Page 4 of Icing the Cougar
Another practice, another game, another year. I move to defense and try to breathe through the pressure of skates slicing after me. I picture the rink without me in it, try to convince myself it wouldn't look any different. The puck flies my way. I blink and see her face instead.
"Jazz, what the hell?" Riley bitches at me for a pass I didn't make, and now I've got to act like I care.
"My bad," I shout.
We're running drills, but all I can see is Trinity's silhouette, the curve of her body. It's so clear it makes me miss the puck again. I've got one job: get the play moving, get it out of our end.
"Fuck," I mutter as another opportunity passes by with a nice big red bow on it. No one seems to notice me dropping F-bombs, but Riley catches everything else.
He skates over with his I'm-not-impressed face, yelling, "You gonna show up or what?"
I fake a pass and swing around the other side of the net, this time getting the shot off. The goalie's all over it. Go figure.
We're on our third line rotation, and it still feels like the first, but I hear Coach calling us in.
I glide to the bench, trying to act like I care about the next play. I don't even sit. I rest my arms on the boards, watching the guys jabber and crack jokes like this is just another day at the office.
Coach lays into me more than the others. Can't blame him. I'm the one taking passes like it's amateur hour. Riley keeps throwing me looks like he's waiting for me to snap out of it, to start giving a damn again.
After an eternity of drills and sweaty frustration, we finally wrap. Most of the guys are peeling off their gear, but I hang back, waiting for the lecture from Riley. He thinks he's my personal trainer or my big brother, some days both.
"Hold up," he calls, doing his casual jog over after we’ve already showered and are heading out of the rink. He's not even winded, the show-off. "You okay, Jazz? You've been somewhere else in that head of yours all morning."
I shrug, giving him my best non-answer. "Just tight, I guess. Need to loosen up."
He laughs, shaking his head like I'm the most predictable guy in the universe. "Loosen up, huh? Is that what they're calling it?"
He's fishing for a story, but I'm not biting. "It's nothing. I'm just... Flexibility. I need to work on it. That's it." I throw it out there, half hoping he'll leave it alone and half knowing he won't.
"Yoga might help," Riley says. I can see the grin on his face before he even says it. "Amelia does it all the time. Swears by it."
There it is. I roll my eyes, giving him the reaction he's looking for. "Bro, I don't need to know how flexible your girl is."
He laughs, punching my arm. "Not everything's about that, Jazz."
"Sure it's not," I shoot back. "But seriously, I think I'm good. I'll stretch or something."
He's not buying it, of course. "Come on, man. Can't hurt to try. Amelia's yoga instructor is supposed to be great. She'll probably have you doing handstands in no time."
"Right," I say. The thought of me on a yoga mat is ridiculous, but it's hard to say no when Riley's in Captain Mode. He makes it sound so easy, like it's just another drill. Like I'd be crazy not to take him up on it. "I'll think about it."
He nods, satisfied he's done his part. "I'll get the name and number for you," he says, like we're already signed up for some Zen Retreat or something.
The rest of the guys are starting to clear out. Riley finally heads off, tossing his jacket over his shoulder. I pretend to be texting on my phone, so I don't have to talk to anyone else walking by.
Yoga. Who the hell am I kidding?
Although Riley's correct about one thing. My head is not right. Last night is tattooed on my brain, and there's no practice drill or Captain pep talk that's going to scrub it off. Not that I want it to. I keep seeing Trinity's smile, the way she looked as she climaxed underneath me in her drugged-up state.
Chapter 4
Trinity
The ceiling and the walls and the floor are all the same in this crazy trapeze act. I'm tangled in silk and forgetting which way is up, and I guess that happens when you spend the night with a stranger and the memories keep getting fuzzier instead of clearer. If I look past my own mess of limbs in the mirror, I can still see the faded imprint of his teeth on my shoulder. Not my finest hour.
“Keep those toes pointed!” I call out, trying to pretend I'm a responsible teacher. The girls are all struggling with the Star Drop today, and who can blame them? It's an advanced move.
That one night is all still a blur.
