Delayed Penalty (Crossing the Line, #1)(20)

Once I got back to my apartment and into bed, I only had about two hours before our morning skate. I couldn't sleep, thinking about what had happened to her, but the shitty part was it didn't even happen to me. It happened to her. A girl. Just a girl.

Shitty things happened. They happened, and there was nothing you could do about it. Then they're over and you dealt with it, or you didn't. Some people did, some didn't. Ami was trying, I could see that, but the guilt that she survived was written all over her face.

Part of me, a part I frequently told to shut up, wondered what I could possibly offer someone like Ami. Maybe friendship, but for someone who spent the majority of the fall through spring traveling, it was hard to offer her much.

Then again, would she even be interested in me?

You're so far ahead of yourself it's pathetic.

What was pathetic was the fact that I was even thinking like this. Leo was right. I was cherry picking.

Sometimes I felt like I was stalking Ami, like I was the guy in the corner, taking everything in, waiting. That kind of stalking. Or maybe that was just watching? It felt like stalking. If I had the chance to learn anything about her, I would wait a minute, an hour, a day, a week, a year, just to know her. For me that was the hardest part because I wasn't a patient person.





Defensive Zone – The zone or area nearest a team's goal.



Game 47 – Columbus Blue Jackets

Thursday, January 14, 2010

(Home Game)




Hockey players weren't like your average athletes. Some were, but most of us were different. If you compared us to football players, you'd see the differences right away.

We were aggressive; some girls called us secretive, and others called us whores.

They didn't usually say that after a night in the sheets with us, though. They were usually begging for more.

They liked us because we didn't give a f*ck. If you wanted rough, you got it rough with a hockey player. And then there was the endurance part.

Not many guys could take hits like we could or got off their asses and continued their shift while sweating, skating, taking bone crushing hits against glass, getting their teeth knocked out, having the shit beat out of them by hits to the face with pucks, sticks, elbows, and then score a goal.

In between the physically demanding prowess of the game there was a skillful presence and the crafty strategies of the sport we loved.

With all that came the endurance, an endurance most women couldn't keep up with.

I was twenty years old and had * whenever I wanted it. I had one regular, but it wasn't like we were dating. We never had that kind of relationship.

There were plenty of times throughout the season and off season I got my dick wet with the willing puck bunnies that pressed against the glass, but I never made a habit out of it.

Callie, on the other hand, she was a friend. Not a girlfriend by any means, but I'd taken her out a few times and tangled in the sheets more times than I could count.

She was a goddamn freak in bed, too. I'd show up at practice with a swollen lip, and it hadn't been from the game.

Callie was also a regular with a few other guys, too, so it wasn't like she was looking to settle down. I dug that because it was just like me. Shoving guys into the boards all night and roughing them up left me amped at times. That game against Minnesota Wild left me that way. It was the way of the game, and before long we found ourselves unwinding at a club downtown. Though I wasn't twenty-one, that night it wasn't questioned. Liquor flowed, and soon I found myself with a girl on my lap and then my mouth all over her, trying to forget. I thought maybe this time I could finish. Back at my condo, yes, I said my condo, with her head in my lap, I still couldn't get off, and I was getting kind of pissed. The chick was, too, and ended up leaving. I couldn't blame her.

It was unlike me to bring her back to my place, but I thought that if I was at home, maybe it wouldn't be so bad and I could relax. Nope. Nothing changed.

So not only did I hyperventilate during sex, now it wasn't f*cking working. I was pissed.

Still horny, I tried calling Callie, thinking if anyone could get me to relax it would be her.

It didn't work. We went at it for something like forty-five minutes, tried everything, and I still couldn't get off. My mind kept going back to Ami and that night. I need that little gadget in those Men in Black movies where they erased your memory. I really needed that little device.

"You want me to try sucking your dick?" Callie asked.

I laughed, my movements stopping. She was always so crass. "That's okay. I'm good."

Callie rolled to the side and then completely off of me. "You kind of suck right now."

"Sorry." I really was because I really wanted to get off. Like I said, it was pissing me off.

Callie grabbed her phone beside my bed and sent someone a text when I went to the bathroom. I came back, put on a pair of sweatpants, and noticed Callie was on my couch now, smiling, phone in hand, and it dawned on me. Her big chocolate brown eyes always gave her away. "You tell Leo and I will kick your ass, Cal."

Callie smiled and I knew she'd already dished the dirt on me to him.

"You little f*cking brat." Taking a seat next to her, I reached for the remote to the television, wondering how much he already knew.

"I'm sorry. He asked, and Leo is kind of sneaky when it comes to getting things out of people."