Page 54 of Twisted Needs

I’m offering him the best deal of his life, and all he can do is stand and look at me like I’m an idiot. My stomach twists from the pain of rejection, and when the only word he allows is a meager “sweetheart…”

I don’t say anything as I drop my hands and brush past him, forcing myself not to look back at him as I choke back tears and book it straight for the privacy of my room.

CHAPTER 14

FUCKING DUSTER

PARKER

The penalty box has been calling my name all night, just sitting there like it’s waiting for me to warm the bench with the sizzling heat practically exuding from my entire body. There’s a very high chance I’m waking up in the morning with my entire right side covered in bruises, and I have no one to blame but myself for giving in to Pittsburgh’s star center and my personal enemy, Marcus Grady.

It’s his first game back since his one-game suspension and the guy is just chomping at the bit, drooling at the thought of getting his hands on his next victim. Unlike most civilized players who don’t let things go too far, Grady has been an absolute menace tonight. he man could give two fucking shits about a suspension.

Normally, my head is in the game, blocking out any personal issues the moment I throw my bucket on. Tonight is an exception, because I’m painfully aware that Anders thinks I hate him after being distant and giving him the cold shoulder. It’s not his fault, but he sure acts like he’s carrying all the guilt when I should be the one forced to deal with everything that happened. It’s been eating at me all week. To make matters worse, I’m being stared down by Grady and his beady little rat eyes. I swear they’re red in certain lighting.

The moment he picks a fight with Vandy, the game turns into an absolute gongshow. The kid manages to give Grady a nice little facewash, but an official sends Vandy to the sin bin, apparently he was the one who incited the whole thing. As his captain, I should tell him he needs to have better sportsmanship. As his mentor, I’m most definitely buying the kid a beer when this shit show is over.

Grady skates right up to me during the next play and attempts to check me into the boards. “The kid had it coming,” he chirps, attempting to rile me up.

“Fuck off, chach,” I mutter sharply. “Acting real chippy for a guy with some fucking stone hands.”

He lets out a cold chuckle. “Says the oldest pigeon in the league.”

The moment I find a small window of time, I kronwall him right against the boards. The glass rattles as the crowd goes wild. Rogers skates right up next to me to pull me back, but I’m just as bad as Grady tonight.

Grady throws his mitts while more of our guys flock over, including Pitt’s resident goon, Henry Richmond, who has no problem leaving his post to intervene. He and Gallant really get into it, so intense that Grady and I reach a temporary stalemate in order to break their fight up.

We almost even hug. Almost.

“Not worth it,” I tell Rogers.

“Dude’s a fucking duster. Can’t play for shit.” Rogers shouts it loud enough for Richmond to hear.

The four of us are all sent to the sin bin, quickly becoming the biggest crowd pleaser at the sight of a bunch of veteran players being sent to timeout like complete rooks.

Throughout the rest of the night, Coach Matthias runs through the roster, making subs when she thinks another fight will ensue. I get called back in, passing Rogers as he replaces me right on the fly.

“What the hell is your problem tonight?” Matty shouts when I take the bench. “You of all people should not be picking fights on the ice. That’s not how a leader is supposed to act.”

“You’re right,” I mutter. “My bad.”

Don’t get me wrong—I respect the hell out of my coach. She’s the third female head coach in the entire league, and has four Olympic gold medals under her belt. Matty knows her shit better than the rest of us do, but it’s kind of hard to take her seriously when she’s on some sort of rampage where her only volume is yelling. Probably pregnancy hormones considering she’s a few months away from popping twin boys out. If anyone can handle motherhood, it’s Solvi Matthias. She runs this team like it’s the navy, and I would expect nothing less when it comes to raising her boys.

“Sure fuckin’ is,” she tells me sharply. “You idiots are dangerously close to sending me into early labor. Are you ready to deliver twins, Morozov?”

“No ma’am,” I chuckle, loosening up a bit.

“I’m keeping you out for the rest of the game. Your head’s not in it tonight.”

“I’m fine, Coach. Really.”

She shakes her head. “No you’re not.”

I don’t find it in me to argue.

I’ve had at least six beers tonight, which is usually the exact point where I stop pretending I enjoy socializing and disappear before anyone can corner me into another conversation about hockey or golf. Most of the older guys have already gone upstairs to call their wives and kids like responsible adults.

I’m fully prepared to join them, but then Vandy catches me right before I escape. “Going to bed,” I tell him immediately, already backing away from the table with my room key in hand.