Page 31 of Playing Dirty
I blink. "Um. Well, that's… good?"
"Yeah, Betts is a big softie under all the muscle, and he seems like the settle-down type, which is my new thing this year." She nods like she's making a sensible business pivot.
"That's great," I manage. "But just to be clear, it's really not in the cards for me with Cillian."
"Well, I can help with that." She grins. "I haven't slept with him in ages, but we still run in the same circles. I'll put in a good word for you with him."
"Please do not put in a good word for me with him." My voice has gone slightly strangled.
"Honestly, it's no trouble at all, because trust me, he isunrealin bed," she continues, entirely undeterred by my mounting horror. "The man actually respects women, which is a totalunicorn in hockey. And he eats pussy like his life depends on it. I have never, in my entire life, been so thoroughly taken care of."
"I'm not sure I needed to know that," I say, my head spinning at the vivid mental image she handed me. I shoot Carol a desperate look down the row, but she’s deep in conversation and entirely unaware that I am in need of rescue.
"You know the article that came out a few years back?" Brittany asks, oblivious to the fact that I am turning the color of my rosé.
Unfortunately I do. It was inescapable—a piece of gossip detailing a romantic history that suggested Cillian was sleeping his way through a small municipality. It should have been a devastating blow to his image.
Instead, every woman interviewed had nothing but glowing reviews, and one quote famously dubbed him "the king of consent" in print. Rather than a career-ender, it somehow solidified his status as the league's golden boy.
"I'm familiar," I say.
"Well, let me tell you, the articleundersoldit." Brittany leans in conspiratorially. "If you ever get the chance, trust me. Worth. The. Ride."
She winks at me again, and I can feel my ears actively radiating heat. I turn back to the game in time for one of the Renegades to get absolutely flattened into the glass. The whole section surges up howling for blood, Brittany included, and I clutch my empty cup like it's a support animal.
"See that guy?" she says, pointing at the player who delivered the hit. "Number nineteen. Lucas Anderson. As Renegades fans, we hate him. He's a dirty player, and he did an interview last year where he said some shitty things about women in sports media. So, like, villain on every count."
I follow her finger. The man in question is built like a refrigerator, and a wave of irritation moves through me. I find that Iam, somewhat against my will, now openly rooting for Cillian or one of the Renegades to ruin his night.
A minute later, the Renegades break out of their own zone, and Cillian takes the puck up the middle, and the building rises around me in this swelling wave of sound, he slips between two defenders and threads a pass through traffic, and his teammate buries it. And suddenlyI'mon my feet screaming with everyone else.
"Yes! Get it!" Brittany shouts, throwing her arms around me.
It is strangely exhilarating. The noise, the speed, thousands of strangers all wanting the same thing at the same moment. The team piles together to celebrate and I see Cillian in the middle of it, that dimpled smile lit up under his helmet, knocking heads with the teammate who scored.
Brittany leans into me as we sit back down. "Did you see that pass? He's been having an off year compared to his usual, but he's still better than ninety percent of these guys on his worst day."
"He's been off?" I ask, my eyes still on him as he glides toward the bench.
"Yeah. An injury awhile back. He used to be like a machine on the ice, but lately it's like he loses his cool, forces things, makes mistakes he never used to make. And then he gets stuck in his own head about it. He's his own worst critic." She gives me a meaningful look. "But he hates when people make a thing of it."
"I wouldn't dream of it," I promise, my gaze lingering on him.
The realization is a little unsettling. I'd had him in my head as the arrogant, insufferable golden boy of the NHL, with the endless endorsements and a predictably shallow rotation of admirers.
The image of him grinding through a brutal year of recovery without self-pity doesn't really fit that picture. And watchinghim now, I'm not sure the picture was ever that accurate to begin with.
He comes tearing down the ice with the puck, a teammate skating wide open beside him, and instead of passing he tries to muscle through two defenders on his own. He loses it in the scramble, the chance gone, and skates off with his head down and his shoulders hunched, frustration rolling off him.
"He's trying to do too much," Brittany murmurs, watching him. "Reckless lately..."
His coach barks something in his ear as Cillian goes past, and Cillian gives a single nod, his entire posture suggesting a fresh, dangerous fire has been stoked. By the time the third period arrives, the very concept of sitting back in my seat feels impossible, and my second glass of wine is entirely abandoned as I watch Cillian navigate the final minute.
He's everywhere at once. He digs the puck off the wall through what looks like sheer refusal to be beaten, throws his body into a scramble along the boards, and comes out with it.
And then, with under a minute left, the puck finds him right in front of the net. This time he doesn't charge in the way he did before. He goes still for a second, waits the goalie out, and slides it past him so cleanly it barely looks like effort.
His stick hits the ice and his arms fly up as his teammates crash into him, and twenty thousand people come to their feet at once, a wall of noise that I feel in my teeth. The horn blares seconds later, and that's the game. They've won. Brittany grabs me and we jump up and down together like we've won something ourselves.
