Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
But I wouldn’t get anywhere if I didn’t make an effort.
Starting now.
9
DENNY
Playoff hockey was a whole new kind of stress. I thought I knew what I was in for: nonstop travel, high-profile press conferences, and physically grueling games. My two trips to the Frozen Fours with Denver and my AHL playoffs last year were a glimpse into the future, but the reality was ten times more nerve-wracking.
As per my usual, I was one thousand percent in the zone while I was on the ice and a complete basket case in street clothes. Well, not really. I was actually doing okay lately. I used breathing exercises and mindset awareness techniques to talk myself through a few spur-of-the-moment interviews where I’d been cornered, a microphone shoved in my face. They worked.
That was bigger news than I wanted to admit. I mean, last year, I’d had a panic attack in a crowded elevator that had brought me to my knees. Yeah, that was mortifying. The team doctor had diagnosed exhaustion, which my coach decided sounded better than a bout of crippling anxiety.
I’d known from the start that if I wanted a career in the NHL, I was going to have to find creative ways to handle my stress. Most of the time, I called a friend from home—usually MK. She had a calming voice, and she knew me. I didn’t have to pretend I was okay with her.
But we weren’t who we used to be. There was an unspoken tension between us neither of us wanted to address. She had someone new and I didn’t want to interfere with that, which meant we probably needed to make a clean break and tell our friends and family members. It was the right thing to do—after playoffs.
For now, I needed to concentrate on my game. I didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with outside complications. That should have included Hank, but in a twist, my gay fuck-buddy was the ultimate stress reliever.
There wasn’t much to it. We saw each other two more times in Denver—once early on in the playoffs and after a nail-biter where I’d scored the winning goal that propelled us to the next round and helped the Condors move one step closer to the Stanley Cup. Exciting stuff, right?
When he buzzed into my apartment building later that night, my heart pounded faster than it had during the third period. We came together in a heated tangle of tongues and grabby hands, tearing at clothes in a frantic effort to get to skin. We were desperate for friction yet unwilling to stop kissing long enough to speed things along.
Or maybe we knew speed wasn’t the issue. I came the second Hank took both of us in hand, sliding his cock alongside mine. Three strokes and I was done. Later, we took a lazy shower. At some point, he fell to his knees on the tile and sucked the life out of me while I threaded my fingers in his hair. He milked me dry, then stood, turned me to face the wall, and rubbed his cock against my ass, spurting cum over my lower back.
I vaguely recalled drying off and stumbling into my room, satiated and exhausted.
We’d sat in my bed, talking about the game, the playoffs in general, and next thing I knew we were at it again, sucking, licking, biting…whatever it took to get as close as possible.
He maneuvered me on the bed, so we could blow each other at the same time. That was another first for me. He’d fingered me while he deep-throated my dick before changing tactics to licking my balls and the sensitive skin around my hole. I’d gone perfectly still but didn’t stop him. And when my orgasm hit, it wrung me out for the night.
He’d left my place at three a.m. with a quick kiss on the cheek and a sleepy “good luck.” I’d thought about asking if he wanted to stay, but…no. I didn’t want this to feel complicated for either of us.
It occurred to me the next day that we’d never once discussed Elmwood.
Maybe Hank saved Elmwood questions for texting.
I went to the diner yesterday and asked the chef’s opinion about using pre-minced garlic.
JC? I’d typed.
Thumbs-up emoji. I think that was a mistake. He started speaking French and threw his arms in the air. I might be barred from the diner for life.
The next day…Problem solved. I brought JC a garlic plant. He’s speaking to me again. In English.
I’d read that particular text in the locker room and had busted up laughing, accidentally drawing attention my way. “Winning feels good, eh, rookie?” someone had teased.
“Tell your girl we said hi, Hotshot.”
“Ask her if she has a friend!”
“Ask her if she has two friends!”
I hadn’t responded, obviously. “My new fuck-buddy is funny” would have required a bigger explanation than I was ready to give.