Page 15 of Dangle

They looked at each other, but every one of them held their tongue. I appreciated them not pointing out that it all pointed back to my thirteen penalty minutes. Skates pressed into the floor, I lifted myself from the bench and shouldered my way out onto the ice. The guys followed behind.

My eyes met those of the man I had noticed weeks ago. The one I showed off for during warm-ups. I didn’t know his name, but I knew several things about him.

He’d been at every home game since that night. Always sitting in the same seats. Sometimes alone. Other times with the guy from the first night, I noticed him. Sometimes with another guy.

He cleaned up after himself after every game.

He had a beautiful fucking smile.

He jumped to his feet when I scored, cheering and high-fiving those around him.

He seemed to know Coach Grigor. Coach waved at him a couple of times, anyway.

Other than that, I knew…

He made me curious.

And horny as fuck.

I nodded at him, wishing he and the rest of the fans hadn’t just watched our season end on a shitty fuck-up by yours truly.

He nodded back and turned to head up the stairs.

With that, I stepped into the tunnel. The locker room should’ve been rocking. Instead, the mood mimicked a funeral, complete with tears and anger. Plenty of that to be found, too.

Hockey gear flew across the room, smacking off the floor and walls.

A folding chair branded with the Mauler logo lay mangled on the floor.

Not a great way to cope with a loss, but who was I to talk about coping mechanisms? I coped with shit by acting out like a fucking toddler, and I had no fucking clue how to stop.

Or if I even wanted to.

I stripped down to my gitch, leaving the base layer on while I sorted my gear, and dropped my dirties in the hampers.

A deep breath in, I turned back to my cubby and pulled my undershirt over my head, peeled the gitch bottoms off my legs, whipping them toward the laundry being collected. My eyes traveled casually around the room, and the eyes meeting mine darted away quickly.

They were better guys than I. Breaking shit while screaming at the culprit for the loss would probably be more likely how I would react.

Coach Grigor entered the room. Breaths held for the red-faced, spit-flying rant, but it never came. He made his way around the room, gripping shoulders, patting faces and arms as he went. He ended the trip with me. His hand landed on my shoulder. I only barely kept from flinching. He gave me a soft shake, then dipped, disappearing into his office.

Relieved tears pricked at my eyes. I couldn’t…fuck. I couldn’t lose it here. As I moved, I turned away from the team, yanked off my boxer briefs, and dropped them in my bag.

“Tough loss, boys.”

Eyes wide. A silent FUCK growled in my head.

Please, God. Not here. Not now.

Snatching up my shower caddy, I ducked into the showers without so much as a ‘I’ll be quick, Dad’ called out over my shoulder.

I’d pay for the slight. That was a given. There was no way I wouldn’t. He’d stack it on top of all the other shit he would punish me for tonight. I’d given the prick a season’s worth of ammunition to use against me for the rest of my goddamn life.

Oh well. It wasn’t as if being perfect granted me any slack. He still found something. From how I tied my laces to what I ate. As if a teenage hockey player needed to worry about watching their diet.

The shower sputtered to life as I twisted the knob. The tears that threatened in the other room made tracks down my face. I buried my face in the water, praying it would wash away the pain, the grief, praying even harder for it to wash me away.

That would be ideal. If the water turned to acid, it could melt the flesh from my bones, and I could melt away into nothingness.