Chapter 2:
Fuckin' Suck
Hunter Rockwell
With eight games left in our season, we were running out of time. Our team, the Blizzard, sat in 9th place in the West—one spot shy of a playoff berth. From this point on, we need to win the rest of our games if we want to sneak into the playoffs.
Florida, our opponent for the night, was on the tail-end of a long road trip. We knew they'd be tired and likely wear out half-way through the game. All we had to do was work hard and grind them down. This was exactly the kind of game we couldn't afford to lose.
But for whatever reason, like way too many nights this year, we lacked something. Some spark. Some missing ingredient. Some chemistry, or grit, or jam. Whatever the fuck you wanna call it—we didn't have it. We were letting a team with tired legs out work us.
Sitting on the bench and waiting for my next shift, I took a look up at the scoreboard: Florida 3, Colorado 2. A minute and a half left in the game.
I shook my head in disgust. Fuckin' sad.
“C'mon, boys! Just need one,” I roared, banging my stick into the bench, hoping to fire my teammates up. But all I got back from them was an ominous silence and defeated expressions.
Ugh.
Get a hockey fan to take a look at the names on this roster, and they'd agree: we should be a good team. But take a look at our record, and you'd see that we are not a good team. We're not bad, either. We're mediocre, which might be worse than being bad.
A mediocre team will win two, three games in a row. You feel like you've finally worked out your problems. Your team's got all the pieces in place and you're making progress. But then the pendulum swings back the other way, and you drop three, four games in a row. And you're back at square one: realizing you suck, and you don't know why.
Something was wrong with this team. Something was wrong here and nobody knew what it was. Not me, not any of my teammates, not the fans or the coach or the general manager, either.
Nobody.
And if we didn't figure out what the fuck it was real fast, we knew that we'd miss the playoffs. And then heads were going to roll. Starting with mine: the captain that couldn't lead his team to glory.
With less than a minute left in the game, I jumped off the bench and joined the play on the ice. Our defense managed to trap Florida along the boards and worked the puck free. Seeing my opportunity, I bolted for Florida's end, yelling for the puck the whole way.
“Middle middle middle!” I hollered, letting my defense know exactly where I wanted the puck.
The Colorado fans saw me streaking down center ice and knew, knew, that this was going to be it: the game tying goal with seconds left on the clock. The arena thundered as thousands of fans jumped to their feet with an eager roar.
Over my shoulder, I saw the puck come flying up-ice towards me.
There's my pass.
It was a hard pass—but I caught it on my backhand, cradled it, slowed it, controlled it.
The crowd's roar grew louder. They knew I was off for a break away.
Skating harder, pushing the puck ahead of me, I took one last peek at the scoreboard: 3.4 seconds left.
Shit. Gotta hurry.
Florida's goalie came out to the top of his crease. I slowed as I neared, working the puck left and right, trying to make him move, knowing I didn't have much time left.
I faked to the left—and the goalie bit, sliding in direction he thought I'd go.
But I pulled the puck to the right, on my backhand, instead.
Desperate, the goalie kicked a leg across his crease. His leg was the only thing that stood between me and the twine. All I had to do was lift the puck six inches over his leg.
I shoveled the puck backhand, trying to raise the puck …
… and watched in horror, as our nightmare season continued.
Thump. The dull thud of hard rubber thumping against leg-pads.
The buzzer sounded, only somewhat covering the disappointed groans of the hometown crowd.
Game over.
Another L.
And our playoff hopes just got dimmer.
***
Hours later.
I pulled my car to the front of the Denver Regents—the hotel I called home. I opened the door and a valet was already outside my window, waiting for me.
I opened my door and, with a grunt, stood on shaky legs. Coach wasn't happy about our game—and after the loss, he bag-skated us for an hour as punishment. My legs might as well have been filled with cement.
“Tough luck tonight, Mr. Rockwell,” the valet said, forcing a sympathetic grimace. “You had the goalie beat clean, too.”
I didn't say a word, didn't look at him, either. After that loss, I'd rather not be noticed. And I certainly wasn't in the mood to talk about how it'd gone down.
I passed him my car keys, and a $100 bill with it anyway. “Keep her safe, will ya.”
“Of course, Mr. Rockwell.”
With a yawn, I strutted through the lobby. All I could think of was how sweet it'd feel when the second my back hit that mattress, and I could finally pass out.
But, as I strutted through the lobby, I had that eerie feeling of being watched. I shot a glance towards the hotel bar. Sure enough, two girls in racy cocktail dresses sat at the bar. One girl stared as I strolled through the lobby, watching me with interest. She bolted upright and exaggerated the arch in her back. I knew her eager eyes were an invitation.
I cracked half a smile. Maybe I could stop for a drink first. I went to the bar and stood opposite her. I ordered my usual: vodka and water.
Across the bar, the outgoing one made bedroom eyes at me. We locked eyes. She tossed her brunette hair over her shoulder. Bit her lip. Made a show out of crossing her long legs, waving them in front of me like she were teasing a dog with a steak.
I winked. She whispered something to her friend, who grabbed her things and excused herself. I didn't waste any time. I took my drink, stood next to her, and put my arm around the back of her chair.
“Hey.”
She smiled. “Hi.”
“So what's your name?” I asked with a tone that lacked interest.
“Nicole.” She extended her hand to me.
I took her hand in mine and kissed it. “Nicole. Pleasure.”
“Oh, a gentleman!” she squealed.
I laughed. “Nah.”
“No? You're not a gentleman?”
“Nope. Trust me.”
She seemed thrown, unsure. “So—er—what's your name?”
“Why ask questions when you already know the answer?”
She snagged a bit of her lip between her front teeth. She had the look of someone caught in a lie.
“Okay. Fine. You're Hunter Rockwell.”
“Ah-ha.” I hiked up the sleeve of my suit jacket and glanced at my watch. “Listen. You wanna go up to my room?”
“Wow.” She blurted out a laugh, like she wasn't sure if she should be offended or flattered or what. “And what exactly are you getting at, captain?”
I leaned closer to her, my breath on her neck. “I'm asking …”
I ran the soft touch of my finger delicately up her slim arm, hooked it under the strap of her dress, and gave it a small, suggestive tug.
“… if you wanna fuck.”
She leaned back from me in a hurry. Maybe to see if I was serious. Maybe because she was about to crack me across the cheek with her open-palm. Her irises strained with an ember of anger. I could tell she wanted to be furious with me, that she wanted to slap me. I could see it in her soul!
… But she didn't. Instead, a softness set in her eyes, like a fallen animal that had accepted its fate. She hooked her arm through mine.
“Okay, captain. I'm yours. Take me to your room.”
I slammed the rest of my drink and gave a smirk. Figures.
***
Her dress and bra laid in a careless, crumpled mess on the floor.
I stood behind her at the edge of the bed. She held her round little ass high in the air, just like I wanted, with her black panties stretched between her knees.
“Oh God!” she shrieked, hoarse and wavering, as I teased her wet folds with the head of my cock. “Please, I want it, I want it—”
She tried to push herself back on me, tried to force me to enter her again.
But my hand came down hard on her ass cheek once more. Crack!
“I said, hold still,” I reminded her again.
I rubbed my palm over her ass, soothing the raised welts. Her ass cheeks were a red mosaic, one giant hand-print after another seared into her skin. Each spanking the result of her not obeying.
She whimpered, buried her face into the bed sheets, and submitted to me.
“That's better.” I pushed in and gave her what she wanted.
“Ooooooh,” she howled, her moans muffled by the mattress as I entered her.
I grabbed two handfuls of her raw ass and thrust myself deeper. Her guttural groans grew louder, more urgent—she was close.
Not that I cared. This wasn't about her pleasure. At least for tonight, she belonged to me. And if she was going home to some boyfriend tonight, I wanted him to know it. I wanted him to see how I'd ruined her.
“I wanna ride you!” she begged me suddenly.
“No,” I growled. I didn't want to see her face. “Don't you listen?”
I grabbed a fistful of her hair instead and plunged into her harder, faster. My muscled waist crashed against her rear with rising, rhythmic claps.
“Oh, God!” she wailed, and a sudden flood of her juices rushed down the base of my manhood and dribbled from my balls.
Ha. The worse I treated her, the wetter her pussy. Unbelievable.
I fucked her harder—longer—faster.
When I came into my condom, I pulled it off, tossed it in the trash, and went straight for the shower.
***
I felt cleaner after a long shower, but not any better. She—Nicole?—was still in my bed. Sprawled out on top of the bed sheets, a tired, naked, sweaty heap.
She smiled sleepily. “Hello again, Hunter Rockwell.”
I sat at the foot of the bed. “Hey.”
She had the TV on the local sports channel. Highlights of the game played. They showed my last-second scoring chance, again and again, from every possible angle. Each time, I missed that shot, no matter how much I still expected it to go in.
She pressed herself into my backside. The points of her hard nipples dragged against my back. She wrapped her arms around my chest. Her hands dipped down my bare torso, heading for my cock.
But I pushed her hand away. “You really have to watch this right now?”
“You can turn it off … I was just waiting for you.”
The talking head on TV spouted off, sounding so angry, you could almost see the spittle flying from his chapped lips:
“Three years ago? In Boston? Rockwell would've scored that goal. So what happened? What's his problem? At this point, it doesn't matter, we have to stop making excuses for his play. At 23 years old, Rockwell is just not the player that the Colorado Blizzard thought they were getting when they traded for him! It's time for the Blizzard to cut bait and move on. You know, some people have floated the idea that Rockwell was just the product of a much more skilled teammate in Boston. I'm talking, of course, about Chris Cunningham—”
I bolted off the bed, hurried over to the TV and shut the damned thing off.
I scratched my head, avoiding eye contact with the girl in my bedroom. “Listen. We're starting a road trip tomorrow. I've got an early flight to St. Louis in the morning.”
Nicole blinked. “Oh …?”
I climbed into bed and let my head finally hit the pillow. “So. You know. You should probably go.”
She laughed bitterly. “Wow. So—that's it? You're kind of an asshole, aren't you?”
I rolled on my side, away from her. “I tried to warn you.”
“Fuck you, Hunter Rockwell,” she hissed.
She hopped out of bed and dressed herself in a quiet but livid rage. She stormed out of the room with her high heels in her hands—but she stopped in the doorway to give me one last piece of her mind.
“They're right, you know. You fucking suck.”
I breathed a sigh of relief when the door shut behind her.
Yeah, that's what they say.