Great. It wasn’t just a Marauder’s nickname anymore—Clover’s body league famous. And for good reason. She possessed the most glorious pair of tits to ever grace this green Earth. Not too big. Not too small. Just perky, rounded, and weaponized. Clover’s breasts existed to remind the world that yes, there was a God, and he was generous, good, and, even after all this time, could still exceed his wildest expectations.
“That’s the one,” I said.
“Who could forget a woman that beautiful?” He side-eyed me. “Always wondered why she hung out with a guy like you.”
I grabbed my stick and roll of tape, ripping a strip between my teeth before applying it to the handle. “If you figure it out, let me know. She wants to have a baby.”
“Good for her.”
“With me.”
Cash snickered. “Get fucked.”
“That’s the plan.”
He pointed at my equipment bag. “You know there’s more effective ways of knocking a girl than using a plastic cup?”
I’d burn the damned thing. “That’s from my appointment with the urologist.”
“Don’t say that word.”
“The doctor thought it’d wise to check if my team is ready to take that…breakaway shot.”
“With a woman like that? I’d be more afraid of a false-start on her face-off.”
I pitched the tape and leaned on my stick. “I’ve always tried to avoid knocking up a girl. Now my best friend wants me to do it intentionally.”
“Try getting drunk. Worked for me and my ex. Hated the wife. Love the kid.”
“How old is she now?”
Cash gestured toward his locker. Didn’t have more than an extra shirt in it now, but he made sure to tape a picture of his little girl to the inside.
The man had a violent, terrible reputation in the league, but he earned every scrape, scratch, and fist to the face for his daughter. She was the only reason he smiled following the divorce, and he’d spent a hell of a lot of money to ensure he got full custody.
“She’s almost four,” he said. “Apparently…she’s spirited. At least, that’s what the nanny says.”
“Which nanny? The blonde?”
“Hell no. That was Helga…she quit two nannies back. Trying a new crop from a different agency. These ones promised they could handle her, but even they’re bitching that she’s difficult. Not sure what they’re so afraid of.” He smirked at the picture. “So, she’s feisty. Big fucking deal. That’s why I pay them a goddamned king’s ransom to keep her happy.”
I finally found my backup jock and started to dress as the door swung open, and the team’s most talented troublemaker strutted into practice.
““Speaking of kids…” I said. “You’re late.”
Beau Beckett was young, cocky, and might’ve been the greatest hockey player to strap on a pair of skates if the superstar could’ve found his way onto the ice with his head stuck that far up his own ass.
I never judged a man for his athletic ability. We all possessed something that made us a stellar player. For some, it was dedication, time spent in the weight room, or an instinct on the ice that created plays.
For guys like Beau? It was God-given talent.
Which made it more aggravating that the kid would waste his potential on arrogance, alcohol, and women.
“Rookie.” I snapped my fingers as he twisted the cap off his drink. “Nice of you to bring me a Gatorade.”
Most first-year athletes knew better than to backtalk the captain.
Beau wasn’t like most players, and that would get him in trouble.
“Seriously?” He scoffed. “Get your own.”
Cash chuckled to himself, probably contemplating the number of trash cans, lockers, and construction sites where he might’ve stuffed the kid.
“I believe your captain wants a drink.” Cash crossed his arms. “Better oblige him if you hope to see the puck at all this season.”
“His legs broken?”
“Yours will be if you keep this shit up.”
Beau had a mouth on him that had yet to be corrected. It’d come in time—or when another member of the line got tired of the attitude and answered him with a punch to the nose. He might’ve been hot shit in the junior league, but a professional team was far different.
We had rules. Traditions. Decorum.
And loudmouthed smartasses learned real quick about the hierarchy on a team when playing with real men versus little boys.
Beau swore but surrendered his Gatorade. Unfortunately, he tossed it at me as I was strapping my pads over my shoulders. The drink rocketed across the locker room, and I turned just in time to catch the bottle before it battered my battleship and the rest of the fleet.
“Gotta be quick, old man.” Beau headed toward the entrance to the rink. “Cause I’m gonna be the one busting what’s left of your balls.”
I dropped the Gatorade on the floor. Cash backed away from the tumbling bottle.
So did I.
Didn’t take much to curse a team, and the last thing I wanted was to black magic the other guys’ voodoos.
Cash pointed his stick at me. “If I were you, I’d wear a cup every goddamned minute of every day until God finally decides to castrate you. And hopefully, you get laid before that.”
He was right, but I wasn’t about to bring that prophecy to life. “The injury is behind me. I’m not gonna get hurt again.”
“Good thing I’m normally in the penalty box. With your luck, a fucking meteor will crash into the bench.”
What the hell would possess him to tempt fate like that?
Fortunately, the ice healed all wounds, cosmic and physical. And a brand-new rink offered us a chance to do what we did best—overcompensating for our insecurities by pushing ourselves passed our limits and beyond what was required of a simple team workout.
Drills weren’t always glamorous, but I’d never missed a workout with any team. The flashy plays and last-minute goals were good television, but the real sport was played from the fundamentals. Skating, stick handling, passing, shooting. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was important, and it separated the good players from the legends.
The coaching staff was in full-force, clipboards in hand as they skated between our few participating players. Warm-ups first. Just some low-intensity skating around the rink. Couple good stretches. Few agility drills. Easy enough, but it wasn’t a team activity.
For that, the coaches dropped a couple dozen pucks onto center ice for our first exercise.
It wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a simple pass-and-shoot drill with a single defender. Nothing complicated. Nothing elaborate. Just some high school bullshit to build trust between a team of literal strangers. The five men on my line would be new to each other. It’d take more than a friendly beer and shared shower to build the camaraderie needed for a functioning team, but we had to start somewhere.
At least we were all in the same colors.
And it provided me with an important teaching moment for the rookie who had a mouth as big as his ego.
“Let’s go!” Beau lazily leaned against his stick. “Hopefully you’re not this slow during a game.”
I skated to his side, waving Cash away before the defensemen checked his own teammate. “Hopefully, you won’t always be this loud.”