Page 21 of Hooked
The chorus on the bench agreed again. “Uh huh.” “Yup.”
Thanks to Vinny and the boys, that spark in my guts? It hit something flammable and a red-hot ember started to glow, threatening to burn the whole damn place down.
But it was true: Honordidhave a nice ass. She also had a boyfriend. So why the hell should I be getting mad about it?
Vinny's mouth kept running. “Who wants to make a friendly wager on who slays the new girl first—”
“Alright,” I growled and banged my stick against the boards to grab their attention. “Enough about the new girl already. Focus on the goddamn game, boys.”
“Oh, great.” Vinny rolled his eyes. “Did you already get to her, Rockwell? You fuckin' dog. Do you have to ruin this one too? Just like you did—”
I slapped my stick against the boards again. “I saidenough.”
I'd grabbed the boys' attention, but now they stared back at me like I'd just mangled some poor puppy's neck.
“Her name's Honor,” I grumbled. “And she has a boyfriend, so no one's gonna 'slay' her. Get your head in the game, boys.”
“Since when did a boyfriendmatter?” Vinny mumbled quietly under his breath. “But alright, alright. Focus on the game, I got ya.”
Yeah,I thought angrily as I watched my old teammate Cunningham hop over the boards and take the ice. I squeezed my stick between my hands so damn tight I thought it might shatter.Since when.
***
Towards the end of a heated, hard-fought game. We were knotted in a 2-2 tie. I'd scored one of our goals and Vinny had the other.
Cunningham, lousy fucker that he is, scored the two goals for the Bears.Fuck,that pissed me off. And every time he skated by our bench during a time-out, he stared right at me and whistled some goddamned tune with the dumbest look on his face.
Iggy noticed it first. “The hell is he whistling at you? That song mean something to you?”
“I don't know. It sounds familiar, but I can't place it.” I shook my head, my eyes burning into Cunningham's. “He's up to something. He's gotta be. He always is.”
“Jesus, I hate the look on his face. He's so damn punch-able.”
“Tell me about it.”
Iggy's line took the ice. He won his faceoff, and his line started cycling the puck in the offensive zone. Iggy found an opening and sprung into it, leaving the rival defenseman in his dust. But the defenseman hooked his stick around Iggy's mid-section and hauled him down to the ice to keep Iggy from walking in on the goal all alone.
The referee blew his whistle. A hooking penalty against the Bears.
Coach tapped my shoulder and sent me over the boards for the power play. “You know what to do, boys. Make 'em pay.”
Our powerplay unit took to the ice. The Bears threw Cunningham out to take the faceoff against me. We crouched in at the dot, my head side-by-side with the guy I hated more than anyone else.
And he whistled that goddamn tune again. I tried to ignore it while I waited for the ref to drop the puck.
“Don't you know that song, Rocky?” Cunningham asked.
“No. And I don't care, either.”
“Aw, c'mon. You know it. It's Ed Bruce, the country singer.”
“The fuck would I know a country song for?”
Cunningham whistled the melody again. “Still no? Maybe I oughtta sing the lyrics.”
“What you oughtta do is shut your goddamn mouth already.”
I shot the ref an impatient look—what the hell was he waiting for? Drop the puck!
