Faking It with the Forward: Wittmore U Hockey

As captain, I try to be the example of excellence. That means I make an effort to be the first one at the arena, and often the last to leave. While I’m trying to set a tone of the expectations I have for the rest of the team, I also just like being in the gym or locker room before everyone arrives, the room getting loud with voices and slamming lockers.

It’s game day, our third and next to last preseason match, and the bus won’t be here for another hour. I don’t expect to find anyone else here other than maybe Coach Bryant locked up in his office going over last-minute strategy. But the sound of Coach Green’s voice in the training room catches my attention—particularly when he says my name.

Curious, I step down the hall and listen.

“I didn’t think this was going to be a problem with you, Twyler, which is why I never felt the need to bring it up. You’ve always been focused and kept a clear distance with the players on a social level.” I hear the shuffle of papers. “Hell, the fact you hate jocks was a selling point for agreeing to accept you into the hockey program.”

“It’s not a problem,” Twyler says, her tone firm. “I admit that I’ve become friendly with a few of the players this year, and that’s exactly what you saw in the picture included in the campus newsletter. Two friends at a school-sponsored volunteer project.”

“He’s hanging on you while you’re wearing his sweatshirt. I’m not a teenage girl, but even I know what that implies.”

“It means I was cold, and Reese offered me his sweatshirt.” Her voice rises. “You know how Cain is—how they all are—they flirt nonstop. It’s their only skill besides skating and goal scoring. But you and I both know I am no more Reese Cain’s type than he’s mine.”

Three weeks ago, I would have agreed with her, but now, I’m not so sure. She’s always been this weird chick hanging around the training office. Cool enough, but nothing special. Now I know otherwise. She’s smart, and yeah, still weird with her serial killer fascination and ridiculous insecurities, but she’s cute. No, she’s fucking gorgeous.

I may be reconsidering my type.

Green sighs, and in my mind, I can see him stroking that hideous mustache while thinking. “Fine. I believe you. It seemed far-fetched. You and Cain?” He scoffs, and I rankle at his disbelief at the idea of the two of us together. “I know that if Coach Bryant hears about this, he’ll tell me to replace you. I have no interest in doing that, so consider this your warning. I can’t have my female interns fraternizing with players—especially someone as high profile as Cain. He’s got one job this season and it’s to stay healthy and get us to the tournament, understand?”

“Yes, sir.” I don’t miss the sound of relief in her voice. “I promise you that this will not come up again.”

“Good,” he says. “You’re going to be a good trainer, Twyler. You care about the players and team, but as a woman in a male-dominated sport, keeping boundaries is going to be imperative for the rest of your career.”

“Yes, sir,” she says again, “I understand.”

“Now start packing up the kit for the game. The bus will be here soon.”

I duck away before she exits in the hall, not wanting to surprise her. Shit. This is not what I wanted. She made it clear this arrangement couldn’t fuck with her internship and that’s exactly what it did. And not because of anything she did. But because I had to get territorial.

When I first saw Twyler sitting on her front step wearing my sweatshirt, it triggered an emotion in me that I didn’t expect. It took me back to her being in my bed, looking and feeling sexy as hell, and escalated it into something primal. Prideful. I liked seeing her marked with my name and number. I wanted everyone else to see it too, which is why, when she gave me two opportunities to get it back, I declined them both.

That selfish act just screwed up the thing that’s the most important to her, which makes me a fucking asshole.

Down the hall, I hear Coach Green head out the backdoor. Even though I know I shouldn’t, the need to check on Twyler takes over any rational logic and I go in search of her. A shadow moves under the storage room door. The fact that this is becoming our secret meeting place feels ironic in the fact we’ve done a shitty job hiding our arrangement from her boss.

I open it and step inside.

She doesn’t look happy to see me. In fact, she looks fucking crushed. Her eyes are rimmed in red, and I can tell she’s trying not to cry.

“You can’t be here,” she says, focusing back on the medical kit she’s packing on the shelf. “I just got a lecture from Coach Green about fraternizing with the players.”

“I heard,” I admit. “Are you okay?”

“No.” Her hands tremor as she places items in the kit. “I’m freaking the fuck out, and you being in here isn’t helping.”

“I just wanted to check on you.”

“I can’t be seen with you, and you definitely can’t be seen with me—especially not secretly meeting up in a storage closet.”

“Twy, I’m sorry, we’ll figure something out,” I say, reaching for her. The instant my hand grazes her forearm she jerks away.

“There’s nothing to figure out. We can’t be around each other. Especially not during practice and games. If you need my assistance in a professional capacity, I’ll be there for you, but otherwise, please just leave me alone.” She swallows and there’s a pleading glint in those blue eyes. “This job is too important to me.”

“Okay,” I say, ignoring the crushing weight that I feel in my chest. Guilt? Regret? Whatever it is, it’s not helping either of us. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Thank you.”

She turns her back to me before I even get the door open, which I do slowly, checking to make sure no one sees me before I exit.

An hour later, I get on the bus and head to the back, taking a seat next to Reid. Upfront, Twyler sits behind the coaches, Jonathan taking the seat next to her on the aisle. Not once does she look back at me.

“Why do you look like you’re about to murder Jonathan?” he asks, fishing his headphones out of his backpack. “Afraid he’s hitting on TG?”

“Huh?” I blink, realizing my back is ramrod straight as I watch her over the seat in front of me. “No. Green got on her about fraternizing with the team. He saw a photo of us together at the volunteer event.” I run my hand through my hair. “She doesn’t want us interacting with one another, at all.”

“Oh shit, well, I guess it’s okay, right?” He leans back in his seat. “Shanna’s off your back. You don’t need her anymore, right?”

“Yeah.”

That’s the right answer, but it’s not how I feel. I do need her. That tightness in my chest spreads, and even though I know Jonathan isn’t competition, I don’t like him sitting next to Twyler. I want to be the one that sits next to her. That kisses her. And hell, more and more I think I want to be the one that fucks her too.

I exhale as the driver starts the bus and pulls out of the parking lot. The big vehicle rocks, but I know that’s not what has me completely shook.

I want Twyler Perkins to be mine and I can’t have her.

We’re playing like shit.

No, scratch that, I’m playing like shit.

It doesn’t help that Rodriguez, from Elan College, is determined to shut me down.

“Get any closer, Rodriguez, and I’ll think you have a crush on me,” I say, trying to shake him.

The puck zings through the ice; from Reid to Jeff, who eyes the net. It’s a distraction, he’s sending me the puck, and I sprint, anticipating his pass. It comes smooth and crisp, and I make the connection—

“Fuck!” I swear, watching the puck go wide.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Rodriguez asks, skating by with a smug grin.

“No, asshole, I’m too busy fucking yours.”

The insult rolls off my tongue before I have time to think about it. But hey, it’s hockey. Chirps are part of the game. If you can’t take a verbal sparring, find another sport. Like baseball.

His fists curl, but Jefferson swings around, pushing me away from further altercation. I’m not one to get into fights. I’m too busy focusing on the win. My brain is occupied with strategy and other than speed, my strongest skill is anticipation. Send me the puck and I’ll be there, which is what has Rodriguez so pissed.

I’m faster and smarter than he is.

I’ve played against him before, but over the last year he’s gained twenty pounds of muscle and a shitty attitude. It’s made worse by the fact we’re playing at their home arena. The whole place is a sea of red and black. Their mascot is a bulldog and their nonstop barking only fuels Rodriguez to be an asshole.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Jeff says, adjusting his chin strap.

“I’m not.” We’re down by one, and there are two minutes before we head into the third period. The last thing we need is for one of us to get tossed in the bin. Honestly, Rodriguez having a hard-on for me is exactly what I need. His taunts keep me in the game—keep me focused.

Anything to distract my mind from the dark-haired girl behind the bench.

The ref whistles and the Elan forward, Alton, and I face-off. Rodriguez is a foot behind staring at me like a fucking maniac. Just before the puck drops, he says, “You fingerbang your girl with those hands, Cain?”

It’s not enough to distract me, and as I gain possession, I whiz past him, angle the stick, and make the shot. The puck sails past the goalie and lights the lamp.

“Hell, yes!” Axel’s voice carries from our goal. It’s overtaken by a cacophony of boos—the local fans pissed that I evened up the score.

“Hey,” I say, giving Rodriguez a smirk as I circle behind the net. “At least I score.”

When I come out the other side, I see a flash of red.

“Cain!” Reid shouts in warning, but it’s too late. Rodriguez barrels toward me, his body crushing me into the boards. Chaos surges in the crowd and shouts erupt on the ice. I shove Rodriguez, but Reid is already there, fist connecting with his jaw.

It would be easier if Coach Bryant yelled at us when we got in the locker room for intermission. Instead, he’s quiet. Too quiet as he surveys the fallout. Reid has been ejected—along with Rodriguez for fighting. Jonah Murphy’s knee got tangled up in the scuffle and Coach Green is bent before him, assessing how bad it is.

“Cain,” Coach Bryant barks. “Get your side checked out.”

“I’m fine,” I tell him, after I swallow a gulp of water. “He just knocked the wind out of me.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.” He jerks his head. “Go.”

I stand, doing my best not to wince. Truth is, it feels like I got hit by a sledgehammer.

“Perkins,” Coach Green says, distracted by Jonah, “see to Cain.”

“Yes, sir.” She steps toward the small training room off the locker room. I follow her in and lean against the table.

“Lift up your shirt.” When I hesitate, she adds, “We all saw the hit. Let me see it.”

How lame is it that I’m into the fact she watches me play?

I lift up the right side of my jersey, revealing the area that got bruised. “Tell me you saw the goal, too.”

“I saw it.” Her eyes go wide. Not because of my impressive abs, but because I got a hell of a bruise forming. “Jesus, Reese.”

“It’s fine,” I say before she can flip out. “I can still play the third period.”

My abs retract before she even touches me, in anticipation of the pain. “Fine, huh?” She rolls her eyes. Her touch is firm but gentle. She’s so fucking good at that. “Are your ribs tender?”

“No. I swear it’s just a bruise.” I take a swig of my water bottle. “I’ve had worse.”

She snorts. “That’s not reassuring. Y’all’s tolerance for pain makes you keep playing well past the point of reason.”

She grabs an ice pack from the cooler and presses it against my side. It’s cold, and I jolt before relaxing into the chill on my overheated skin.

“You can go back out, but you need to calm down. It’ll help with Rodriguez ejected, but the rest of the team will want revenge.” She cleans her hands with antibacterial gel. “I think their goalie has an injury.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s favoring his left side, even though he’s a righty. My guess is he strained his shoulder. Maybe his wrist. Go for the right. He doesn’t have the reach.”

“Good catch.” I arch an eyebrow. “Thought you weren’t into hockey.”

“Just because I’m not into it, doesn’t mean I don’t understand the game.” She steps back and gives me a hard look. “Don’t do anything stupid out there, okay?”

“I won’t,” I tell her, easing off the table to go join the rest of the team.

“And Reese,” she gives me a final look. “Take the shot when you get the chance. Don’t overthink it.”

I nod, recognizing that applies to more than just hockey. I had a shot with Twyler and I blew it. If another opportunity comes my way, there’s no way in hell I’m going to let it pass.

“Sure you don’t want to come?” Jeff asks, shrugging on his jacket. Reid and Axel stand in the doorway, itching to get to the bar.

“Nah, y’all go without me.” Truth is that I think I’d pass out if I went to the Badger Den with the guys. I barely got changed, giving up after I pulled on a pair of sweats. It’s late, the bus didn’t get back until almost ten, but my roommates aren’t going to waste a Saturday night. “I’ll be here with my ice pack and a pizza.”

“Want me to call Ginna?” Axel asks. “She’d be happy to keep you company while you recover.”

The answer to that is a hard no. Finding solace in a jersey chaser’s pussy is the last thing I want right now. “Pass, but thanks for the offer.”

“Your loss, brother,” he says, walking out the door with Reid.

Jeff lingers a minute longer, disappearing into the kitchen. He returns with two, ice cold bottles of beer. “One to dull the pain by drinking. One to ice that bruise.”

I take them with plans on definitely drinking them both. “Thanks, man.”

From the couch I turn on ESPN and order a pizza, trying not to cry when my side seizes from twisting off the cap of the beer bottle. With less than sixty seconds to spare, we won the game when Kirby lit the lamp with a beautiful goal. It was fucking epic, giving the bulldogs an undeniable fuck-you loss at home. Jonah’s knee seems to be okay, just a tweak, but fucking Rodriguez deserved more than just an ejection.

I’m watching highlight reels of professional matches when the doorbell rings, which seems awfully fast for delivery on a weekend. Struggling to my feet, I clutch the ice pack against my side and open the door.

Not only is my pizza steaming hot, but so is the delivery person.

“You’re way better looking than my normal pizza guy,” I say, looking past the box of pizza to Twyler. She’s in jeans that have a row of slashes ripped up the thigh and a tight black sweater.

The image of that soaking wet shirt clinging to her body comes back to me and yep, even in massive pain my dick is ready to go.

I lean against the door and try to look cool, not like I’m barely able to stand without support. “Decide to get a new job so we can be seen together?”

“File this under professional capacity,” she says, using the same wording as earlier today. “I came by to check on your bruise.”

Her eyes aren’t anywhere near where I clutch the ice pack over my ribs. They’re hovering somewhere just above the waistband of my sweats.

“I didn’t know the training staff made house calls.” I step back, giving her room to walk in.

“We don’t,” she admits, and there’s a flicker of something in her eye. She’s worried about me.

Huh.

Handing me the pizza, the edge knocks into my side and I release a grunt.

“Oh, shit,” her eyebrows furrow, “sorry.”

“It’s fine, Sunshine.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sit down and let me check it out.”

I ease down on the couch, and when I move the ice pack, she winces at the discolored flesh.

“Looks worse than it feels,” I promise.

“Then it must feel like you got rammed by an elephant.”

She’s not wrong. “It’s part of the game. A little food, a lot of beer, some meds, and a good night’s sleep and I’ll be fine.” To prove my point, I take a swig of my open beer and open the lid on the pizza box. Turning it toward her, I offer, “Want a slice?”

“I wasn’t planning on staying.” But she glances over at the pizza box and I can tell she’s wavering.

“We can even watch a murder documentary.” I up the ante, handing her the remote. “Just not the one with the clowns.” I shudder. “He freaks me the fuck out.”

“Gacy,” she says, but then tenses. “Really, I shouldn’t be here.”

“I think Coach Green would approve of you keeping watch over the team’s star player.” I wink. “In a professional capacity, of course.”

It’s a lame way to try to get her to stay, but fuck, I want her to. I just want to hang out with her one way or the other, even if it’s just as friends.

“One slice of pizza,” she says, diving into the box. “And one show. That’s all.”

I fight a grin. “Perfect.”

“So,” she says, with a mouth full of greasy cheese, “how do you feel about cults?”