Faking It with the Forward: Wittmore U Hockey

“I’m making eggs,” Jeff says as I walk into the kitchen the next morning. “You guys want some?”

His eyes dart behind me, looking for Twyler. Take a look, bud, she’s not here. She wasn’t in my bed when I woke up and her side of the mattress was cold.

There’s only one possibility. I scared her off.

Reid looks up from his bowl of cereal, a line slashing his forehead. “Cap, where’s Twy?”

“She left.” I head straight for the coffee, thankful someone already started it.

“Please tell me you didn’t kill her last night.”

Okay, so apparently if you’re Reid, there’s another possibility. I’m a murderer.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I grab a cup and fill it to the brim. Black. No milk. Just like Twyler said.

“I just heard all that noise from your room last night, and they didn’t sound like your standard sex moves so—”

“Wait,” Jeff says, taking his plate and sitting at the bar. “I’m curious what the difference is between murder sounds and sex sounds. Describe please.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, knowing there’s no way to stop them when they get started on early morning bullshit.

“You all have them,” Reid says, as though keeping track of his roommates’ sex sounds is completely normal. “Axel likes it rough and definitely chooses screamers, so overturned furniture and that kind of sound coming from his room wouldn’t be a surprise.” His eyes shift to Jeff. “You love a good wall fuck, bro. Half the time I think you may come through our shared wall. I’ve stopped hanging anything up because it falls and scares the shit out of me.”

“Are you sure it’s not a ghost?” I ask, getting in a jab.

He rolls his eyes, like that’s ridiculous. “Reese is usually pretty quiet, other than that squeak in his mattress and a little headboard banging.” He shrugs, but then points his spoon at me. “Oh, can’t forget the sound of whoever he’s fucking chanting his name like he’s just lit the lamp.”

“Oh, Reese!” Axel moans in a high-pitched voice from the couch across the room. Fuck. I didn’t even see him. “Don’t stop! Your tongue is ammmaazing.”

They all crack up, Reid dropping his head on the counter, in full body shakes.

 “Hi-fucking-larious.” I lean back against the counter. “I can’t help that when I go down on a chick she wants to worship me like I’m a higher power. It’s a gift.” I take another sip of coffee, feeling my brain slowly wake up. “And stop listening to everyone fuck. It’s creepy.”

“Seriously, dude,” Jeff says, barely concealing a grin, “the walls are thin, but get some headphones like the rest of us.”

Reid shrugs, making it clear he will not be getting headphones because he’s a perv.

“Regardless,” I say, feeling the need to clear this up, even if it’s with a lie, “I didn’t kill her. She just had to leave early. No big.”

Although it feels big. I’ve asked plenty of girls to leave after we had sex. I’ve never had one take off before I wanted her to.

“Probably didn’t want to do the walk of shame out of the Manor in broad daylight,” Axel says, stretching out on the couch. He adjusts himself, cupping his hand over the crotch of his black boxer briefs. Otherwise he’s got nothing on, his ink on full display. “TG’s not the kind of girl that wears a fuck like a badge of honor.”

Huh. He may be on to something.

Because last night had been amazing. Not the first part where she showed up crying and accusing me of knowing about Nadia’s quarterback hookup. Or even when I went to bed with a raging boner, restless, and unable to sleep, which is why I flipped out of the fucking chair. But the part after that, where she straddled my ass and ran her hands all over my body? Hell yeah. I can still feel her hot little pussy pressed up against the back of my thighs. But worse? How wet she was when I flipped over, and my cock drilled in between her legs.

Two strokes. That’s all it would’ve taken.

Which is why I had to put a stop to it before I embarrassed myself and traumatized her for life.

Lost in my thoughts, I exit the kitchen, leaving them to their inane discussion. It’s Sunday, which means we only have one practice—at two.

OneFive: Morning, Sunshine. Imagine my surprise when I woke up and found my bed empty.

I give her a minute to respond. She could be asleep. Or in the shower. Or reconsidering all her life choices from the last twenty-four hours.

Ding!

InternTwy: Sorry. I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep. I figured I’d get home to deal with this Nadia situation.

OneFive: How did that go?

InternTwy: She wasn’t here.

OneFive: Sorry about that. I’m sure you two can work this out.

InternTwy: Maybe.

I step in my room, looking at the broken chair and messy bed. For two people not having sex, it sure looks like we destroyed the room last night. I straighten the covers out of habit, looking for my sweatshirt in the process, but it’s nowhere to be found.

OneFive: So… are we good? Everything cool after last night? Because I may need you to check in with Reid and assure him that I didn’t commit murder last night.

InternTwy: Will do : )

It’s not until after my shower and I’m tying my sneakers to leave for practice that I check my phone again. The last message hangs like an undropped bomb. A smiley emoticon is good, right? But she definitely didn’t answer my question.

So are we? Good?

With an enigma like Twyler Perkins, hell if I know.

I’m almost to the arena when my phone rings. I open it without looking, hoping it’s Twyler.

“Reese! Great game yesterday, son.” My dad. I try to hide my frustrated disappointment. “Two goals and an assist.”

“Thanks. I think we played well.” I enter the arena, but stop just inside the lobby outside the locker room to continue the call.

“You did, and if you keep it up, I can see you getting to the Frozen Four.”

My dad knows hockey. He knows better than anyone what it takes to get to a championship and then to win one. And he sure as hell knows the hard work that goes into getting to the NHL. He’s not a bullshitter so a compliment from him means a lot.

“I know the breakup with Shanna last spring was hard, but if the result is better focus and a championship season, then it’ll be worth it. Taking the option to go as a free agent means you have to be better than the rest.”

My father thinks the reason that Shanna and I broke up after losing the Frozen Four last spring was because I wanted to focus solely on hockey. He’s unaware of the ultimatum she gave me, and some of that is because I was afraid if he found out, he may agree with her. He wasn’t completely on board with my decision to not enter the draft, but ultimately, he respected it.

Being a free agent is risky, but it comes with a lot of power.

“Securing that trophy will have the big guys knocking on your door,” he adds. “Including New York.”

“I hope so.”

“And taking a break from dating this year is smart. Women, no matter how much we love ‘em, are a distraction.”

There’s an unspoken addendum here: they also steal your dreams. I know my father regrets being tied down so early in life. Same with having a kid and responsibilities. Even after his injury he could have taken more risks in coaching if he hadn’t had a family to drag along.

We talk a bit more, shifting the conversation from my team to his. He’s coached the Hurricanes for fifteen years and he’s got a good eye for cultivating youth athletes. “You should see this kid,” he says, talking about a fourteen-year-old named Johnny. “Fast as lightning and has good stick handling skills.”

“Sounds like you found a winner,” I say, happy to hear his team is shaping up.

Axel and Reid walk in the door, bringing in a burst of sunlight.

“Okay, Dad, I probably should go. Practice is about to start.”

We say our goodbyes, and I follow the others into the locker room.

From the minute we hit the ice Coach works us during practice in a way that you’d think we lost by four instead of won. “Now isn’t the time to get content. That was one game. We have three preseason games left and then an entire season. I don’t want you just to win. I want you flawless.” He slams his fist on his clipboard. “Let’s get on the ice and set the tone that gets us to the playoffs!”

While Coach busts our balls on the ice, I’m aware of Twyler behind the bench the whole time. She’s busy, splitting her time between basic tasks like handing out water or ice packs and assessing any injuries from the first game. Pete’s still paranoid about his ankle and Kirby’s nose is a fucking disaster. His whole face is purplish-green, and Coach Green makes him sit out, adhering to concussion protocol.

I try my best not to focus on her.

Try and fail.

If she’s aware of me, it’s impossible to tell. Not once does she look up from her work to find me on the ice. That doesn’t stop me from obsessing over how her dark hair is pulled up and she’s got on her ratty old hoodie and joggers. Now that I know what she looks like half-naked—smooth skin, nice sized tits, a pussy that cradles perfectly between my thighs—I want to peel off the rest of the layers and explore what’s underneath.

“Cain!” A puck skitters a foot away, snapping me out of my daydream. “Get your head out of your ass and start the play!”

By the time Coach has us skating lines, I’m dripping with sweat and my entire body aches. I rest my hand on my back as we skate off the ice and head down the tunnel.

“Is your back still bothering you?” she asks, finally acknowledging me when I lumber past. I don’t miss the wrinkle of ill-placed guilt in her eye. “Do you need me to check on it?”

“Maybe later, Sunshine,” I say quietly, giving her a wink that elicits that pretty shade of pink I’m starting to imagine running down every inch of her body. She doesn’t bother responding, but I see the small curve on her lips as she turns away.

Yeah, later is when I’m going to kiss the hell out of that mouth again.

Except ‘later’ is cockblocked, or maybe mouthblocked?, by Coach Bryant. He has us hit the showers and then orders us into the media room, the film from the prior game already queued up. There’s a collective groan, no one wanting to spend their Sunday afternoon replaying mistakes. Coach Bryant is on fire, going on and on, like he’s channeling a preacher in the front of a packed church. We’re held captive, going through replays of the video, until Kirby’s stomach churns so loud the whole room hears it.

“Alright,” Coach says, annoyed that we require things like food and have homework to do, “we’ll call it a day. See everyone here tomorrow afternoon. On time. No excuses.”

“Dinner?” Jeff asks, hitching his bag over his shoulder. “Dining hall is still open.”

“Uh…” I’m distracted by the text I’m attempting to compose for Twyler. “Give me a minute.”

He peers over the screen. “Still trying to figure out why you woke up in an empty bed?”

“Shut up.”

But yeah.

He just laughs and shakes his head, grabbing Reid and heading out of the arena.

The locker room empties out and I sit on the bench, wavering over the message. How desperate is too desperate? Is thirsty hot or a turn off? Never in my life have I spent this much time on a simple text. What’s wrong with me?

I settle on, “Can we meet up?” and have my thumb over the send button when a loud, slow-moving crash sounds from down the hall.

Stashing my phone, I run down the hall. A low curse comes from behind the storage closet door.

Jerking open the door, I find Twyler crumpled on the floor, surrounded by hundreds of tiny square packets of antiseptic wipes.

She looks so pissed off and annoyed that I know better than to laugh, although it’s really fucking hard not to. Thrusting out my hand, I ask, “Need some help, Sunshine?”