Page 188 of The Blame Game

“Hey! You okay, Webby?” he called.

Jesse had pushed himself half up and was staring down at O’Shea with a dazed look.

O’Shea shook his head, groaning, and Webby scrambled back, nearly knocking into the net that a Boston player and linesman were trying to re-set.

“Webs?” Dom shouted. “Are you hurt? Do you need a trainer?”

He blinked and looked at Dom. “No, no I’m good.”

He glanced furtively over at O’Shea who stood with his helmet off, talking to another linesman.

O’Shea was a big guy, taller than Dom and broader through the shoulders. He looked a little bit like La Bouche, with his red hair and beard, though it was a darker shade, almost auburn.

Dom looked between the two of them, realizing his teammate wasn’t dazed from the hit, but drooling.

For fuck’s sake!

“Get your fucking head in the game, Webby!” Dom shouted. “I don’t care how hot you think Boston’s captain is, this isn’t the time for it.”

Jesse’s face went red and he turned to face Dom. “Shut the fuck up, asshole,” he muttered, whacking at Dom’s shins with his blocker. “I wasn’t … I’m not …”

“You can think with your dick all you want after the series is over,” Dom reminded him. “But we’ve got a game to win, okay?”

Webby straightened, squaring his shoulders, his eyes going focused in that dead-eyed goalie stare that Dom always found a little creepy. “Got it.”

“Good.” Dom slapped the back of his helmet, shaking his head at the kid.

Jesus.

Dom could admit there were plenty of advantages to guys knowing who they were and being open about it. But maybe there were some benefits to being a little goddamn afraid of anyone finding out.

He had never been distracted by an opponent.

With a roll of his eyes, Dom skated over to join the faceoff. He was never letting Webby live this shit down.

To Dom’s relief, the puck stayed out of the back of Toronto’s net.

The Fisher Cats continued to hammer Boston and Dom panted on the bench from his previous shift, watching as a beautiful goal from Dustin—with a gorgeous assist from Nico—netted them their fourth goal.

The team played keep away with the puck for another few minutes, and despite Boston’s attempts to score, the game horn sounded, nearly drowned out by the sound of the crowd.

Dom shouted too, already hoarse, and hugged his teammates on the bench, Matty screaming in his ear.

They were going on to the next round!

Dom was still buzzing when he lined up to shake hands with Boston’s players.

“Good game,” he said sincerely as he shook Connor O’Shea’s hand.

He swallowed hard but nodded, his disappointment palpable but his grip firm. “You played well,” he said roughly. “Good luck with the next round. This is your final season, yeah?”

Dom nodded. “It is.”

Connor slapped his arm in a friendly gesture. “Congrats. Hope you make it all the way then.”

“Thanks, man. That means a lot.”

Dom thought about Connor’s words while he continued down the line, shaking hands with the rest of Boston’s players.

---