Hard Stick

by Paige North

  I try to make my mind as blank as possible, knowing he can probably see what lurks in there, but it doesn’t stop terror from leaking in. Because not only do I need to study up on the rules and regulations of hockey, I need to know the histories of forty-five strange men by tomorrow? My head is spinning and starting to throb. Another necessity I forgot to pack in my backpack: Excedrin.

  He deposits the heavy pile of dossiers in my arms, the weight of which has me dangerously close to collapsing like a house of cards, and then lays a thumb drive on top. “I’m not a computer person, but I’m told all the files are on this gadget, if you’re so inclined.”

  Heck yes, I’m inclined, if only to save myself from a broken back two days into the semester. “Thank you. I’ll study them tonight.”

  I rest my weighty new friend, the stack of files, on the seat next to me, and we sit in a couple of old pleather chairs that are bleeding stuffing. He points out a few key players. “That one—forty-five, Martin. He’s the captain. I don’t expect him to be here all season because the Bobcats already have their eyes on bringing him up. That forward over there with the fast hands and serious stick-handling—number nine—that’s Taylor, our local boy. He’s got a bit of a temper. What happens with him is anyone’s guess. Now—“

  He stops mid-sentence and looks over at me.

  I realize I’m staring at them and not writing. He wants me taking notes. I start scribbling as fast as I can. 9 – Taylor – local- hands-unpredictable. Who was the captain? I can’t remember.

  After listing another twelve players without so much as taking a breath, I wonder why we even need to do this study. The professor seems to know everything about them, right down to their blood types, already.

  When he stops, I look at my illegible scribbling and realize I might as well have written in it Swahili.

  After another hour, the players start to line up to go off the ice. “Let’s take you down to meet them.”

  And I thought I couldn’t feel any more like throwing up. Steeling myself, I follow him down to the bench, where he leans over the wall and says, “How’s it going, Earl?”

  Earl, who must be the head coach, gives him a grin and shakes his hand like an old friend. Then he looks over at me. “This her?”

  He nods. I throw a hand out there, determined to take the bull by the horns with introductions and prove I’m not totally inept.

  “Savannah Shaw,” I say, shaking his hand firmly. “Nice to meet you. Your boys look great.”

  “Thanks,” he says, clearly pleased by the compliment. He motions the captain over and introduces him. Chris Martin. Right, that’s his name. He’s clearly a lot older than most of the guys, and has been around the block, judging from the variety of scars on his face. “Hi, there, Miss Shaw. Nice to meet you,” he says, very kindly despite his rough exterior.

  One-by-one, he calls all the men over, and they’re similarly kind and professional. After a while, I feel like I’m on a greeting line at a wedding. I can’t even begin to put all these guys’ faces with their names and numbers. I stifle a yawn and try to concentrate, then see a light at the end of the tunnel when the ice empties out, leaving the three of us alone in the arena. I’m about to gather up my files when Jacobsen bangs on the boards, startling me.

  “Taylor! Get over here, Taylor!”Jacobsen calls, an annoyed edge in his voice. I look up and see a man, number nine, swiveling lazily at the blue line, like he hasn’t a care in the world. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

  That doesn’t hurry Taylor up any. In fact, I think it slows him down. He glides, very leisurely, toward us, spitting out his mouth guard. Jacobsen sighs deeply. I glance down at my scribbled notes and see the words hands and unpredictable. It’s obvious from the tired look Jacobson gives the professor that this Taylor player is a thorn in the team’s side. I’m going to have to be extra careful around him.

  He skates to an abrupt stop at the edge of the ice and steps onto solid ground. Then he rips off his helmet and his cinnamon-colored hair falls on his forehead, and I can already tell he’s living up to the unpredictable label, and in a big way.

  Because nope, I never would’ve predicted this.

  It’s Flynn.

  Chapter 5

  Time slows to a crawl. The temperature in the once-chilly arena skyrockets. I stare at the last player on the ice for what seems like forever, my face turning every shade of red imaginable.

  Fast hands. Oh, yes, I am intimately acquainted with those magic hands. Along with every other part of his rock-hard body.

  And then I think: Well, that explains his athletic physique.

  And then of course, I think of him, tasting and teasing my pussy, and my cheeks get so hot I’m sure they’ll burst into flames. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of how wet I’ve become between the legs, and almost positive, from Flynn Taylor’s surly expression, that he has the ego to know it, the second he looks at me.

  Which for some reason, he hasn’t done yet. It’s almost like he considers people on this side of the boards beneath him.

  He tosses his helmet on the floor near the bench with wonderful hands of his, shoves his stick in the pile, and those magnetic blue eyes meet mine for about half a second. He exhales loudly, like I’m in his way, like being introduced to me is such an unbearable chore.

  He snaps, “Pleasure,” like it’s anything but.

  I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. He isn’t waiting for a reply anyway. He starts to trudge, head down, toward the tunnel to the locker rooms.

  When he disappears from sight, I collapse against the wall behind me. That didn’t just happen, did it?

  I look over at Professor Morgan and Coach Jacobsen. They’re obviously very friendly with one another, talking about the upcoming study, but all I really hear is mwah mwah mwah, like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Because . . . Flynn Taylor, the guy with the amazing hands and wondrous tongue and gloriously sculpted body, is a professional hockey player.

  And he didn’t recognize me.

  I know that much for sure. Yes, I might look a tiny bit different, in sweats and glasses, but still . . . it’s not like I’m Superman, where different clothes and glasses render me unrecognizable. All my parts are still there, and in the same condition. Plus, it was just last night! I’m pretty sure that even if he’d gotten into a disfiguring car accident, I couldn’t forget those ice-blue eyes. Heat’s throbbing between my legs, rendering even standing there uncomfortable, because that area of my anatomy obviously will never forget his tongue, so long as it’s attached to my body.

  But he’s already forgotten me.

  Obviously. He’s a professional athlete. He probably goes through girls like he goes through hockey sticks.

  And what was with that snotty look he’d given me? Great. He’s known for being a hot-headed loose cannon. No wonder he up and left last night. He might have the moves on the ice and in the bedroom, but I should clearly be thankful that such an ego-centric jerkwad doesn’t remember me.

  Professor Morgan snaps his briefcase closed, jolting me from my thoughts. “She’s been fully briefed,” he says to Jacobsen. “She’s the consummate professional and will make this study shine, I’m certain of it.”

  I feel all the blood drain from my face, my head growing light and dizzy. That happens to be the first time Professor Morgan has ever complimented me, and I get the feeling, from what I’ve heard about him, it might be the last. Though I thought for sure I wouldn’t be able to remember it all, suddenly, every word the professor had said to me earlier in the day hits me with full force:

  No personal bias.

  Absolutely no informal relationship with any team members.

  I don’t even want you to take a stick of gum if they offer it.

  I’m not a relationship expert, but I get the feeling that oral sex with one of the team members qualifies as an informal relationship.

  Holy cow. I’m beyond screwed.

  The blood in every one of my veins suddenly turns to
ice. I look at the Professor as he gathers up his briefcase and sweater, and when he turns to me, he has that mind-reading thing going on again, because he says, “Something the matter?”

  “Actually . . .” I take a deep breath. I can’t lie. People always see through me, and Professor Morgan has already proven himself to be a Jedi mind-reader. I open my mouth, and suddenly my phone dings with a text.

  I’m surprised when I see a text from my mom: Hey sweetheart. So proud of you! I can’t stop bragging about my little girl in Boston working with a real doctor on a scientific study!

  I swallow and shake my head slowly, as Professor Morgan stares down at my phone like it’s the devil—clearly he’s already rethinking the “consummate professional” compliment, since I’m obviously one of those people who can’t stop looking at her texts. “I’m good,” I offer.

  “You might want to turn that thing off when you’re working,” he grunts, climbing the stairs, leaving me alone in the arena.

  Once I recover from the mortification, I look down at my phone and type in a smiley emoji, and a few hearts for extra measure. My mother works at a hair salon, and my father is a sales clerk at Auto Barn. They scraped their pennies together to help me afford my education. As worried as my mom was about me leaving the nest, she was thrilled when I got accepted to Cambridge for my final semester, with half the tuition covered by this job, and worked so many extra shifts to make sure we could afford the rest of it. In fact, for the past four years, she’s talked about little else than how her daughter is going to make her mark on the world.

  The past few years have been hard, emotionally and intellectually. I’ve never been at the top of my class, but I’ve always put the work in, studying twice as long and working twice as hard as everyone else to insure I was at the top of my class. Every time I’ve wanted to quit, I always reminded myself of the sacrifices my parents have made. They’ve always gotten me through.

  And this—whatever it was—with Flynn? It was a one-night thing. A mistake.

  It means nothing. Heck, he clearly doesn’t even remember it.

  Maybe, if I try really hard, I can just wipe it out of my memory, too, and pretend it never happened.

  Yes. Like my mother always told me, You can do anything, if you want it enough.

  It’s okay. This’ll blow over, and everything will be fine, I tell myself.

  But the thing is, as much as I want this study to work out, I don’t know if I can ever put that night out of my mind.

  And I’m not even sure I want to.

  Chapter 6

  I should unpack and get my new apartment in order, but the load of files I have to read prevents any of that. Once I finally put my new sheets on the bed, I climb on it with my laptop and the thumb drive Morgan had given me. I open up my laptop, stick in the thumb drive, and . . . the screen goes blank.

  I jiggle it for a little bit. Nothing.

  Great.

  Then I take it out and try to get my computer to work. Nothing. I stare at the dark screen, willing something to happen. I rip out the plug, plug it in at different outlet, everything. No dice with any of it. Somehow, Professor Morgan’s thumb drive has fried my computer.

  I rub my eyes tiredly. No problem, I’ll deal with the computer issue later. I pull out my backpack and stack of files. I check the enormous schedule Morgan gave me. Sure enough, on the slate for tomorrow: Martin, Ingersol, Taylor.

  I pull out those three files, spread them in front of me, and rub my hands together, intent on doing some serious memorizing.

  Strangely enough, an hour after I start, I’m still stuck on the first one I opened.

  Flynn’s file.

  I tell myself to treat it just like any other player dossier. But I can’t do it.

  He’s twenty-four and grew up in South Boston. Had kind of a rough upbringing, and barely made it through high school. Says the center for at-risk youth gave him the opportunity to learn the sport. Accepted to Boston College on a full hockey scholarship, but gave it up to play pro. A sports reporter for the Boston Globe said, “His stick-handling and speed are second to none” and “This forward shows great promise.” He’d been called up to the NHL for one game, last season, but never returned. An article on the game stated: “Perhaps the majors are too big for this Boston dynamo, after all.”

  There are also a couple quotes from the man himself, all so very humble and gracious, like this one: Ice hockey sure ain’t the sport for a poor, city kid. I grew up on the streets, so I played street hockey. I swiped my first pair of blades from the Y, and my first opponents were the cars speeding outside my house. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon wedged up my ass like most of my teammates, given all the best coaches and expensive hockey camps and shit. If I had been, I’d probably be calling Gretzky my bitch.

  No ego there, for sure. No wonder he took control in my bedroom—he thinks so very much of himself, I bet there isn’t a thing—or a woman— he doesn’t think he can do.

  I flip more pages. There’s a snippet of an article in the folder from Boston Magazine:

  Which sexy player for the Boston Argonauts has been seen about town lately, romancing a young Hollywood starlet? If this actress has any sense, she’ll run—fast—in the opposite direction. This bad boy has left a string of broken hearts in his wake that could probably reach all the way to her front door in California.

  Great. So he’s not just a professional athlete, he’s a massive womanizer. I have no trouble believing that, with the way he managed to ease his way into my pants last night. I should’ve heeded my father’s warnings.

  Then I think of the way Flynn’s tongue had worked its way on my clit. Clearly, he’d known what he was doing. And his experience was definitely my gain.

  I shake my head, trying to force the memory away and concentrate on business. There are a few other articles, about his skills on the ice and his bad boy antics off the ice. Someone has written Meat Wagon in the margin, whatever that means. The last page is a picture of him, staring, stone-faced, at the camera, and those blue eyes of his are penetrating clear through my heart, to the clasp of my bra-strap.

  I sigh. God, he may be rough around the edges, but he’s also beautiful, in a raw, wild, untamed way.

  Someone knocks on the door to my bedroom. I look up and see Jen, holding two big bowls. “Hey! Hungry?” she asks.

  She hands me a bowl full of salty ramen noodles, and it’s then I realize how famished I am. I already love this girl so much for her gifts of food, and feel a little guilty that the only two times I’ve talked to her, she’s felt compelled to feed me. I promise to make it up to her by doing all the food shopping for the next two weeks. I motion to a little desk chair in the corner of the room. “Sit down, sit down. Let’s talk.”

  She hesitates in the doorway. “Are you sure? You look super busy.”

  I shrug and run my eyes over the sea of paper in front of me. “You don’t know of a place nearby that fixes computers, do you?”

  She shakes her head. “Why?”

  “My computer’s fried.” I shrug and balance the bowl on my knees. “But it doesn’t matter. I think if I live to be a hundred, I will never memorize all these guys’ names and stats.”

  Jen bounds over to the chair, drawing her legs up so she’s sitting crosswise, balancing the bowl on her lap. Jen is a transfer from some college down in Connecticut, studying nursing, and was given a scholarship for her swimming. When I got the apartment and found out that it was big enough for a roommate, I placed an ad on Facebook, which she answered. I really didn’t know anything about her before today. To think, I’d been so scared about rooming with a complete stranger.

  Obviously, my opinions toward complete strangers have softened, somewhat, since moving to Boston. “So,” I ask her, “What made you transfer up here?”

  She tosses her dark hair over her shoulder. “Love.” Then she grins. “My boyfriend and I met at a frat party down at Quinnipiac. He goes to BU, studying law. We tried dating long distance fo
r a while but it sucked, and every time I came up to see him, I found myself falling more and more in love with this city. So I put in to transfer up here. But my parents are kind of strict so they wouldn’t let me just move into his apartment. Thus, this place. I won’t be here much, though, because he has a sweet apartment downtown. What about you?”

  “I wanted to make a change from Ohio. See what else is out there,” I tell her. “I want to get my Psy-D, concentrating in Sports Psychology, so when this study opened up for the Bobcats farm team, it was like fate.”

  “Oh, wow,” she says, leaning forward, eyes sweeping over the folders. “You’re studying the Argonauts?”

  I nod.

  “Pat’s favorite team! That’s my boyfriend. He has season tickets and drags me to all the games.” She smiles and points at the picture of Flynn. “The Beast!”

  “Uh . . . what?”

  “Oh, my god!” she shrieks. “You never heard of Flynn ‘The Beast’ Taylor? What have you been doing, living under a rock?”

  I blink. The Beast? Sure, I’ve heard of Flynn. I’ve more than heard of him. And I even get the Beast moniker, after what he’d done to me on this very bed. But . . .

  “Oh, I forgot,” she says, thumping her head. “You’re not from around these parts. Everyone in the tri-state area knows Flynn Taylor. He’s like a living legend around here.”

  “Legend?” I stare hard at the picture of him. Had a really given my first head to a legend? “What do you mean? If he’s that good, why isn’t he playing in the NHL?”

  She laughs and scoops a bunch of noodles into her mouth. When she sucks the last one through her lips, she says, still chewing, “He’s a great hockey player, for sure. But what makes him legendary are not exactly the things the league looks too fondly upon.”

  “Like?”

  “There hasn’t been a single game he hasn’t gotten into a fight in. I once saw him take on three men from another team by himself. Hell, sometimes he even fights his own teammates.”