Page 124 of Off Limits: The Firsts

My soul knows that love always ends in pain and loneliness.

Hunter

The puck hits the plexiglass that separates the crowd from the ice with a crack. The arena is a ghost town at this godawful time in the morning, so the sound ricochets off the walls and echoes back to us.

“You losing your touch, Maddox?”

I swing my stick back and then let my arms jerk forward without responding. The puck hits the upper left corner of the net, and I glare at Maysen.

“Does that look like I’m losing my touch?” I ask.

One after another, I land puck after puck into the back of the net, but nothing abates the anger and restlessness I feel. Nothing diminishes the feeling that I’m a hamster on a wheel. Nothing eases the goddamn ache Dekker left me with last night but that I refuse to admit.

But walking away was the right thing. Putting her in her place so she doesn’t think I’m naïve about why she’s here, or that I’d fall right back into how things were when she’s the one who walked away.

Was that the whole point of last night then? A subtle stab at revenge? I can’t make sense of it—my need to talk to her in the bar, to remind her I was there, and then leave her hanging in the elevator.

Shit. I’d be lying if I denied it wouldn’t have been a hardship to fall right between her thighs.

Groaning at my own stupidity, I go back to my practice shots. Trying to work myself into a frenzy so my head can go to that silent place where I don’t think and just do.

There’s a rhythm. Grunt with the swing. Smack the stick to the puck. Thud as the puck hits the net.

Grunt. Smack. Thud.

Maysen lifts the bottle of beer to his lips, and my eyebrows lift.

“Hair of the dog?” I ask.

Grunt. Smack. Thud.

“Shit, if it were the hair of the dog, I’d be sliding back between Sadie’s . . . or was it Sandy? Maybe Shelby. Fuck if I remember what her name was, but if that’s the case, I’d be all up in her because she straight wore me out. I need this shit,” he says and lifts the bottle of beer in the air, “to simply get me through the morning.”

Fucking Maysen.

Normally I love the asshole. Right now, not so much.

Perhaps it’s because he got some and I didn’t.

Then again, after seeing Dekker last night—after tasting her—just any ole puck bunny wouldn’t have satisfied me. Not that they’ve satisfied me for a long time.

Since Dekker.

Stopping to catch my breath, I rest my hand on my stick and take in the arena around me. Years upon years of blue and red pennants hang from the rafters while images of the team’s history play out over the uppermost walls. Defining moments in the franchise’s history. Defining moments in the league’s history. And while I shouldn’t care about any of it, it’s a history I never thought I’d get to be part of and now hope to leave my own mark on as well.

And that, in and of itself, makes me a prick.

How can I be grateful to play here when Jonah can’t? How can I be happy when I’m the one who took his place?

Christ. Isn’t that why I play for the Jacks? I could have been on any playoff-contending team but he told me to play here. He told me this was the decision he would have made. And since I play for him, I did what he suggested.

Who knew it would work? Who knew I’d be the starting block management built the franchise around and that in my second year here, we’d be in playoff contention?

Always the big brother, always looking out for me.

Even after what I did to him.

But that’s why this is so fucked. Sanderson is already threatening that contract talks are going to be brutal when they were the ones who begged me to come here . . . and then not keep their promises. Why can’t I just play the game I train every day for?