Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80932 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80932 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
The unknown can make it difficult to put our heads in the game, until well… we’re actually in the game.
Like we are now.
The Chicago Bobcats are giving us a run for our money, and this game is coming down to the wire.
Rafe Simmons has moved permanently to the first line, replacing Tacker as center. Rafe was replaced by a pretty damn talented player from our minor team in Denver, and there’s a chance he and Rafe could claim those positions for the rest of the season if the powers-that-be determine Tacker just isn’t fit to stay with our team.
I’ll be the first to admit… Rafe is fucking good at his job. He’s now the center glue that holds Bishop as the right wing and me as the left wing together on the ice. By way of example, Rafe intercepts a pass down low, then whips it backhanded to Bishop as we all take off toward the Bobcats’ goal. Bishop, Rafe, and I execute what some would call an almost-choreographed dance as we weave in and out of players, passing the puck between us.
Bishop to Rafe to Bishop to me.
The Bobcats’ goalie pitches left and right on his skates, his eyes darting fast as he tries to get a slight lead on our plan.
We don’t really have one, but we have drilled many breakaways before.
I give a short tap to Rafe, then he passes to Bishop and starts to wind up his shot as Bishop does nothing more than snap it right back at him. He connects solidly, the puck whizzes to the top right, and I crash it to the net.
There’s a loud “clang” as the puck hits the pipe and ricochets right at me. I raise my stick no higher than my hip, turn so the blade catches my prize right on target, and I direct it right over the goalie’s left shoulder.
The red light blazes, the Chicago fans groan, and our own Vengeance allies go crazy over the play. It took no more than five, six seconds from end to end to score that goal.
My teammates all converge with pats to my head with gloved hands or taps on my calf with a stick. It’s a fucking awesome feeling that never dulls over time. I’ve been playing professional hockey for a decade now, and the thrill of scoring is still one of the best feelings ever.
I would even go so far as to say it used to be the top-ranked feeling I’ve ever had the pleasure of beholding, but that honor now goes to Regan. Scoring a goal comes second, and I wonder if Regan is watching on the TV right now. It was tough leaving her this morning, especially after the rough day she had yesterday at her case manager’s office.
She seemed good this morning. Was right there with me when I took her after we woke up. Her legs over my shoulders, panting in sharp, tiny bursts as she orgasmed so hard I felt it in my balls. I left her not long after with a satisfied smile on her face as she drifted back to sleep in my bed, and I left to catch the team plane to Chicago.
I had a smile on my face, too.
“To Dax,” Erik shouts as he holds his mug of beer up high.
“To Dax,” Bishop and Legend echo.
We all tap our beers before taking a sip. I set mine down, then pick up a nacho. The four of us decided to go out after the game for some food and beers. I scored a total of two goals and had an assist, which also landed me the MVP of the game in our three-two win over the Bobcats.
I called Regan right after the game from outside the bus while everyone was loading. It was hard to have any privacy, but damn if I didn’t need it.
We chatted about the game—she had indeed watched, and I liked it maybe a little too much how much she gushed about how well I played. We chatted about how she was feeling—she said she felt so much better than the day before, and she was excited about her treatment the next day thanks to the thirty-five-thousand-dollar check I’d written out.
And then… she asked me how big my cock was, and I couldn’t have been more shocked.
Except she hadn’t said it like that.
She’d said, “How many inches is your… um… penis? You know, when it’s fully hard.”
I had to take about five steps farther away from the bus, then turn my back on it lest anyone see the expression on my face.
“Excuse me?” I’d asked.
“How big is it?”
“Well, darling,” I drawled. “You’ve seen it up close. Had your hand around it. Your mouth on it. You should know.”
She fucking giggled into the phone, and I smiled as big as I did when I’d scored those goals tonight. Seems there are even better things than hockey.