Point Shot 01 - Two Man Advantage (3 page)

“That kind of asinine horseshit is why you’re now leaving turds in
my
litter box, Kalinski!” Lambert roared, his nose an inch from mine. Fuck, the dude must have put raw garlic on his Wheaties. My eyes started to sweat. “Just for that cheap shot, I want five hundred sideways stride jumps.”

I drifted backward until my ass hit the boards. Lambert was still in my face. One eyelid began twitching uncontrollably, I noticed. I spun around, put some distance between Coach and myself, then starting pushing off with my left leg and jumping to the right. By the time I clocked five hundred, my fucking legs would be like used chewing gum.

Prescott shook off his buddies, chuckled at my punishment, then sprawled out center ice to begin loosening up. Have I mentioned how much I hate this team, stadium, city, state and blue line?

Chapter Three

Three hours later I hauled my weary carcass off the ice. Those cock-sucking stride jumps had kicked my ass. They had then been followed by an intense hour of drills. After that it had been Kalinski solo time with Coach Dewey, working on a completely different offensive program to the one I was used to. Three hours of steady exertion had left my thighs and calves knotted and burning. I had to wonder if Lambert had hoped to make me beg for the night off, which would be asinine. They might as well take advantage of my talent while I was there. Maybe they’d get a couple in the W column before I left.

The dressing room was empty, which suited me fine. I stripped slowly, groaning each time I had to lift a leg. The dirty gold-and-blue practice uniform went into a rolling bin overflowing with sweaty uniforms. My pads got tossed into my cubicle. One of the equipment men was vacuuming the cougar-print rug in the hall. After limping to the door, I threw my skates at the vacuum guy and asked to have them sharpened before the game. He turned off the Eureka, then went off to see about putting a grind on my blades. Grabbing my shampoo and bar of soap, I gimped toward the showers. They too were vacant.

The initial blast of water was cold. I sucked in a sloppy breath. I then stowed my crap on the built-in corner shelves. The water quickly warmed. Lowering my head, I placed my hands on the team-colored tiles in front of me. Water sluiced over my head and neck. It ran down my back and ass. Smaller rivers snuck through my overgrown hair, streaming over my eyes to run off the tip of my pointy nose. I closed my eyes and contemplated shouting for a trainer to go fetch me one of those plastic shower chairs old people use. I felt like I was a hundred years old from the waist down.

“Nice speed drills out there.”

His voice startled me, as it was so close. I jerked upward to look over at Arou standing beside me under a pulsating showerhead. Fuck. I
so
did not want any chummy-chum-chum at the moment. His dark hair was flat to his round head. His right hand was lathering up a nicely made chest covered with curly dark hair. On his left biceps was a tattoo. I squinted to try to make out the inkwork on his arm, then realized I was scoping the man out. I yanked my eyes away before I did something really stupid like stare openly at his dick. My cock twitched with sudden interest. Okay, so maybe
not
quite a hundred from the waist down.

“That’s why Boston is my permanent address,” I replied, reaching for my shampoo. I cranked the hot water off. My teeth were chattering within seconds but my dick was no longer interested in scoping out Arou’s junk. The dude wasn’t even my type, for fuck’s sake. Some weird Hobbit-loving ghost had possessed me, or at least my dick, since I had first laid eyes on Dan Arou. It needed to be exorcised, like right now.

“Yeah, but you’re vacationing
here
,” he said. Lather ran down my face. I shoved my head into the icy water, ignoring the man as best as I could. “You know, if you just tried a little harder to be less of an asshole, I bet you’d be less of an asshole.”

“How eloquent,” I parried as I glanced over at him. He was scrubbing viciously at his calf. My eyes ran down his wet back to his ass. The penis poltergeist that ruled my crotch enjoyed the sight. The man had a fantastic little ass, all pert and tight. His thighs were thick, his calves sculpted. One thought raced around inside my head—it had to do with putting my cock between those taut cheeks.

He straightened while still yammering. I spun around and left the showers as well as my personal shit behind. Fuck the soap and shampoo. I’d buy more. My balls were aching terribly for some bizarre reason. Too much cold water, more than likely.

“Hey!” the runt shouted. I kept on walking. A towel hit me in the back of my head. I paused as the terrycloth fluttered teasingly down my backside to the floor. “At least cover up that sickly white ass.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be staring at my ass, Arrow.”

“I wouldn’t if it wasn’t so damn white. Don’t Poles ever get out in the sun?” he asked as the sound of running water stopped.

I flipped him off and left. I did grab a blue towel from a pile beside the exit, tying it around my waist as I walked. I toweled partly because I didn’t want to hear any more comments about my tapioca-toned ass, but also to help hide the semi-erect state of my prick.

“What are you doing here anyway?” I threw over my shoulder.

Arou followed me into the dressing area a moment later. I was just tugging my boxers over my ass when he arrived.

“I play hockey on this team,” he informed me.

I sat down. He peeled off his towel. My eyes roamed over his back yet again. He was really nicely formed. Lots of hard muscle packed onto a compact frame.

“I was helping get the DVDs from the last game handed out, then there was an interview with the local station.”

I quickly focused on stepping into my jeans. Dan was tucking his package carefully into his black jeans. He wore no underwear. That was fucking hot. I felt the rush of blood to my groin.
Damn.
I zipped quickly.

“You know, I was being serious about trying to be slightly less of a dickhead,” Dan said from his side of the room. I had taken a seat and was working valiantly to get my sock pulled over my wet foot. “Even whittling off just an inch of your severely enormous ego would help.” I threw the sock into my cubicle. Screw it. I’d just go sockless.

“Sorry, but I like my inches,” I said from inside my long-sleeved tee.

When my head emerged, Dan was staring at my belt region. His eyes roamed upward. The blue of his irises deepened when he realized that he’d been caught checking me out. Pink infused his cheeks then raced to the tips of his ears. Something hot wiggled around in the pit of my stomach. The urge to walk over, grab his head and plunder that sensuous mouth of his was so strong that my foot actually rose an inch from the floor. His shirt was hanging from his hand. I refused to look at his bare chest.

“Later,” I said, exiting as quickly as I could, my coat left behind. Screw the jacket too.

I shoved open the doors of the players’ entrance. The wind was so cold the hairs in my nose froze instantly. Snowflakes danced on a light breeze. Man, what I wouldn’t give for my socks and coat right about now. I made a run to my Escalade, jumped inside, then cranked the Caddy over. By the time the engine was warm enough to make with the hot air, my body was one big goose pimple. I was blowing into my hands when someone rapped on the window beside my head. I jumped. Through the steam I saw Dan Arou’s eyes boring into me like sapphire lasers. I put the window down. He handed me my coat, then walked over to his light-blue Dodge Dakota.

I sat there, window down, heater throwing out the warm, with my coat in my hand, watching Arou pull away. Where was he going? Was there someone at home waiting for him? Would that someone be feminine or masculine? And why did the thought of Dan Arou having someone at home waiting for him make me want to punch something?

Chapter Four

Percy Doyle has deep-brown eyes with flecks of gold. I dropped down a little lower into my crouch, my fingers tightening on my stick. Doyle’s eyebrow went up with a smartass tone. Yeah, eyebrows have tones. This one said, “Kalinski, say something about my girlfriend right as the ref drops the puck for the face-off.” Not wanting to disappoint Doyle’s spanky-smart eyebrow, I smiled pleasantly. The puck began to fall. Doyle insult number twenty-seven rolled off my tongue.

“Your girlfriend Donna used to suck my balls when I was on this team.”

Percy Doyle snarled, his dreamy chocolate eyes growing quite unpleasant. The puck hit the ice and I slapped it to Buttonwood, who happened to be the team captain. I had to chuckle at Doyle, the stupid shit. I had been pushing his buttons for the better part of thirty minutes now. Every time we skated in for a face-off, the center from the Knights and I exchanged pleasantries. The dig about Donna had been a low blow, but then again, so was Donna. And just for the record, she really
did
suck my balls three years ago, and quite vigorously if memory serves. That’s the chance you take picking up a star’s sloppy seconds. I’d have to make a mental note to tell Doyle that over the next face-off.

“Kalinski!”

I hit the brakes at the Knights’ blue line, spun, picked up the pass from our right-winger, then flipped it to our left-winger, Heath Goodman. The puck flew between his legs and one of the Knights picked it up. I looked at the time on the scoreboard. Four minutes remained. My nose wrinkled in general disgust. Fucking A. And it was only the second period. I just might put my eyes out with my skates before the next intermission. I threw up my arms in disgust, then skated to our bench. I was over the board and in Lambert’s face faster than you can say, “This team mouths monkey balls!” My mouth opened.

The fans, all one hundred and one of them, moaned. I looked down-ice to see goal number six being scored on Dunwoody, our goalie. “Did the scouts for this team cruise the bargain bin at the idiot store for these losers?” I shouted at Coach.

The lines changed. Arou slung his short legs over the board and raced down to the Knights’ end. Not that I was paying particular attention to Arou.

Coach poked me in the chest, hard. “Sit the fuck down, Kalinski! I’m tired of your voice raping my fucking earhole every time you leave the ice,” Lambert said.

I spun around and dropped my ass to the bench, my hand already wrapped around a Gatorade bottle. I sucked, rinsed and spat the green drink to the floor between my skates.

“If this team had a fucking clue, maybe I wouldn’t be putting my words into your earhole without using lube!” I barked over my shoulder. Buttonwood nudged me in the side. I glared at the blond with the scar on his upper lip. “You got something to say?” I asked, took another mouthful of electrolytes and swallowed.

“Maybe instead of running down the less skilled players, you could try passing along some of the information you’ve picked up as a major-league player.”

I looked directly into Mike Buttonwood’s green eyes. “Yeah, maybe.” I glanced down the ice to see Arou throwing himself in front of the puck to block a shot. I jerked a thumb at the action. “And maybe your D-Men can nibble on my nutsack. They’re not capable of humming
Camptown Races
while simultaneously wiping their asses, so I kind of doubt they’d get the nuances of a simple triangle offense.”

Buttonwood pulled off his lid. His sandy blond head was saturated. A trainer threw a towel over his shoulders. I waved off the offer. Let the sweat run into my eyes. Maybe the salt would blind me and I wouldn’t have to watch this massacre.

“Were you born being such a dick or did you have to study to achieve such noteworthy status?” the captain asked after scrubbing his head with his towel so vigorously his hair stood up on end.

“It takes years of schooling to reach my level of buttholery, Buttonwood, my boy,” I countered. Buttonwood actually snorted, which notched him up an eighth of a millimeter on my respect stick. “My thesis topic was ‘How to find and identify assholes who sit beside you and try to impart unwanted advice.’”

“You’re a real douche, Kalinski,” Buttonwood said. He sounded sincere. I nodded.

“That’s why the fans hold up drawings of me labeled ‘Summer’s Eve’ back in Beantown.”

The crowd groaned. I didn’t even turn my head to look at what form of stupidity was occurring. It really didn’t matter, did it? My days here were numbered.

“If only you’d use your mouth for good as opposed to evil,” Buttonwood chided as he pushed his blue helmet back onto his head. Coach was yelling for a power play line change. I took another quick drink, then chucked the bottle back into the tray.

“I’ve used my mouth for good, trust me,” I said, getting to my skates and waiting for the departing line to get off the ice.

“I meant for something besides eating pussy.” Buttonwood chuckled, then sped off.

Arou and I both had our legs over the boards at the same time, him coming off and me going on. I met his eyes. Yeah, they grabbed and held me like a leg-hold trap. “I never said anything about eating pussy being my oral talent,” I countered just loud enough for Arou and only Arou to catch. I dropped to the ice, my pulse rocketing at the charged-up memory of the fire my comment stoked up in Arou’s gaze.

I threw my weight into the first fucking Knight I got in my sights. The hip-check at center ice knocked the winger off his skates. I picked up the puck he had been carrying toward our goal. Someone shouted for a pass. I ignored it simply because I didn’t trust anyone on this team enough to pass a stolen puck to them. This was one of my strongest talents—ripping through a weakened line on a power play.

The goalie hunkered down as I raced toward him. All four Knights were hovering in front of the net like angry hornets. Again someone yelled that they were open. One of the Knights’ defensive men moved to the right just an inch, thinking he’d break up the pass he imagined I’d make. I flipped the puck high and to the right, routing it directly at the gap over the goalie’s left shoulder. The clang of galvanized rubber meeting goal post reverberated throughout the empty stadium. The puck dropped behind the goalie. I sailed around behind the net, fist in the air, waiting for the fucking goal lights and horn. After a ten-second delay, whoever was in charge got the lights flashing and the horn blowing. The crowd, all one hundred and one of them, sat in their seats looking stunned.