Page 143 of Unrivaled Love
I guess I don’t live and die by your game scores.
Brutal Killer. And here I thought you were trying to be the world’s best WAG.
Nope. World’s hottest? Maybe.
Definitely.
The loss was tough. I could have put my fist through the boards for fanning on that shot in the third. But, I’m gonna shower and grab a meal for the trip home.
Kay, what’s your ETA?
Midnight, maybe 1 a.m.
Will you be up?
I can try. Practice was tough today and I’m exhausted. We can talk more about your game in the morning.
I’m still going to wake you up when I get home.
Obviously, but I won’t be able to talk since my mouth will be busy.
Jesus. I’m gonna be hard in the shower.
Learn to control yourself, Svoboda.
Impossible when it comes to you.
***
Bryson did in fact wake me gently when he got home and when I tried to give him head he insisted on sixty-nining so we both settled into sleep satisfied.
I’m letting him sleep in a little bit but neither of us have today off. In the kitchen, I turn on some music and start to make noise with the pots and pans; hopefully stirring him from his slumber in a gentle, but also urgent way.
The talk about losses last night is still with me. I keep wondering where Bryson’s headspace is. It’s December, early in the hockey season that lasts until April, and the Renegades are trading third and fourth spots with New Jersey in their division. It’s too soon to really talk about the playoffs but there’s also plenty of attention on the reigning champs.
And Bryson, the reigning MVP.
“Mmm, morning.” Bryson hums as he steps out of his bedroom. His physique is as cut as ever but, eight weeks into the season, his torso is also spotted with bruises from clashes on the ice. One particularly ugly one under his ribs from a cross-check has started to yellow.
“Morning Bry, how are you feeling?” I ask as I start to mix up some protein pancakes.
“Good, can I make some coffee?” He asks as he steps into the kitchen.
“Of course.” He gives me a kiss on the cheek as he passes behind me and I can’t wait to spend every day like this.
Someday.
But we both have to retire from our professional careers to get there.
“Can I ask you a question?” I start. We’ve gotten to know each other so well over the last few months but this loss mentality thing won’t quit.
“You already did, Killer.” He sasses and I bite my tongue to hold back the sassier response. “Okay, okay,” he laughs, “go ahead, what do you want to know?”
“How are you feeling after the loss?”
“Last night?”
“Yeah, like are you good or are you dwelling?”
