Page 156 of Hockey Halloween
“Well?” she demands.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, the uncomfortable prickle of people staring at me invading my costume. This is just fucking perfect. I didn’t want to come here in the first place. But our Captain, Lord de la Peña and God of Creation himself insisted we were all in attendance to meet their new charity coordinator.
Apparently, some of us could do with being a little bit more giving with our time, and a little more approachable to members of the public.
What he didn’t say was that I was one of those people. Since I got this scar on my face last season, I’ve felt broken, self-conscious, and every bit the ‘beast’ the local media has portrayed me as.
I reach to grab her wrist but stop myself. I’m a tank of man, with an intimidating reputation, and she doesn’t know me. If I touch her, that wouldn’t just scare her, but it would be supremely out of line. Instead, I hook a thumb to the front door. “Could we step outside to talk about this?”
The ambient heat in here, coupled with the heat emanating from my body under her fiery glare, and inside this plastic mask makes it uncomfortable to breathe.
She doesn’t take more than a second to make up her mind before she gives a sharp nod and spins on her heel.
When we get out onto the porch, she turns to face me, her face pinched into an angry pout. I have to admit, she’s kind of scary. From week to week, I face the meanest mugs in the league on the ice, and this short, little wisp of a woman dressed as Pennywise looks more threatening than any of them.
I do my best not to stare at her raised cleavage, or the way her costume hugs her curves, nipping in at the waist, falling over her wide hips, and thighs. And I definitely don’t fixate on the red suspenders holding her knee-length socks.
Because that wouldn’t be gentlemanly. And I may beat the shit out of people on the ice, but my mamma raised a gentleman.
I reach to scratch my chin, but the plastic head prevents me from doing so. This fucking costume. I should have told Apollo to fuck all the way off with this costume party shit.
I rip it from off my shoulders with a frustrated growl and face her head on. To her credit, she doesn’t gasp, she doesn’t let her eyes linger on the ugly, jagged scar down my left cheek, and she doesn’t scrunch her face up in horror.
Not sure why, my real face is much scarier than the beast costume I’m wearing.
One of the local sports outlets dubbed me the beast once my cut healed up and I was back on the ice. They claimed it was because of my reputation. But the timing of my injury, the virality of the video where my blood spurted all over the ice, and a deep insecurity about how a stray blade to the face has left my appearance… It felt intentional, like a slight against my physical appearance as opposed to a brag on my skill.
“The Beast.”
I leaned into the title and the grumpy, loner persona with the costume, but truth be told, I fucking hate the nickname. I feel enough like an ugly asshole without an online sportscaster giving me a name and making it a thing. I may look like a beast, but inside, I’m not that guy. I’m the protector on the ice, but off the ice, I’m just a giant guy with a scarred face who wants to be left the fuck alone.
Pennywise stands, hand on her hip, which calls more attention to the suspender peeking out from beneath the edge of the ruffly thing under her dress.
“Alright, night monster, what’s your beef?”
That makes her gasp. “How do you know my name?”
I purse my lips. “You’re dressed as a horror clown… it’s not really a secret.”
She tips her head, her nostrils flickering before she… giggles? She’s laughing. It’s a melodic, bright and unexpected sound. “My real name means night monster. I thought you were not only a rude asshat, but that you were stalking me as well.”
“For real?” It feels like she’s fucking with me, but her eyes sparkle with truth.
She nods. “Lilith.” She holds her hand out. “And the woman you shoulder checked into tomorrow on your way into the party.” She points to her shoulder. “I have the bruises to prove it.”
I scratch my chin again. I have a vague recollection of clipping something on my way into the party, but the blind spots on this fucking costume are colossal. Figured it was just one of the guys, or one of the fancy pants pillars.
Shifting the oversized character head on my hip makes it slide down my thigh, and Lilith reaches to help, making us butt heads as we scramble to stop it from hitting the deck.
“Fuck.”
“Shit.” She lets out a hiss and rubs her forehead, taking a step back.
I sigh. Of course she’s afraid of me, just like everyone else. Big scary beast. If it looks like a beast, and acts like a beast… I’m over here doing beast things. Talk about wearing the label like a badge of honor. “I’m sorry.” My hand travels around my jaw and rubs the back of my neck instead of my chin. I’m clammy from being inside the offending head.
She reaches out to touch my forearm, and I swear to all the deities that my skin sizzles to life. I don’t remember the last time someone touched me. I haven’t had a woman warm my bed in over a year, since I got sliced and diced during a game. I’d forgotten what the spark of chemistry could feel like.
She pulls her fingers back almost as quick, and my stomach sinks. I try to remind myself she’s probably not disgusted by me, but I can’t exactly blame her. Every time I look in the mirror, I’m kind of disgusted at myself, too.
