Page 50 of The Call-Up
He’s right. That did feel good. It still does while I continue to come down and enjoy the taste of him I still have on my tongue. This time, I definitely won. He was the first to come in our blow-job race.
“If you stay,” I say and grip his side more firmly with my hand, “I’ll wake you up in the morning with another blow job.”
He laughs lightly under me, but also bends his arm so he can bring his hand to my head. He slides his fingers through my hair and grips it gently. “Is this a bribe?”
“More like a promise.” My eyes close as he continues to loosen his fingers in my hair then tighten them again. “There’s coffee in it for you too.”
“Any chance for French toast as well?”
I huff out a laugh. “Vicky’s been spoiling you.”
“Dude,” he says, his voice serious. “You lived there. You know what it’s like. I’ve never eaten so well in my life.”
I swallow around the tightness that just formed in my throat. I do know what it’s like. The year I spent living with the Foleys was the second-best year of my life, and Vicky’s French toast is amazing. But nothing has ever compared to Momma B’s meatloaf and mashed potatoes reheated and placed in front of me when I needed it the most.
“Stay,” I say again.
“I can’t,” he says. “Not if we want to keep this a secret.”
I know he’s right. It’s what I’ve been saying to him from the start. Except that I don’t think I agree anymore. Right now, I’m not so sure I want to keep whatever this is between us a secret.
TWENTY-ONE
Brandon
I knew the playoffs were going to be intense, but witnessing the effect this all has on our home crowd is almost unreal. The entire stadium is humming with excitement. I’ve been playing hockey my whole life and I’ve never felt an energy like this before. If the power I sense in this building could be harnessed, it could probably light the entirety of St. Louis and all the interstates leading out of it for miles.
“Pretty crazy, huh?” Ryan asks me as he comes up beside me at the boards to grab a sip of water before both teams’ starting lines meet at the center dot for the opening face off. He offers a squirt to me and I take it.
“More than crazy,” I say, looking around. Every seat in the stadium is filled. And I swear almost every person in those seats is wearing some form of a Mules jersey. And they’re all waving our colors—blue, white, and gold—in the air by way of rally towels. Everyone is on their feet cheering, and the fans with seats on the glass are pounding it with their fists. The way the glass moves, flexing back and forth, it’s like watching the heart of the stadium beat in and out.
Danton comes to a stop between us and clasps a hand on each of our shoulders. He’s beaming, wearing a wide grin from ear to ear.
“Isn’t this incredible?” he asks, shouting over the noise. “Look at these fans! They know how to show up.”
Coach Chris steps up to us from the other side of the boards and gestures to the rest of the starting lineup to join us. “This is a big moment,” he says. “Soak all of it up now, but as soon as that puck drops, I need you all to settle in. This game is going to get hard fast. This series might be tied at a game apiece, but Winnipeg hasn’t forgotten they lost game one to you. And they are angry about it. Don’t let them intimidate you. Play hard for each other. If you take a hit, get back up and hit them twice as hard. But also protect each other. They’re gonna come after all of you, but especially you three.” He pauses and points at Ryan, O’Shea, and me. “So be ready. Keep your head on a swivel. Got it?”
“Got it, Coach!” we all say together.
He turns his attention directly to me. “You helped get us here, kid. You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, as my heart beats in my ears. I can feel myself sweating already and my mouth has gone dry, but I also don’t think drinking anything right now will help.
Ryan places his hands on my shoulders and gives me a little shake. It makes my stomach flip.
“We’re placing bets again on when he tosses his chicken parm, Coach. Twenty bucks gets you in.”
My jaw drops and I turn around abruptly under his hands to flip him off. The stupid hot bastard has the nerve to wink at me.
“If there was ever a game where he was going to lose his dinner, it might be this one,” Coach Chris says, looking concerned.
“I’m fine!” I protest, even though my stomach is arguing otherwise.
Ivanov, giant in all of his pads, skates into my view. “If possible,” he says, “try to throw up after first shift. I’ll share the hundred dollars I win withyou.”
“I’ll do my best to not disappoint you.”I mock glare at him.
He holds up his gloved hand for me to bump, then takes off down the ice to head to his crease.
