Penalty Kill

Jake

To say I've been distracted since the reading at the library last night would be an understatement. Was attending practice being anything but razor-sharp focused a good idea?

No, no it was not.

Thoughts of the snarky and sassy librarian I'd encountered had plagued my every thought—while I'd been reading to the kids, on my home, when I got up, as I headed to practice, every second I spent on the ice, and now as I changed back into my street clothes after showering.

It was bizarre. It wasn't like there was some grand, life-altering moment that had occurred. Sure we'd shared a few exchanges, enjoyed a laugh or two—or at least I did—and had some playful banter. I wasn't even sure if it would qualify as flirting. I really hadn't thought much of our interactions until she'd placed her hand on my arm, causing me to pause and turn back to her. To look at her.

And there was something in her gray-blue eyes as she looked at me that had caused my thoughts and heart to hit a snag. It was like a record had skipped or time had wrinkled. She looked up at me, her eyes full of something that I couldn't quite understand, and I've been trying every second since then to figure out what it was.

She'd stopped me to tease me one last time before parting ways, but I couldn't help but feel like there was another reason why she'd tugged on my arm.

That, or, you know, I'm actually losing my goddamn mind. The thoughts plaguing me about why she stopped me and why I cared so much about it caused me to miss several passes, get hit not once but twice by teammates who obviously knew I was checked the fuck out, and to receive several tongue lashings from coach with each fuck-up he witnessed.

One of my ribs was definitely near broken with one of the checks I'd received, fully knocking my ass to the ice as I gasped to get the air back into my lungs, the bright lights of the arena blinding me as I stared up into the rafters. Either coach truly didn't see me get my shit laid out, or he conveniently turned a blind eye when I got smoked into the boards. 

Wincing as I pull my hooded gray sweatshirt up and over my head, I tug my Storm-branded baseball cap onto my head backwards before turning to reload my duffle bag. As I'm trying to focus on getting my shit together, both literally and figuratively, I feel a massive pat on my shoulder that could've been strong enough to knock me over had I not been over six feet of well-trained, built and honed muscle.

"You looked nice on your ass out there, Bry."

"Fuck off, Thompson. That hurt, you little shit."

My ears are met with laughter from not only one of our best defensemen, but a gaggle of other teammates following in his wake as they make their way out of the locker room.

"You gotta keep your head on the ice while we're out there, man. You're giving coach every reason to eat you alive. I was trying to wake you up."

"I'll be sure to tell the doctor that my broken rib was just a friendly wake up call."

"Just trying to look out for you, Bry. What's got you so distracted, anyway?"

I wasn't going to open up about a beautiful, irritable librarian with an incredible ass to one of our most seasoned players. I would never live it down—especially when I'd only interacted with her for barely five minutes. They had enough reasons to give me shit already, and adding another item to that list wasn't in my best interest at the moment. 

"Just the loss and trying to not be a piece of shit wash up. You know, the usual."

"Well, Goolie's locker paid the price for both of those things enough, I think. You don't need to beat yourself about it anymore old man."

I offer him a half-hearted snort as I stand up straight, wincing further as I sling my duffel bag across my body. God I'm going to let him have it when I get the chance at our next practice. Payback is a bitch, and I'm not going to let him get away with laying me out. Grabbing the strap that's laid across my chest, I draw my eyebrows together as Dusty leans against the doorway, the rest of the lingering players having already slid past him.