Find Me on the Ice: Hockey Romance (Nighthawks Book 2)

“Fuck,” my voice rasps into Stephanie’s ear as I thrust harder, her knuckles turning white as she wraps the sheets tighter around her hands.

“Ahh!” she cries out hysterically as another orgasm tears through her.

And I give her every inch she craves, faster and faster, harder and harder. Until I feel her clench around me once again. I grab her hips tighter, pulling her against me, and with one strategic thrust, she shouts, her screams muffled in the bed as she unravels around me.

Feeling my balls starting to tighten, I thrust rough and hard inside of her. She moans deliriously. With a few more smacks against her ass, I pull out and come all over her reddened ass.

I quickly grab a towel and clean myself up and throw on boxers and joggers while she comes down from her high.

She rolls over and stares at me. “Why do you always wear a shirt when we fuck?”

Tossing a towel to her to clean herself up, I answer, “Because I like to.”

She can see my dick, ass, legs, and arms. But no one sees my back, especially not anyone as unimportant as Stephanie.

I like Stephanie. She’s … nice. But I don’t want anything more from Stephanie than this. Which has been clear to her since day one.

As she cleans up and gets dressed, I try to stop the inevitable question by saying, “There’re snacks in the kitchen if you want anything before you leave. I’m taking a shower.”

The bed frame creaks as she moves to the edge of the bed. “Cam, I can wait for you. Can we grab some food?” she asks pathetically. It’s almost cute.

Twisting the knob on the bathroom door, I roll my eyes to the comment I was trying to avoid. It’s awkward every time.

They usually get the routine down by the second hookup. But Stephanie asks me the same thing; it never fails.

Don’t get me wrong; she’s sweet, and she has that whole damsel in distress thing going on. But I have no feelings for her at all—nothing against her.

She wants everything that I won’t give. Which is probably why when I text her to come over, she does, hoping this will finally be the time I ask her out or something.

I’m not leading her on at all. I set the rules from the get-go. Sex, sex, and only sex. No sleepovers. No breakfast after. No showers together. Nothing that would give her the idea I want anything other than sex. But I think she still somehow found her way there anyway. Which is why this is the last time I’ll invite her over. It’s better to cut it off now before she catches any real feelings.

“Thanks, but you know that’s not how this works. I’ve got plans. Can you make sure to lock the door on your way out?”

Turning my head, I see the look of defeat in her furrowed brow.

One that I hate I caused, but a necessary one regardless. I don’t want to hurt her any more than I want her to develop feelings for me.

“Okay,” she sighs.

I shut the door, leaving her to see herself out, with a slight sting in my chest for the pain I know I caused her.

I turn the water on as hot as it will go. My muscles are so sore from last night’s practice, and fucking Stephanie for an hour didn’t help. But I couldn’t get my brain to shut off. I needed an outlet before practice tonight so I wouldn’t take someone’s head off.

Which was when I texted Stephanie to come over. I should have cut her off a while ago—she’s always been a little too attached—but I was desperate.

And when I’m up late at night and I need to expel some energy in order to sleep, I know I can text her and have her in my bed within fifteen minutes.

I quickly wash my hair. Grabbing my sponge and soap, I lather up my body and rinse, loving the feeling of the hot water run down my body. The slam of a door sounds through my house not five minutes later. Shutting the water off, I wrap the towel around my waist and step in front of the mirror, looking at my own foggy reflection.

Quickly, I swipe my hand over the mirror, clearing the view.

Wet strands of my dark brown hair stick to my forehead. My dark blue eyes look empty, like no thought or emotion exists behind them. I often look in the mirror and feel like I’m looking at someone else entirely. Like a version of myself, but never really me.

I don’t know how to explain it. The person in my mind and the person in the mirror don’t match. A complete disconnect some days. But unfortunately, one version cannot forget the other, no matter how hard I might try. I catch glimpses of the me I keep locked away in my head sometimes. When I do, uncontrollable dread and pain tear through my body.

When I turn, one of the long scars on my back catches my eye.

That feeling, the one I do my best to push away, is already latched on to me before I can shake it, its teeth sinking deep into my neck, sucking out my sanity.

My heart’s on the floor, tingles shoot across my shoulders, and a sour taste forms in my mouth before my father’s voice echoes in my ears as the flashback slams into me.

“Piece of shit. Worthless. Just like your slut of a mother. Are you going to be good, or do you need the cuffs tonight?” He demanded a response.

Placing my hands in my lap, I stayed quiet and prepared for the first slash of pain.

“You earned these. Actions have consequences. What are the consequences of a missed shot?” he asked me.

I stayed quiet—I’d learned that the hard way. Without hesitation, the whip cracked in the air and sliced into my back. Liquid poured down my back, but I didn’t yell, didn’t scream. I took my consequences, every single one of them, until he reached four lashes. One for a poor pass, one for a penalty, one for a missed shot, one for a missed game winner. Sometimes, there were bonus ones thrown in when he felt I was lazy or had an attitude.

But as long as I kept taking them from my dad, he wouldn’t lay a finger on his beloved wife—my mom.

“My son will be the best, the absolute best, and nothing less.”

My ringtone pulls me out of my nightmare of a memory.

“Fuck!” I scream for what feels like hours, hating that I remember his voice so clearly after all these years later.

Utterly enraged that he still holds this power over me, I smack my hand on the countertop. It worsens when we lose games or when I make a mistake in practice. The feeling of impending agony that would await me still chills me to my bones.

My father was and is the most repulsive human I have ever known. He abused and manipulated my mother and me for years and years. Until the pain killed her and left me wishing it had done the same for me. But he was a hero to everyone else in town—Deputy and Coach Costello.

He had to have the perfect image—a beautiful, doting wife and a son who was the best hockey player in town. After all, he had been the best in his day.

If there is one thing I learned from him, it’s how to play hockey. He was unofficially my coach for my whole childhood and officially my coach for all of high school. The love and absolute hate I have for the game is overwhelming some days. Sometimes, I can’t seem to find the difference.

Picking up the ringing phone, I see Kos on the screen. My thumb swipes to answer.

“What’s up?” I say, trying to keep the shakiness out of my voice as I wipe the running tears from my cheeks.

Alec says, “I’m here. Hurry up.”

“I’ll be right out,” I tell him before hanging up.

I usually ride with Brett to practice, but he had physical therapy today, and he is just going to meet us there. I’ve lived with Brett since I joined the team three years ago. Neither of us had family here and figured it would be the easiest and most sensible decision with how much time we’d be spending together on the ice anyway. And he wanted someone to split rent with him.

The redness in my face has dissipated when I meet my stare in the mirror again. I hastily throw on boxers, joggers, and a shirt along with some tennis shoes before heading downstairs with my duffel bag.

When I get downstairs and reach the front door, I see Alec parked against the curb. I hurry outside and slide into the front seat, knowing time is running out before we’re late. I barely have the door shut when Alec speeds off.

“About time,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot and flashes me a sincere smile. He opens his glove box and grabs something. “Here.” He tosses me a bottle of eye drops.

“Still red?” I ask, uncapping the bottle.

“A little. Are you good?” he asks, glancing over at me for a moment with concern in his eyes.

Concern, not pity, which is an important distinction. One that made telling Alec about my past okay. He never pitied me. He respected the pain and torture I had gone through, but he’s never looked at me any differently.

“Yeah, just an episode,” I confess.

Ones I wish would stop happening. But I don’t know that they will ever fully go away.

Alec nods and turns the hype music up.

We arrive at the arena a few minutes later, and I’m itching to get on the ice. I love hockey more than I ever thought possible when I was younger. It’s my constant, and it always has been. On the bad days, on the good days, when I need an outlet, hockey is always there. It has been the only thing in my life I can truly rely on.

Alec parks, and we walk inside and head to the locker room to gear up. My body moves through the motions of changing into gear from the thousands of times I have done it before.

Gliding onto the ice feels like flying. It’s one of the best feelings in the world. Skating next to Alec, I survey the team. We are looking good this year, and I’m excited for the first game next weekend.

Brett nods at me as I fall into the shooting drill, slapping my stick on the ice. Brett passes it to me, and my focus narrows on the goalie and the net. Working the puck side to side, I purposefully favor my right side, hoping MacArthur falls for it. He does, leaning just the way I want him.

I shoot the puck, and MacArthur dives for it, but the puck flies into the net with force.

“Nice shot,” he calls out to me as he passes the puck and readies himself for the player going next behind me.

This practice is drill and skill heavy, focusing on puck handling and one-on-one, one-on-two, two-on-three, et cetera.

I’m facing Kos and a rookie, Rich Kremmer. The rookie I’m not worried about, but Kos is fucking fast. Dribbling the puck, I pass the rookie with ease, leaving Alec. I’m illegally checked from behind, and I fly forward hard, but I manage to maintain my balance.

It’s like a light switch is flicked in my head. I might still be on edge from earlier, but I forget about the puck and spin to find the rookie with a smug smirk on his face.

Digging into the ice, I charge up to him and shove my face in his, smiling.

“Do that again, and I’ll break your fucking arm, Greenie,” I hiss through my teeth.

Kos skates up and pushes us apart and gives me one look to tell me to cool the fuck off.

The rookie doesn’t get the same treatment.

Kos grabs him by his collar and yanks him up to his full height. “You pull that shit again on anyone on this team, and I’ll do it my-damn-self. No bullshit on the ice, do you understand me?”

He nervously nods, and Kos releases him.

“Twenty suicides,” Coach orders us.

I’m going to kill this kid.

“You’re a team. You get praised as a team and punished as a team. Kremmer, you pull that again, and your ass is done.”

I wonder if I could piss Greenie off enough to do it again. I laugh to myself as we line up. At least I’ll be able to sleep better tonight, knowing I’ll be fucking exhausted.

The rest of practice goes by fairly fast. Only a few drills followed the suicides. On the ride home, Brett and I just talk shit about the rookie. But as annoying as he is, he’s a great defenseman, and we were lucky to get him. But he needs to get his act together if he wants to be a Nighthawk.

My phone vibrates as we walk inside, and I see a text appear from Kos.

Kos: Fireflies grand opening tomorrow night? Please, dear God, you’d better come. We need a night out. It’s been too long.

Mila is opening a new location right here in New York City. I know it’s going to do well here—better than in Duluth for sure. I assume that it isn’t a coincidence that her next location is opening here. I imagine Laura convinced her of its potential success.

I could use a night out, honestly. Something other than practice, sex, and flashbacks would be a nice change of pace.

When we get inside our condo, we go to our separate rooms in silence, completely drained from practice.

Me: I’m in. Send me the address and time. I’ll bring Brett.

I don’t know how Alec does it, balancing hockey with Laura and Jack. Laura runs our marketing department, so that definitely allows them to have more time together. She has been handling all of the social media lately, and she has been going wherever we go, Jack included.

Alec is a really good dad. I find myself envying him sometimes because of their relationship. But I’m terrified to have kids. I have no clue how he handled finding out about Jack like he did, no warning or preparation. But I guess everyone isn’t my father and they aren’t scared to turn into him.

I climb into bed, naked, like usual. But sleep won’t find me soon—if it even does tonight. So, I let my mind drift, fantasizing about what tomorrow could be, who I could bring home for the night.

My phone vibrates.

Kos: Before I forget, masquerade is the theme tomorrow, masks required, so don’t forget to pick one up. You literally won’t be let in, and then I’ll be pissed. Make sure Brett has one too.

I send him a thumbs-up and set my phone down. I start counting the spackled dots on the ceiling until my eyes slowly close, and I fall asleep with ease for the first time in a while. Maybe I should thank the rookie after all.