Page 109 of Pucking Them
“No way is Wilder getting his hands on the bloody Cup,” I mutter.
Yet my mind is looping with thoughts, as I replay one of Wilder’s goals again. I imagine every move in my mind.
When I have insomnia, this is what I do. I can’t let what has happened in the day go. It plays on repeat.
When I was Blythe’s sub, I would lie awake obsessing over my mistakes that had led to her punishments.
Could I have stopped Wilder scoring?
“D’Angelo blocks the shot with his shinpad from the middle of the ice.” I raise my hands, waving them in front of the skylight, imagining the stars are lining up on the rink. “Textbook. But instead of clearing safely to the boards, it landed in front of the goalie, giving Wilder the second chance. That was bad bloody luck.”
Or is it just that teams like the Penguins will make you pay for the smallest mistake?
We can play at our best and still lose.
Wilder believes in that manifesting bollocks, right? He’s been dreaming of drinking champagne out of the Stanley Cup, while I was still in the English version of middle school.
What if his desire to win and see D’Angelo lose is stronger than ours to see the reverse?
I squirm onto my side, and my gaze drops to the purple and black bruises that cover D’Angelo’s stomach and chest.
I think that I invented some new cuss words, when D’Angelo stripped off his shirt in the restrooms to allow Michael to examine him on Friday night.
Michael’s cussing was unexpectedly just as creative.
He wanted D’Angelo to be checked out at the hospital and have an x-ray in case he had fractured ribs, but D’Angelo refused. He’d been too concerned that any recorded injuries would stop him playing.
I study D’Angelo’s sleeping face and his long, black lashes that fan onto his cheeks.
He’s bloody beautiful.
My Sir.
I smile softly, reaching out to trace over the severe bruising.
This wasn’t a couple of punches. I’ve been beaten enough to know that. This was vicious.
It also took place in the locker room showers, where everybody has a right to feel safe.
D’Angelo should have nothing but pleasant memories of the Bay Rebels showers. They are one of his favorite places to push me to my knees, and for me to worship his cock, while we’re both on a high.
I love looking up at my hockey god, who I have crushed on since college, through the streaming water. His cock bruises my throat ruthlessly, and I allow him to fuck my face, while I lose myself in his taste.
D’Angelo shouldn’t be frightened or held down like he holds me.
He has my consent.
Fuck Wilder for not understanding the meaning of the bloody word.
There is a special place in hell for hazers.
My hand shakes.
There is no bloody way that Wilder wants to win more than I do. I don’t care if he’s dreamed of victory since he was in diapers. He’s hurt the man who has accepted my twin and me into his home and heart.
The man who has treated us like we’re worthy.
No one hurts a man like D’Angelo.
