Page 65 of Gross Misconduct

“What do you mean?”

“First rule of hockey: if something brings you good luck, you keep doing it.”

Players grow out their hair and beard to caveman extremes. They eat the same foods. They listen to the same song on the way to the rink. It’s all about keeping the good luck streak going no matter what.

I move to the back wheels and place the brake pads in then tighten the calipers.

“Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?” Jack asks.

I nod, knowing that it sounds both insanely crazy and supremely logical. “How else do you explain why we’re suddenly both better players?” I walk over to Jack’s wheel, the final one left. “I thought it was just something we needed to get out of our systems that one time. Or two times. But what if it unlocked something for us? We both had big wins. We should keep the good luck going.”

“By fucking each other?”

“Yes,” I say with utmost seriousness in my voice and a tightening in my pants. “People are actually talking about this game between our teams. We don’t want to embarrass ourselves on the ice. We need to do whatever we can not to jinx ourselves.”

“By fucking each other?”

Every time he says fuck, my dick jumps.

“I mean, yes. You didn’t seem to hate it.” His dirty talk and desperate moans echo in my head. I want more of them.

Jack clears his throat, a patch of blush emerging on his cheeks. “This is nuts.”

“Is it any worse than guys who refuse to change socks for the season to keep up the good juju? Look, I’m not asking for your hand in marriage. I’m not even asking you to dinner, Ringer. I just want to win some games.”

I also want to kiss him hard and feel his body clench and shake under my touch as he explodes with orgasm.

The taste of victory will be just as delicious as the taste of him.

I hand Jack the final brake pad, my finger slipping over his.

“I guess if it’ll help us, then we should keep doing it.” Jack slides the brake pad into place. “For the good juju.”

22

JACK

Idon’t believe in luck. I believe that there is no rhyme or reason to why things happen or why people behave the way they do, and that no amount of prayer or tarot cards can explain the cruel twists of the universe.

Except when it comes to hockey.

Hockey is bound by a higher spiritual code with a strict checks and balances mindset. Every action we do or don’t do can impact that balance and effect our game. Hence, to appease the hockey gods, I must get it on with Griffin Harper.

I’m sorry but I don’t make the rules.

At first, I don’t know when exactly we’ll be hooking up next. Is that part of the good luck arrangement? Do we have to knock boots at a designated time or place? Now that Griffin fixed my car, I could easily pop over to the hangar and have him rail me on top of an airplane wing. Or we could meet up in the alley again so he could have his way with me with the mallet swinging between his legs.

Even though he was the one who brought up this idea, a part of me wonders how serious he was. Having a really good game can mess with a guy’s head. Maybe when he got home, he realized that he didn’t need me.

That might explain why I haven’t heard from him since Sunday night. Time goes slower when you’re unemployed. I could text him, but I don’t want to find out that he had a change of heart. I’d rather this wild idea fizzle out and awkwardly avoid him at Summers Rink.

I get to the rink early Wednesday morning for team practice. A light drizzle falls on the grounds, puddles forming in the parking lot. In the locker room, I get myself in the zone. I have my own rituals for pregame preparation. Things I chant to myself. I try some of Miller’s breathing techniques.

Fuentes walks to the center of the locker room, all business. “Guys, I talked to Marcy, and we’re going to double up on practice time for the next few weeks. She was able to maneuver the schedule so we can practice on Friday mornings, too.”

Some of the guys groan.

“Hey!” Miller yells before forcing himself to take a deep breath. He then hands the floor back to Fuentes.

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