Nine
Asher
This was my first true hockey game, and I found that it was really, really exciting.
Sure, I’d watched some of Porter’s games on television, but in person, it was a totally different beast. The sounds of skates on ice, the shaving noises as the players slid to a stop, the puck slapping against sticks.
And the back-talking.
From where I sat, I could hear a lot of sassy comments from the other team as they passed the Rockets’ bench.
When Porter came in after a session—shift, Avery had told me once—on the ice, I even heard him curse out, “Goddamn fucking mother shitter!” as he slammed the door behind him, causing my brows to rise well into my hairline, I was sure.
He must not have liked how he played.
I thought he had done fine, but what did I know?
With each line change, though, the hockey players brought in a burst of cold air. I was thankful for the blazer that Avery added to this ensemble.
I tried texting her earlier to scold her—what in the hell had she been thinking!—but she had yet to respond. I was curious as to when she got a hold of my bag and added the outfit, as well as why she added the outfit, but whatever her reasoning, I was able to put it to use.
The heels were really fucking uncomfortable though.
I wore heeled boots on occasion in the past, but these things were fancy nude pumps and had a super thin, four-inch heel.
Ok, maybe not super thin, but when you were used to chunky heels on boots, these puppies were thin.
I was quite impressed at my ability to walk in them though.
I uncrossed my legs and instead crossed them at my ankles, pulling the blazer closed over my chest. It was freaking cold in here.
Glancing up at the Jumbotron, I saw there was only a minute left in the game, and the Rockets were up by two—an insurance goal, Avery called it the other night.
I’d watched a few games though, where that insurance goal did absolutely nothing, and the players scored twice in a thirty-second span. In this game, you couldn’t let your guard down.
There was a television timeout called and each team went around their respective bench. Porter and Nico were on the ice, leaning into the boards as their coach talked and drew on a dry erase board.
I kept my eyes on Porter as I thought about how he responded to my showing up yesterday.
Aside from that really weird moment this morning, he actually seemed glad that I was here. And if I were to be honest?
I was really glad I came, too.
Even if it was by trickery, Avery.
Porter was playing well tonight, too, aside from whatever missed something-or-another he did that warranted the swear-vomit earlier. At least, I thought he was playing well. I got that I didn’t know everything about the game, but he scored a goal and was on the ice during another, so those were good things, right?
The refs were moving toward the middle of the ice and players started to push away from the boards. Before he followed suit, Porter looked up at me and winked again.
The guy winked at me more tonight than any guy had winked at me in my life. I really didn’t think it was normal.
Once again, the game was in action. I sat up tall as the puck was dropped and the sound of sticks battling one another echoed. I could hear yells and taunts, chants from the crowd, and a solid thwack as the puck left the battle in the middle of the rink.
Porter raced after it, his speed impressive. He flew down the ice, his stick in front of him and nearly resting on the ice, his other arm bent at his side as if he were truly running. I gasped when the other team tried knocking him into the boards, pinning him there, but sticks and skates fought in the tiny space until, finally, the puck was freed.
I was on the edge of my seat, my eyes flexing from the play on the ice, to the countdown happening up above.
Twenty-two.
The puck was in the Rockets’ possession, and the five men on ice were making great work of passing the puck to one another. A quick play-around of the puck in front of one player, only for it to be quickly slapped toward another.
Over and over, the puck made it around the area—zone—until one of the visitors reached his stick out, tapping the puck on its way from Nico to Porter, and with skill, the other player attempted to slap it past the middle.
Seventeen.
There was racing on the ice now, as the visitors attempted to gain control of the puck, just as the Rockets tried to do the same.
Twelve.
A whistle was blown.
I didn’t see what happened, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have a clue what it meant.
All around me, fans were talking, laughing, shouting.
Holding.
Hooking.
Goddamned zebra, didn’t you see…?
The announcement was made—hooking being the infraction. Again, I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but whatever it was had Porter cursing as he was led to the penalty box.
I watched on the Jumbotron as he angrily sat down, throwing his gloves and helmet to the side. He lifted his jersey to wipe at his face.
I found my eyes dropping to the box to watch in real time. What the Jumbotron failed to show in its angle was the bare expanse of Porter’s stomach.
I bit my bottom lip and forced my eyes back up on the Jumbotron, where they were replaying what had happened.
A whistle was blown again and now everyone was set up in front of the Rockets’ goal, only four Rockets on the ice and five of the visitors. The puck was dropped and suddenly there were six of the visitors.
I glanced over at their net to see that they had pulled their goalie.
My eyes went back to the clock.
Eight.
There was a fight going on in front of the net as the visitors tried to put the puck in the net.
Even if they succeeded, what was the likelihood that they could get another goal in less than a handful of seconds?
Apparently, they were going to try.
With so much happening in front of the net, I had a hard time keeping an eye on the puck, but suddenly the red light was flashing.
Shit. Goal.
Across the way, the penalty box was opened, and Porter skated out, still looking pissed as he put his gloves back on, his stick trapped between his arm and side, and his helmet on but not secured.
He looked a hot mess, and I found myself grinning.
Which, of course, he caught.
The pissed off look on his face quickly morphed into a cocky grin and a shake of his head. He stepped into the bench and plopped down, his back to me.
I stared at the number ‘11’ and ‘PRESCOTT’ on his back. Because their colors were ash gray with white and yellow accents, the sweat on his back was more than pronounced, making the gray even darker.
His jersey was tucked into his pants in the back, but the thick material and padding did nothing to show the body the man had underneath.
And man, oh man, did he have a body underneath.
When we arrived earlier, I had to fight from staring at his ass as he walked in front of me. His dress pants were tailored and fit incredibly well, molding to his firm, but rounded, bottom…
I puffed out my cheeks and shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
You’re attracted to him.
No shit, Sherlock. The question though, was what I was going to do about it. Did I act on the attraction? I thought maybe it was probably likely he was attracted to me, too. But could I…?
The kid was nineteen. He would want sex.
And I wasn’t sure I could do that.
The game started up again, but my eyes remained transfixed to Porter’s back.
Could it be possible to maybe have more with this guy? Could it be possible for me to move past the ghosts in my closet, and find a way to truly, fully be free of them?
I had a feeling I was going to find out.