“You’re saying I’m not good enough to play at this level?” Rather than anger, Hunter’s expression conveys distress, which only highlights his major strength: he’s always striving to get better.
“I’m saying you need work. You made some amateur mistakes the other night. Like when Fitzy was in trouble after that power play? You went to bail him out—that’s not your job, bro. You don’t skate into another winger’s corner. You’ve gotta trust your center to help the other guy out.”
Hunter takes a hasty sip of beer.
“And you suck at reading plays sometimes. When Eastwood’s D-man made that sweet pass that led to a breakaway? You should’ve anticipated who he was going to pass to, but you totally misread him.”
“I was watching the puck the whole time,” he protests.
“Forget the puck. Watch the player, dude. Pay attention to who he’s looking at, where his teammates are moving. Read who he’s targeting and then intercept that pass.”
Hunter goes quiet. When he speaks again, he sounds grudgingly impressed. “You know a lot about this stuff, huh?”
I shrug. I know I have a reputation for not being as serious about hockey as my teammates, and maybe there’s some truth to that, but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand the mechanics and nuances of the game.
Hockey has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I grew up playing it. Lacrosse too, but that was mostly a way to pass time in the spring until hockey started up again. Both my dad and older brother played hockey at Harvard. I could’ve too, but I chose Briar instead. I’m always following in their footsteps, and I guess I just wanted to be different or some shit.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t play hockey only because they did. I love the game. It just doesn’t give me the same thrill that Garrett and Logan seem to experience every time they’re on the ice.
Truthfully, I have more fun during practice. I enjoy the drills and the scrimmages, the opportunity to get better and help my teammates get better. I’m not interested in going pro after I graduate, which pleases my family to no end, because Heyward-Di Laurentises don’t become professional athletes. They become lawyers. Next fall I’ll be attending Harvard Law like every other member of my family. I’m cool with that, and I have no doubt I’ll be good at it. The Di Laurentis charm I inherited from my dad pretty much guarantees I’ll be winning over judges left and right.
“What else am I doing wrong?” Hunter sounds more curious than pissed.
I grin at him. “Tell you what, how about some one-on-one sessions this week? I’ll see if Coach will sign off on extra ice time.”
“Seriously? I would really appreciate that, actually. Thanks—”
I interrupt him. “But only if you agree to quit talking about hockey for the rest of the night.” I gesture to the packed bar. “Look around. It’s a hot girl banquet in here. Pick the one you like and feast, idiot.”
Hunter laughs, but his dark eyes gleam as he takes in the view. Several chicks respond to his attention with DTF smiles, but rather than wave them over, he glances at me—or rather, at my neck—and snorts. “Actually, maybe you should introduce me to the wildcat you hooked up with last night. Ms. Hickey seems like fun.”
I stiffen. No way am I letting this kid anywhere near Allie. He might be young, but he’s well on his way to becoming an even bigger player than I am.
Then again, maybe it’s Hunter I should be worrying about. After last night’s performance, Allie Hayes proved that she’s fully capable of leaving her mark on a man. Jesus. That girl can fuck.
Damn, and now my dick is semi-hard. It’s been doing that all day, chubbing out every time I think about Allie. It was the hottest hook-up I’ve had in a long while. Hell, my wrists are still sore from being tied to the bed, but it’s the kind of sore that just makes me want to do it again.
Tapping the same ass more than once isn’t usually my style, but right now my dick is aching to bury itself in Allie’s naughty pussy again.
“Sorry, Superstar. Not happening,” I tell him. “Find your own wildcat.”
“Fine.” Grinning, he gives the room another scan. “Oh yeah. I think I know who I’m going home with tonight.”
I follow his gaze to the long wooden counter, where a tall brunette has her back turned to us as she leans forward to order a drink. She’s in a short black skirt and high heels, with long brown hair falling down her back in waves. The male bartender is damn near drooling, his hungry eyes peering down her shirt, which tells me she must have a great rack. All I can see is her ass, though, and it’s pretty fantastic.