Page 3 of Puck, Marry, Kill

Mike Kipson is a monster of a hockey player, whose stats put him at six foot three and 225 to my six foot and 200 pounds of lean muscle. Those few inches and pounds make a world of difference, both on and off the ice. But right now, the man in front of me looks so hollow that I could probably knock him down with a playful slap to the shoulder.

“Hey, man,” I say, starting this rescue mission.

He barely lifts his eyes from where they’re locked on to his beer. “Lee.”

We’re not instantly trading friendship bracelets and braiding each other’s hair, but it’s a decent start for two assholes who are reasonably pissed at their lot in life at the moment.

“Looking forward to hitting the ice with you this season.” A white lie, but I think God will forgive me given the circumstances.

He sighs heavily, his lips settling into a deep frown. “Look, I know you and Mahoney are all buddy-buddy, but it’s not like that here. We’re not gonna be bros.”

Griffin Mahoney and I have been friends for years, and other than the pesky matter of gestation, we’re brothers, so of course Kipson and I aren’t going to suddenly have the same level of connection. “I don’t need another brother, so no worries there,” I inform him, eyes narrowed to watch every microexpression that crosses his face. What I see most is surprise, as if he fully expected me to want to be his new bestie. “All I need is for you to keep your off-ice shitoff the ice. Think you can do that?”

Okay, so maybe I’m throwing my cards out a bit prematurely, but it happens to the best of us. Or so I hear. Besides, some people need a velvet glove, some need a swift kick in the ass. Hopefully Kipson’s the latter.

He huffs out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah, I can do that.”

I don’t believe him any more than he believes himself. “Good. Then we’ll be fine.”

Kipson picks up his beer, downs the whole thing in one swallow, and slams the empty glass back to the table. “Gonna hit the head.”

“Make sure you shake it off before you come back out.” I don’t mean his dick, but rather his mood, and he knows it.

“Fuck you, Lee.”

“Fuck you, Kipson.”

It’d seem like we’re already sworn enemies, but in the ways of guys, we’re about two weeks out from an after-practice beer and a month out from those friendship bracelets. But if he needs help moving into his postdivorce bachelor apartment, he can fuck off. I’m not letting him borrow my truck.

An hour and one beer later, I’ve avoided Kipson in favor of getting to know some of the other guys. Mostly because I figure they can give me a bit of recon insight, plus I do have to play with them this season.

But mostly what I’ve learned is that these guys are annoying as hell. On the Hawks, we had a guy we called Brody, not because it was his name but because he was such abro, like the most stereotypical frat dude you’ve ever met. The rest of us wereprofessionalathletes, and conducted ourselves that way.

The entirety of the Blizzard team seems to be cut from the Brody cloth, however, which is to say immature, annoying, and obnoxious.

“Hey, Dom, pick three ... fuck, marry, kill,” Anderson tells me. He raises his beer to the bar at large, which is filled with people coming in for a quick after-work drink or to meet friends. Or strangers.

I furrow my brow and shake my head. “I don’t do that sort of juvenile bullshit.”

Sabine, a left winger, and Pacholek, a center forward, join in with Anderson’s teasing. “Come on, it’s just for fun. Look around.” Anderson points at a few women scattered throughout the bar.

I have half a mind to point at Tweedlefuck (Sabine) and Tweedlefucker (Pacholek) as at least two of the three options just to get them to shut up. But in the end, I point at two women. “Fuck. Marry.” Then I point a finger gun to my temple. “Kill.”

They laugh, but honestly,kill me nowsounds about right. How did I go from dinners with my best friend and sister to this? How did I end up traded from a winning team to this group of assholes?

“Go talk to her. See if you can score. Work that Dominic Lee magic we’ve all heard about,” Sabine taunts, pointing at the woman I deemed fuckable.

Three words, and I talked myself into a corner. I have less than zero interest in women right now. What does interest me is getting the hell away from these bozos for a minute, so I swallow my beer and head over to the bar under the guise of getting another one.

“Draft, please,” I tell the bartender, pretending to ignore the beautiful blonde perched on a barstool two feet away. Although to be honest, it’s hard to ignore her.

She’s stunning, in skintight jeans, a simple white tank top, and tan boots with a floral design on the sides. Her eyes are bright as she looks around, but there’s something about her that makes her seem uncomfortable, like this isn’t her scene. Whether that’s the bar or its occupants tonight, I don’t know.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hello.” Her tone is friendly, but the quick return of her attention to the room is not.

I scoot a little closer. “I’m Dominic.”