Shut Out (7 page)

Saturday night, we've just finished our first game of the year, the exhibition game at home against Queen's. I've been waiting for this for weeks now—no, months, actually, a chance to get on the ice and shoot the puck and play a real hockey game, goddammit.

In the dressing room after the game, I feel the difference. It's subtle, but there's a shift in attitude toward me. I'm included in the trash talk and high fives. The guys are all in a great mood from the win, which hopefully sets the tone for the season just starting, and I think they know that I was part of that.

But only a part. Hockey is a funny sport because there can be individual stars—but they don't win games by themselves. There's no getting away from the fact that it's a team sport. I can't score goals unless someone feeds me the puck. Well, I can, but what I'm trying to say is a win comes from the whole team playing together and never from just one player.

Even though I know I have talent, the hockey community teaches us to value teamwork, team success, and team rewards. A talented quarterback can be in the spotlight, but a hockey player is nothing without his team.

The only guy who still seems hostile is Black Jack—Jack Jones, who's been a pain in my ass since I arrived here. Our very first practice on the ice he slammed me into the boards with bone-breaking force. I had to hit him back to maintain respect, but that seemed to piss him off even more. Honestly, he's kind of an asshole. He's a senior, so he's been playing on the team for a few years, and I have total respect for the veteran players and try not to overstep my newbie boundaries, but he's not that great of a player and I'm starting to think he's a little bitter about that. Three players on our team have already been drafted into the NHL, but not him. Plus, he's selfish with the puck and some of his hits are bordering on dirty. But I ignore him because the others seem to be more accepting of me.

Adrenaline is still buzzing through my veins from the game and my muscles feel pleasantly tired. I'm gonna have a huge goddamn bruise on my calf from that shot I blocked—what the fuck was I thinking? This was only an exhibition game, there was no need for heroics. But I'm desperate to show everyone I belong here. And maybe I also need to show
myself
I belong here, and restore a little of my damaged self-worth.

With hockey. It's who I am. I love it and it felt fan-fucking-tastic to have a stick in my hands and my blades scraping the ice. I love watching plays develop around me, knowing intuitively how to respond, where to go so the puck is on my stick. I love spotting a lane and that moment when I shoot the puck and then wait and watch the twine bulge. The crowd cheers and it's such a fucking rush. It's addictive.

Buck and I first go back to our place to change, because we're not going to that party in our game-day suits. Especially Buck, who's wearing some god-awful shiny silver suit that makes me want to cover my eyes. He seems to think he looks all that in it.

I quickly pull on a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and a gray V-neck sweater, all clean thanks to Buck's laundry lessons this morning. I have to admit he knows what he's doing when it comes to laundry. He's wearing designer jeans and a crazy plaid shirt.

As we walk to the party, I ask, “So who invited us to this? Whose place is it?”

“Natalie. She invited Barks but told him to invite whoever he wants, and he invited us.” Barks is Adam Barker, one of our D-men.

We enter the house and it's the usual party scene, music playing from a sweet sound system, the living room packed. I accept a beer someone hands me, and Buck and I clink our bottles together in a celebratory toast.

“It's only the first game,” he says.

“We made some mistakes,” I add. “But we can work on those things.”

“Yeah.”

Buck plays center and Coach put him and me on a line together for a while tonight, although he was switching things up and who knows what the regular lines will be, but I liked playing with him. I felt like we worked well together, and with more time we might have some great chemistry.

“Hi, guys!” A girl with long, dark hair greets us with tipsy enthusiasm. “Come on in! I'm Natalie!”

“Hey, Natalie. We're friends of Barks. Er, Adam.”

“Ooh, you play for the Bears, don't you?”

“Yep. Is Adam here?”

“In the kitchen.” She waves a hand.

Okay, this party is edging into crazy land. “What the fuck is happening?” I mutter to Buck, gesturing. On one side of the living room, four guys have their shirts off.

He frowns. “Those guys are football players.”

“We're having a hottest abs contest,” Natalie cheerfully tells us. “Excuse me, I'm one of the judges.”

“I give him eight out of ten,” a girl calls. A cheer erupts from some other onlookers.

“Eight,” Buck scoffs. “As if. Now, the guy on the end…he's ripped.”

I pause to objectively assess the dude's abdominal musculature and nod in agreement. “Yeah. I'd go up against him, though.”

“Keep your shirt on, Flash. Your soft, doughy abdomen won't win you shit.”

I crack up. Soft and doughy. Bahahaha. “Speak for yourself, my beer belly buddy.”

He snorts.

We find the kitchen of the house, which is actually a similar layout to ours. Barks is there and he's surrounded by girls. Sweet. He greets us and we join them. The girls are all pretty. Introductions are made.

“Why do you all call each other such funny names?” a girl named Angela asks.

I shrug. “Guess it's a hockey tradition.”

“I love hockey.”

Yeah, I've heard that a time or six hundred. I'm experienced enough to know that often it's not true. In the past, I've never really cared to differentiate between loving hockey and loving hockey players, because hey, female attention is goddamn nice. But since I've been at Bayard, I get this feeling of being…prey. Which is pretty weird, because I'm usually the one…er, preying.

“So what
does
make a blow job great?”

That catches our attention. We all turn to the girl who asked the question and exchange glances.

“Wet,” Buck interjects. “It has to be very wet. Too dry is painful.”

“But not sloppy wet,” Soupy adds. “That's gross.”

I decide to contribute, against my better judgment. “The most important thing? The girl's gotta enjoy it. Nothing hotter than a girl who loves giving head.”

A chorus of male agreement greets my words. “Oh, hell yeah. It's a total turnoff if she looks like she's being tortured by doing it.”

“Also, no teeth,” Rocket says.

“What?” The girl who asked the question looks confused. “No teeth? I thought guys like teeth.”

We all share a horrified look while silence falls.

“No,” Buck says decisively. “No teeth.”

“Oh my God.” The girl closes her eyes.

“Well, I don't mind a little bit of teeth,” Rocket clarifies. “You know…maybe just a gentle scrape…”

“No wonder he told me to stop going down on him.” The girl shakes her head. I'm not sure who she's talking about, but…
ouch.
“Why didn't he tell me?”

We exchange glances again. “You know,” Soupy says, shifting closer to her, “maybe you just need some lessons…”

They move away from the group. My eyes go wide and meet Buck's and we bust out laughing.

I try to mingle and talk to other people. I meet Colt, the quarterback of the Bayard Blazers, the football team. He wasn't one of the guys in the abs contest. I've heard there's a rivalry between hockey and football at Bayard, but this guy seems nice enough. He has a couple babes hanging around him laughing at everything he says and fluttering their eyelashes, but then another girl comes up and slides her arms around his waist, pressing her front to his side.

“Hey, this is my girlfriend, Addy,” Colt introduces us. “Addy, this is Jacob Flass. He plays for the Bears.”

I smile at her while the other girls turn their disappointed attention to me. Great. Now I'm second choice. Wait, I don't want to be
any
choice. I want them to leave me alone. Colt and I were having a great discussion about NCAA sports.

I'm trying to make an escape, but somehow I end up with Angela again, who seems to be stalking me. The irony of this is not lost on me, that usually I'd be in heaven with all these college girls coming on to me, but now I've committed to not being that guy anymore. Somehow I hadn't anticipated this.

If only I had a girlfriend.

Whoa. What is even happening to me, thinking things like that?

It's because I just saw Colt with his girl, and how that made other girls back off. But it's crazy thinking. I have no time or desire for a girlfriend. I need to keep my nose clean, keep my marks up, and show everyone that I belong here and on this hockey team, especially NHL scouts.

Which means now is a good time to sneak out and head home.

Before I can make my getaway, Tiffany, who I met last weekend, appears next to me with a huge smile. “Hey, Jacob! Congrats on the win tonight! I was at the game!”

She hangs on to my arm and presses her boobs against me, fluttering her eyelashes.

I don't want to be rude, but I'm not interested. Last Friday I got Skylar to help me out. What am I gonna have to do to get rid of her tonight?

Then I look up and goddamn if I don't see Skylar moving toward me, carrying a glass of some bright red drink. She takes in Tiffany hanging on my arm and her eyebrows rise. Shit. But I smile at her as she moves a few steps closer.

“Hey, you,” I call out to her. I disengage myself from Tiffany and close the distance between Skylar and me, suddenly struck with inspiration. I slide an arm around her waist and lean down to kiss her temple. She goes stiff and wide-eyed against me.

Hey, this worked for Colt earlier.

“Work with me,” I mutter near Skylar's ear.

I turn to Tiffany and the girls who'd been talking to Jimmy and Soupy. Oh fuck. What if they know Skylar? But they're regarding her with expressions that indicate they don't. Their expressions
do
indicate confusion. Or maybe annoyance.

“So glad you're here, baby.” I give her a squeeze. “This is Tiffany. Tiffany, this is my girlfriend, Skylar.”

Skylar chokes as Tiffany nods and gives her a tight smile, then wanders off.

We're alone. In a crowd of people, mind you.

Skylar gives me a shove on the chest, but I band my arm tighter around her. She doesn't fight back too hard because she's holding that shittastic bright red drink. “Please.” I bend my head. “Just go with it for a few minutes. Save me.”

“Save you? Are you kidding me?” She leans back to glare up at me. “Oh, right, I forgot you're so irresistible that girls don't leave you alone.”

“I can't help it.” A defensive tone edges my voice. “I don't encourage them.”

Wide-eyed, she stares at me and then starts laughing. “Jacob,
everything
you do encourages girls.”

I'm not sure what's she's implying. Is she calling me a man whore? Because I probably deserved that name at one time. But not now.

“Seriously.” I keep my voice low. “You could really help me out here. Can we go somewhere and talk about this?”

“Are you serious? You rejected me. Remember?”

“Aaargh.” I close my eyes. I don't know how to get out of this fucked-up situation. All I know is if I let her go, she'll disappear. I glance around. A few people have noticed us, but mostly the drunken party continues around us. I meet Skylar's eyes again. “Please. I'm not trying to be an ass. I know you think my ego is huge, but I really don't want all this attention. I'm trying…” I hesitate, knowing she's going to laugh her ass off at this. “I'm trying to stay away from girls this year. I need to do well at school. And especially hockey. I need to stay out of trouble.”

She eyes me, a little crease appearing between her eyebrows. “Girls are trouble?”

I let out a long breath. “Girls are awesome. But yeah, sometimes they can be trouble.” I study her face, sensing that she's actually listening. “Colt Severn has a girlfriend.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Colt Severn, the quarterback of the football team?”

I nod.

“Ooookay. Is this a competition?”

“No! I mean, he has a girlfriend and that keeps other girls away from him.”

“Ha. You'd be surprised how it really doesn't.”

“Okay, I guess there are some chicks who don't care, but come on, that's pretty cynical.”

She wrinkles up her nose and it's so damn cute. “You're right. Sometimes I am cynical.”

“Anyway, I figure if they think I have a girlfriend, they'll leave me alone.”

One corner of her mouth lifts as she contemplates this. “Hmmm.”

“Just pretend to be my girlfriend. For tonight.”

She gives a delicate snort-laugh. “Oh sure. And how do I explain that to my friends?”

“I'm sure we can figure out a way.” I pause. “I know you hate me, but I'm really not a bad guy. That night you asked me to go upstairs…I wanted to. So damn much.” I close my eyes and swallow a groan. In fact, my body is responding to having her so close to me again, remembering the sweet taste of her mouth and the feel of her tongue against mine.

Ah shit. The guy downstairs is stirring.

I continue. “Like I said, I'm trying not to get involved with girls this year. That was why I turned you down.”

To my shock, she bursts out laughing. “You expect me to believe you're going to be abstinent all year?”

I bite my lip. “No, because I'm not sure I can do it either. Just being honest.”

Her smile softens and amusement dances in her amber eyes. “You're serious, aren't you?”

“As serious as a breakaway on an empty net.”