Delayed Penalty (Crossing the Line, #1)(13)

Like Travis Sono, a right wingman for us. He had hands that were quick and skilled to perfection. On the ice, I never saw that because my focus was on the game.

Since late October, Leo, Remy, Travis, Dave, and I formed a line with Cage defending the pipes. We usually started games and ended them. It was just the way it was. Four lines were actively played each night, rotating every thirty seconds to a minute; the time varied. Your first and second lines were the scorers, the guys that made the plays. The third and fourth lines were the penalty killers and the checkers.

Play stopped at Nashville's blue line. Dave and a defender with Nashville were chirping at each other. Dave got called on roughing and then was slapped with a major when he took a swing after the whistle. He seemed intense tonight, off maybe. We all had nights like that. Hell, I was having one.

Dave, though quiet and unassuming at times, had a mean streak on the ice. I'd seen it before, and I knew if Nashville didn't knock that shit off, they'd be seeing more of Dave tonight. Already marked up from the game with the Red Wings a few days ago, he looked pretty fierce with six stitches above his black eye.

When I first moved to Chicago last year, I stayed with Dave, and he became a good friend to me. Having never been to the city, it was nice to have someone hang out with who could show me around, someone who understood the lifestyle we had. He'd been playing for Chicago for four years and was the captain of the team until Leo showed up. Bitter maybe, at the changes when Leo came, but definitely enjoyed the freedom of not being the captain.

My time spent living with Dave was interesting. That guy saw more action that Hugh Hefner. I didn't know what he did to get them there, but he had a revolving door of women. The summer after my first season, I decided to get my own place. That lifestyle wasn't for me.

When the puck dropped, Nashville got possession, end to end, hard aggressive play again.

"Look up, look up!" Leo yelled from his place on the bench. He could see Cage, our goalie, shift his position the wrong direction.

Cage had his f*cking head down, and Benny snagged the pocket for the tie.

Roughing was called at the crease. Remy had shoved another winger, knocked him down, and then made a suggestive move that implied more than what the refs thought was appropriate. I couldn't imagine why they'd think Remy making motions of him sucking his dick wasn't appropriate.

Remy earned himself a five minute major, bowed to the fans, and then flipped them off. Nashville had their power play they were looking for. The crowd was on their feet howling in response.

My shift was approaching. Travis and I took to the ice while Jeff and Karl hit the bench.

Lance Agardh was a touch right winger that I'd known since last year when I sent his ass to the hospital in a game. He should have known not to f*ck with me again, but I guess he didn't.

Circling center ice, he looked for retribution. He dropped his gloves, and I smiled. It was pretty stupid of him if he actually took the time to think about it. First of all, I was bigger than him, not to mention the fact that he'd been cheap shotting me all night and I was pretty pissed about that already. I took one swing, and he went down. Somehow I slipped and we were on the ice, my elbow instantly meeting his face. I took the fight right out of Lance and landed us both in the penalty box. Good news was there were some girls sitting beside the box. I got some nice shots of that girl in the pink shirt I was eyeing earlier. All I had to do was tap the glass with my stick, wink, and she was all over that shit. My night was looking good, despite the time in the box.

When we won it was looking even better.

After the game, pink shirt girl was there waiting. Any other time I would have taken her home and showed her a good time. Sadly, we had to catch a plane back to Chicago so there wasn't time for that.

It wasn't that I made a habit of taking girls home with me because I didn't, but there were a few that I did.

When I first asked a girl out, I was twelve, she was thirteen, and she shot me down. My mom told me the right girl was out there for me. All moms had to say that, but I kind of believed her even through my tears. Yes, I cried when she shot me down.

It was a hard shot to take at twelve when the first girl you asked out crushed your soul, like you didn't even have one to begin with. I eventually got the nerve to ask another girl out. That time I was sixteen, and she said yes.

We dated for probably a year and then hockey got in the way. I was a bit of a flirt and Jessica, the girl I dated in high school, didn't like that so much.

I ended up losing my virginity to her best friend in the back of her car after my Major Juniors team won the J. Ross Robertson Cup that year.

Yeah, douche move, but I was a kid, and I liked to think I wouldn't ever do that shit again.

During my last season in the Major Juniors, I played on the ice, but I got my fair share of play off the ice, too. After I was drafted, I had more * thrown my way than I knew what to do with. There were times I could have had at least four or five girls a night and the same thing the next night, only with different girls. It was insane.

That gets old, though. After a while you realize they were only there because of your status. It had absolutely nothing to do with them really liking you.

We went straight from Nashville back to Chicago to play them again, this time on home ice.

When we got to the airport, I contemplated heading to the hospital. I knew visiting hours were long gone, and even if I did see her, the images would only piss me off.