Page 16 of Monstrous Serpent

I give him the finger as he skates off.

“You’re going to the doctor after practice,” Hunter says.

Here we go again. I don’t bother looking at him as we skate back in line. “Already told you they’re fine. The cold is just irritating.”

“Doctor.”

“Couple more days and—”

He spins, pinning me against the boards, eyes narrowed.

I huff. “Fine. Whatever.”

Hunter grunts, then watches the next rotation, tracking the forwards before the drill even starts.

Un-fucking-believable.

I shove my hand back into my glove, grinding my molars.

Two days. Two fucking days he’s been on my ass about my eyes, slapping my hand away every time I rub them. But the motherfucker doesn’t say a word about what happened in the woods. Acts like it was nothing.

Maybe it wasn’t for him. But he should have known it was different for me.

I swallow hard, shaking the thought away.

Everyone else walks around wanting people like it's easy. Like their bodies just work. See someone hot, get turned on. Simple. Normal. The way it's supposed to be.

Mine doesn't do that. Never has. Girls, guys, it doesn't matter how good they look. I see them. Appreciate them the same way I do a nice car or a sick hit. But my body stays offline. Sits there like a dead engine as the rest of the world is out there fucking and flirting while I'm wondering what's wrong with me.

Except with Hunter.

He’s the only person who's ever made my engine turn over.

Five years. One person.

I stopped trying to figure out why because the answer doesn't change anything. Hunter doesn't want me like that. He’s made it clear. So I take what I can get, and I keep my mouth shut. Jerk off alone in the dark like a fucking ghost haunting my own life.

Then Jenkins showed up at the Pine Barrens. That night, my cock got so hard it hurt.

I’ve dropped that little shit, pinned him, fisted his jersey while he spat blood and swung at me countless times last year. My body never gave a damn.

So what the fuck was different about Saturday?

A violent crack explodes near my head, so sharp my ears ring and my teeth rattle. I recoil, throwing my hand over my ear. “Jesus!”

“My bad!” Shaw waves his stick in the air, cackling like a psycho with that too-wide grin. “Like sixty-forty, my bad. Maybe seventy-three. Wait, that's not—seventy-thirty. Fuck. Math is not the point. The point is that I didn't mean to. Okay, I meant to, but only because you were staring off like you were watching head movies.”

I huff. “You mean daydreaming.”

“Duh. That’s what I said.”

Coach Byfield crosses his arms. “When are you clowns going to grow the fuck up? Trembley, Kincaid, get your asses back out there. I want proper angling this time. Not next month. Not next week. Now.”

Hunter and I get into position as Cap and a freshman line up on the far blue line. The whistle blows, and they cross lanes, the freshman taking the puck wide while Cap drives middle.

The freshman is fast, I'll give him that. But fast doesn't mean smart, and he telegraphs his cut a full second before he commits. I close the gap, match his speed, then drive my shoulder through his chest so hard his skates leave the ice.

Finally.