive zone.

  C'mon, boys, clear the zone. Get me back out there.

  Honor. That's all I could think. Those sexy moans of hers—I wanted them in my ear again. Only this time for real. Her breath, hot against my bare neck. Her nails digging into my back. Her legs wrapped around my waist, pushing me deeper into her.

  I needed her, god damn it, and that meant I needed to win this game.

  My tired teammates finally managed to flip the puck out of the zone, and coasted back to the bench for a line change.

  I hopped over the boards in a hurry and filled my defensive lane at center ice. The Toronto puck-carrier, a speedy little d-man, turned on his jets and tried to blow right by me. Any other night this season, he would have beat me.

  But not tonight.

  As soon as he went for it, I lunged with my stick, and caught him from behind. Snatched the puck right off him like a sneaky purse thief.

  And then I was off the races: a break away.

  I coasted in, all alone, one-on-one with the goalie. And all I could think was, I hope Honor's watching, because I was about to pull the same move.

  I cut left and faked the shot—the goalie bit. I swept the puck to the backhand side. Goalie kicked his leg out.

  Get the puck up six inches, that's it, that's all.

  I shoveled the puck over his leg. It rang off the cross-bar and deflected into the net.

  Goal. We took the lead with seconds remaining, and my teammates mobbed me.

  ***

  “You saved our ass tonight, captain!” Vinny shouted over the dressing room ruckus.

  The boys all around me pounded my shoulder and mussed my hair.

  “What the hell got into you these past couple games, Rockwell?” someone else hollered.

  “I dunno,” I lied.

  I checked my phone. A text from Honor awaited me: “So, that was cool.”

  I answered: “Yeah, and now you owe me a date.”

  “Remember, I said MAYBE … let's see how the shoot goes tomorrow first.”

  Pff, there was no 'maybe' about it: I was getting that date.

  “Can't wait,” I answered her.

  Chapter 15:

  She Can Shoot

  Honor

  I employed a little lawyer-speak when I told Hunter that I might say yes to a date, if the Blizzard won their game. But after seeing how they won it, I knew it'd be tough to weasel my way out of it.

  Hunter absolutely took over that game. I don't know what was wrong with the other Blizzard players, because they looked lazy and unmotivated. Not Hunter, though. He was driven. A man on a mission. He looked like he could skate through a brick wall.

  And knowing that a date with me was his motivation? That he wanted to spend
time with me so badly, he would throw grown men to the ice like they were nothing? That was … flattering. To say the least. I couldn't wait to see him again.

  Outside this arena, we had something—I'm not sure what, but something, undeniably. And when I thought of Hunter, my heart thumped in my chest with a giddy beat, excited to find out what our future might hold.

  Inside this arena, though, we had to pretend like we didn't know each other. At all. No feelings, no crushes, definitely no make-out or phone sex sessions. That meant no stealing glances at each other. No trying to catch each other's eye to silently communicate on some small detail. Because someone always noticed those things.

  It'd be hard. Damned hard. I knew that. That's why I was scared. And when I stepped into the arena and made my way for the girls' dressing room, my flighty stomach began to flip and flop.

  Even though we couldn't talk, or maybe especially because we couldn't talk, I wanted to leave Hunter a little hint that I was thinking of him. So, before I left for the arena, I did my hair in the Dutch crown braid that he said he liked so much. Would he notice?

  At last, I arrived. I opened the girls' dressing room door, and heard Madison recounting last night's game to her group of loyal followers.

  “And, oh my God! Did Hunter play amazing last night or what? That goal he made at the last second? Amazing. Last time he tried it, he missed. But after that game, I told him not to be discouraged, because next time I knew he'd make it. I can't wait to ask him if he made that goal because of me . . .”

  I tried to slip in unnoticed, and not interrupt Madison's story, but she whipped around and saw me.

  “Oh. If it isn't Honor.”

  “Hi Madison, hi everyone,” I said.

  Madison sucked her cheeks in. “Listen. Honor. I meant to tell you this earlier. I know Hunter said he wanted you here for this shoot, right …”

  Uh huh.

  “But, actually, I have to veto that idea. See, like I told Hunter earlier, this shoot is for the second-year girls only. No rookies allowed. And it just wouldn't be very fair to the other girls if you participated.”