The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

Preseason workouts suck balls. Like wrinkly, dangly ones with pubes that’d get stuck in your teeth. Not that anyone’s sucking my cock today. I’m so exhausted, I couldn’t get it up, let alone bust a nut.

Coach Wilson has been hard on us for the last few weeks, demanding drill after drill on the ice, record lifts in the weight room, and most dreaded of all, twice-daily tabata bike protocols. The kind originally developed for the Japanese Olympic speed skating team. Add in flexibility training, sauna time, and watching videos while Coach yells about how we’re gonna fall on our asses if we keep showing up the way we are, and yeah, preseason sucks.

I thought practice was going well. Apparently not, which is why I’m grumpy as hell.

Not that that’s new or unusual.

I’ve been the goalie for the Maple Creek Moose for the last five years, and I’ve nearly destroyed myself, inside and out, for the team, taking us to the playoffs two years ago. It was a nail-biter, but ultimately, we lost in overtime. Second place is first losers as far as the guys and Coach are concerned, and nothing’s been the same since getting that close to a dream and falling short. We swore we’d come back bigger, better, and stronger last year, and we worked even harder, only to not make it to the finals at all.

This year, we’re bound and determined to not only get to the playoffs, but win. All or nothing, baby.

It’s what we live for.

And honestly, that kind of success, and the press coverage it brings, is the only way any of the guys are going to catch the attention of the parent club, and big-league money. We all want that. Sure, being a big fish in a small pond—a.k.a. the Maple Creek Moose—is great, but being a small fish in a big pond and getting a shot at the big leagues is what we all dream of.

For me, that dream’s getting further and further away with every passing day. Goalies are in their prime from twenty-five to twenty-eight, and my last birthday cake had thirty candles on it. Not unheard-of—there are legends who played all the way to their forties—but I’m sure as shit not getting any closer to a pro contract when I feel every bit of those thirty years, despite being in tip-top shape. I just don’t bounce back as quickly as I used to.

Hence, why I’m the first one in and the last one out for practice. Every single time, no misses. I met with the trainers this morning for a prepractice stretch, massage, and some kinesiology taping, and while the rest of the guys have showered and headed out, I’m still sitting in the ice bath, freezing my aforementioned balls off.

“Dalton? Your time was up four minutes ago. Get your ass outta there, man. Now.”

Given the respect the whole team has for Fritzi—head trainer and former D1 college athlete—his command should be hard to ignore, but the most I can do is peel my eyes open and peer at him. He’s standing beside the tub, arms crossed, one brow arched high, and jaw hard as stone. He’s not only mad, he’s pissed at me.

It’s not that I’m intentionally discounting his order, but right now, moving sounds like hell. Probably because I’m this close to becoming a frostbitten Neanderthal Popsicle.

“Five more minutes, Mom,” I grumble, injecting as much asshole teenager in my voice as possible. I like Fritzi, and he does a great job keeping the whole team in playing shape and as healthy as any professional athlete can be, but giving him shit is how we roll around here. If someone’s nice and polite to you, it most likely means they hate your guts. If they roast you at every opportunity . . . you’re basically trading handwoven, matching “besties 4ever” bracelets. In Maple Creek Moose green and gold, of course.

“You wanna make your dick fall off? Be my guest. Call yourself the Cockless Wonder for all I care. Not my concern. But the health of your hamstrings? Entirely my business. Out.” He holds a towel up, not allowing any argument.

But I’m me, so what do I do? Jack shit, nothing, nada. I don’t move an inch, other than tilting my head a bit, silently asking if he wants to try that again.

He shakes the towel to emphasize his point. I’m an asshole, but Fritzi deals with the whole team on the daily and has his own ways of making us do what he wants. They usually involve zero mercy when digging that damn silver blade thing he uses for massages into various muscles until we cry.

“Fine,” I sigh, leaning forward to take the towel. I’m only giving in because he does have a point. I have been in here a while.

Standing takes a ridiculously long time because I can’t feel my feet. Fritzi watches shamelessly, not giving a single shit about privacy because he’s truly not interested in my dick. He’s watching to see how I stand, measuring any single-sided dependence or weakness, and mentally prepping my pregame routine for tomorrow.

The season’s kicking off, and the games count for real from here on out.

I roughly rub the towel over my body and inform him, “I’m fine.” It’s not a lie, or at least not a complete one. Physically, I’m top notch. Mentally, I’m nervous, not that I’d admit that to anyone. Hell, I barely admit it to myself.

Nope, not going there, I chastise myself and switch to a distracting song, la-la-laaa.

“All right, I’ll see you tomorrow then. Two o’clock call time,” he reminds me. As if I need a reminder that the first game starts at 7 p.m. and we have an entire routine of pregame shit to do before the puck drops.

Fritzi heads out through the back door, and I, thankful to not have an audience, saunter to the lockers. I’m the last player here, but definitely not the last in the building. Coach Wilson will be in his office for another hour at least, and the Zamboni crew is perfecting the ice after we destroyed it. But here in the locker room, it’s blissfully silent. If only it was as quiet inside my brain.

I rake a comb through my hair, then squeeze a dime-size dollop of hair goop into my palm. After rubbing them together, I run my hands through my hair and over the scruff starting to appear on my cheeks. I won’t shave completely until after the season ends. It’s one of the things I consider to be bad luck.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear a door open and slam shut. Fuck! Coach probably wants to go over videos with me, check in on how I’m feeling, and sing “Kumbaya” while we hold hands or some shit.

I sigh heavily, wishing I was the type that could cut and run five minutes after practice. But I’m not that guy.

“Oh!” a voice exclaims behind me, but that’s definitely not Coach Wilson. That’s a female voice.

I turn around to find our local sports reporter, Joy Barlowe, standing ten feet away, staring at me with shock written all over her pretty face.

“See something you like?” I ask, smirking arrogantly.

I don’t cover myself. Why would I? I’m not ashamed of my body. And the team has two rules about Joy Barlowe. The first is from Coach Wilson—treat the press with respect. That means no discriminating against the sole female sports reporter in the tristate area. If I wouldn’t cover up for Steve Milligan, the bigshot who did a scathing newscast after that championship fuckup, then I shouldn’t for Joy. Her having a pussy doesn’t change our behavior, our answers, or our actions, especially in our own private locker room where swinging dicks happen.

And two, from Shepherd Barlowe, my teammate, my friend, and Joy’s older brother—don’t fuck or fuck with his sister.

But unlike Fritzi, Joy is definitely looking at my dick, which explains the awestruck reaction. It’s one I’m used to. Shock, fear, occasionally excitement, and once, horror. I try not to dwell on that last one, though, because we were young and stupid, and I didn’t have a solid gauge on how unique my dick was back then. Not like I do now.

Length? Check.

Girth? Check.

Pierced? It is now, which would’ve terrified that scared college girlfriend even more.

Tattoos? Oh yeah. Dozens of them trace my body in a patchwork of seemingly senseless chaos, but they all mean something to me.

“Awww, it’s so wittle and cute,” Joy coos, wiggling her pinkie finger in the air while she peers at my appendage like it’s a damn puppy. “It’s okay, Days. Don’t be embarrassed. Some guys are growers, not show-ers.”

I barely hold back a snicker of respect. Joy’s a ballbuster for sure. There’s no doubt about that. She can out-roast any of us with her wicked tongue and quick wit, to the point where she’s basically one of the guys. Only a hell of a lot better to look at.

Speaking of, I slowly and methodically let my eyes lick down her body, shameless in my assessment of her. The scoop neck of her baby-pink shirt teases barely above her cleavage, her black jeans are painted over her curves, and her feet are covered in New Balance sneakers I know are all the rage because my sister is on the hunt for the out-of-stock-everywhere shoes. Slowly, I let my gaze return to her face, taking in her perfectly highlighted and tousled hair, pursed glossy lips, and pale-blue eyes, which are full of ice as she glares at me, waiting for my returning zinger.

“Maybe it doesn’t see anything it likes. And for your information, I got out of the ice bath a minute ago, so I’ve got Alaska-level shrinkage going on.”

I do. It’s a fact of life. But I’m not small by any means, and given the barely audible gasp that passes Joy’s lips, we both know it.