“He’s still shy,” I point out. It’s unnerving. I grew up with a brother who never filtered his words. Now here I am, speaking most of my thoughts out loud, censorship lost. Having to guess what’s going through someone’s mind is tiring.
Cara shakes her head. “He’s shy around you because he thinks you’re hot. The safest bet is to interact with you as little as possible so Carter doesn’t catch on. Bet that man’s a real freak between the sheets.” Another atrocious handful, paired with a brow pump. “You should find out.”
“Absolutely not.” When I plant my shoes on the glass in front of me, I hiss at the radiating pain in my ankle. It’s definitely sprained, and now I’ll have to use my other foot to kick Simon in the balls next time I see him.
“He’s not my type,” I continue about Garrett. Never mind that Carter would never allow me to date one of his friends or teammates. I’ll have a hard enough time bringing any normal man home one day. If I ever meet one, that is.
Truth be told, I don’t care all that much. I’ve been single virtually all my adult life, and battery-powered toys have been an outstanding substitute. Replacing them with a man almost seems like an unnecessary downgrade.
“Tell you what. If you can guarantee Garrett does, in fact, have a golden dong, I’ll consider taking it for a ride.”
Cara’s smile widens. “Really?”
“No.” Maybe.
Olivia huffs a long sigh and rubs her belly. “I could use a good dong ride.” She lays a hand on my arm the moment my groan begins. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s good. Great. It always is.”
“Fantastic. I was definitely wondering.”
“But he’s been so gentle lately.”
Cara hammers a fist to her chest as she folds forward, choking on her snack. “Please tell me he’s the type of dad who thinks he’ll poke his baby in the eye if he’s not careful.”
“He’s taken to warning the baby every time we’re about to have sex.” Olivia scrubs a hand over her exhausted expression. “Okay, little buddy. Daddy’s coming in. Make sure you move all the way to the back.” Her wide brown eyes are full of disbelief. “It’s the anxious chuckling that really gets me, and every time I move, he stops and asks if I’m okay. I just…I need him to fuck me, you know? Really fuck me.” She shifts in her seat. “This baby’s making me horny as hell.”
Cara pokes my cheek. “Quit acting like you’re gonna vomit.”
“I might.”
Olivia snickers before smiling softly. “Carter said Garrett helped you look for your stuffie. That was nice of him.”
“Yeah, I think he really regrets that.”
“Why would he regret that?”
“Because he got slapped across the face by Indiana Bones,” I mumble around two pieces of licorice.
“Who’s Indiana B—” Cara’s question dies, words hanging in the air, before she explodes with a howl so loud the boys look up from the ice. “For the love of fucking God, tell me you slapped Garrett in the face with a dildo named Indiana Bones, please, Jennie.”
“I didn’t slap him in the face with it. We fought over the box it was in, the box died, and Indiana Bones soared through the air and kinda…you know.” I flop my hand around before smacking the back of it against my cheek. “It’s his own fault. He shouldn’t have been looking.”
Through the laughter, Olivia asks, “What the hell prompted him to look through that box?”
I shrug. “It might’ve been labeled toys.”
“Ah.” She smirks. “And he was looking for a stuffed animal, so he made a logical decision.”
“Oh look! Time for the anthem.” I spring from my seat. “Conversation’s over.”
Talk of dildos, dongs, and good, hard dickings that apparently Olivia and I are both in desperate need of are put on the back burner as the game starts. We’re playing our biggest rival. Games like this require undivided attention so I can shout obscenities at the ref every time he misses something.
“Oh come on, ref!” I leap to my feet as Washington’s centreman slips his stick between Garrett’s legs, sending him flying forward.
“Does your wife know you’re fucking us?” Cara screams as the referee continues to ignore the obvious penalty.
I slap the glass as Garrett climbs to his feet, giving his head a shake. “Hey, ref! Might wanna check your voice mail! Looks like you missed a few calls!”
The play only stops when the buzzer blares, signaling the end of the second period, and Carter gets up close and personal with the trip-happy dipshit who hasn’t demonstrated any real skill so far. Whatever he says has the centreman shoving against him, and Carter glides away with a shit-eating grin.
Problem is, Cara and I have big mouths, and we’re still pissed off. Countless calls and should-be penalties have been missed. We’re down by one, but we shouldn’t be.
“Hey, ref!” Cara hollers. “Want a pregnancy test? ’Cause you’ve missed two fucking periods!”
“Get off your knees!” I yell as he skates by. “You’re blowing the fucking game!”
Olivia buries her face in her hands, partly to hide her laughter, partly because she’s embarrassed. Every time her face winds up on TV, her high school students have a heydey with it. Her TV appearances are never her fault. The fault lies in a humiliating goal dedication from her husband, or trouble Cara and I start.
By the time we’ve reached the last five minutes of the game, things haven’t improved. Washington is playing dirty, the ref is missing calls left, right, and center, and Cara flashed him two aggressive middle fingers and told him to shove them up his ass. On a positive note, Emmett has managed to tie the game up.
A defenseman digs the puck out of the corner and spots Garrett up the boards, open and waiting. He fires the puck up the ice and Garrett takes off like lightning as Emmett and Carter race up his sides, clearing the way for him.
Everyone’s shrieking, cheering him on, and that twat centerman from earlier hops off his bench, trading spots with someone on the ice. Carter beelines for him, hollering a warning to Garrett, who winds up. His stick comes backward before sending the puck whizzing right by the goalie’s head and into the net.
The sound of the buzzer is lost to the collective gasp that steals the breath of every fan in Rogers Arena as the centerman’s body connects with Garrett’s from behind, crushing him into the boards headfirst.
Garrett goes limp, two-hundred-plus pounds of dead weight dropping to the ice.
Silence roars, players circling our right-winger, medics on their knees tending to him.
“He’s not getting up,” Cara whispers. “Why isn’t he getting up? Somebody help him!”
“C’mon, Garrett,” I mutter, the tip of my thumbnail between my teeth. “Get up.”
He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t move a muscle, sprawled out on the ice, and fear spreads through me in the form of adrenaline.
“Toss that asshole out!” I scream into the silence, shaking the glass as Garrett’s limp body is lifted onto a stretcher. The centerman in question meets my gaze, entirely too relaxed about sending someone to the hospital. “We play real hockey in Canada, you fucking wiener!”