Breakneck Hockey (Heartbreak Hockey #3)

14. #Sutterchuck

Chapter 14

#Sutterchuck

Casey

I don’t make a habit of texting Sutter, but when I do it’s because people have made memes about us.

Naked.

And all this before breakfast. I’m in the kitchenette of yet another hotel room, working on getting coffee made. We’re on the road, but the rain’s followed us. It rages against the windowpane, beating a rockstar staccato, the backdrop of dull gray just beyond the glass. I have my phone out, and I type to Sutter in between popping a coffee pod into the Nespresso machine and placing my cup underneath. This morning’s gonna call for maximum caffeination. Call it a hunch.

Me

Did you see this?

Top Dog

That is so not your ass. Or mine. Mine is WAY nicer than that. Yours is hairier.

Me

Not the point. This is exactly what our team managers didn’t want.

I’m gonna be in shit. I accept that fact.

Me

What do we do about this?

Top Dog

There’s no ‘we’, Alderchuck. Good luck with that.

Fucking douchebag. After I coddled that motherfucker the other night. Well, in my Casey kind of way.

Me

Not according to @ishipsutterchuck69. We have a fucking ship name, dude. Also a fan club.

Top Dog

So? There are all kinds of weirdos on the internet. Get off the fucking internet, Alderchuck.

Me

Are you serious right now?

Top Dog

I’m seriously considering blocking you.

Me

Go right ahead. Know what? Lose my number, asshole.

I’m so sick of his bullshit. Good riddance.

Top Dog

Know what? Think I will.

What the fuck? He’s not supposed to take me seriously, but now I have to save face.

Me

Consider us done. Over-chewed bubblegum. Go play in traffic, Sutter.

I don’t hear from him after that, but I do hear from Daddy Milton. Fuck.

Knowing I’m gonna get reamed out, I answer the video call.

“Do you know why this happened?” he says, showing me the latest Sutterchuck meme. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “You two can’t stay away from each other on the ice. You practically fuck on the ice.”

“We try to kill each other on the ice.” That’s the absolute truth. There’s nothing I want more than to see him rotting in the penalty box. That’s doubly true now.

“People love that shit. Love to turn it into more than it is. And it is less than they think it is, right, Alderchuck?”

“Yeah. Yes! Way less.” I can say that with honesty. Jack sent me some fan-made videos of the “Sutterchuck” wedding. We will never, ever be doing that. Especially now that I’m done with him. “If it’s any consolation, they seem to be in favor of the, er, union.”

Milton shakes his head. “And what happens when you piss off Team Sutter? What happens when he pisses off Team Alderchuck?”

“Um, anarchy, I guess?”

“Correct.”

“Look, what do you want me to do? Not killing Sutter on the ice isn’t an option.” It’s the only thing that maintains my sanity while having to put up with his asshole ass. In an odd way, I count on him to retaliate when I lay down gauntlets.

“It’s too late for that now. You two have a frenzy going.”

“Not like we meant to. We were like this all the time when we played in the AHL. No one gave a shit.”

“You’re big time now. People care.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “The owners aren’t gonna like this. We have to fix it fast. If this ends in riots, Alderchuck, expect a trade at best, sent back to the minors at worst.”

“Would they really do that? Seems extreme.” There have been far worse scandals in the hockey world.

“Is four million dollars in damages to the city extreme? Because that’s exactly what happened last time. What about the five million dollars the City of Vancouver had to spend in staffing costs prosecuting the rioters? One hundred and fifty Vancouverites were treated in hospital that fatal riot night. Is that extreme enough for you?”

Fatal is such a stretch. Nobody died.

“Alright, that’s extreme,” I agree, but I still say he’s overreacting. He’s as obsessed with that event as Sutter is with door locks.

“Just stay off social media the next few days and keep your head down. This is going to require some serious damage control.”

The gloomy hotel room comes back into focus when I’m off the call with Milton. The comforting sound of the shower beats from beyond the hallway. Stacey. We always share a hotel room. I make breakfast for us, ruminating, letting every worst-case scenario flit across my mind. My paycheck would be so much less if I went down to the minors, but at least I’d be with friends. If I were traded, my paycheck would be good, but I’d be alone.

I don’t know which is worse. I’m used to people. I’ve always had people. What if I couldn’t hear the sounds of Stacey in the shower? Or have the knowledge that someone was coming through that door eventually? What would it be like to be alone in this room?

My stomach turns over and over as if it’s churning physical melancholy.

Yeah, no.

Checking my phone again, I glare at the absence of Sutter’s name. I hate that I’m looking for Sutter’s name, especially when he was such a dick, leaving me to deal with this on my own. That douchebag better text me back. If he doesn’t, he’d better wow me with the best apology I’ve ever had the next time I see him, or this ass is closed.

I bite my lip thinking about him and his obsession with my ass. I haven’t missed the way he always thwarts my hook-up attempts, even from afar. I haven’t been successful in hooking up with other men since Sutter and I started hooking up more frequently, despite all my threats, and it’s fun as fuck when Sutter goes all caveman on my ass.

The man is fucking impossible, but at least I know exactly what to do to get his attention.

W e fly home to play New York, so Jack’s in town. I tell all my Sutter woes to Jack, who’s spending the night at our house since his boyfriend and child aren’t here. They’re in Kelowna because his man Mercy still coaches the Kelowna Wildcats. He tells me all about how much he misses them. We’re two sad boys on a couch. Stacey walks in the door with groceries. Good thing because I’m starving.

“How do burgers and beers sound?” he says.

“Sounds amazing, especially if we don’t have to cook them,” I say because it’s something I always say, but then immediately cringe inside. I can cook, I do cook, but there’s just something nice about having someone do it for me. “Do you want help?”

“Nope. Kick back. I need some cooking therapy.”

Jack exchanges a look with me. Is he okay?

I shrug. I know what’s happening, kinda, but only because he’s my twin. Stacey won’t say shit to me. He thinks if he ignores his feelings for Dash, they’ll go away.

Because that’s worked so well for him so far. But I’m not touching that with a forty-foot hockey stick. I mean, I’ll talk to him about it at some point, now’s not the time.

“We should go out,” I suggest once we’re sitting around the table with burgers on our plates. “You can be our wingman, Jack.”

“Picking up some game so you’ll have something to antagonize Sutter with?” Jack asks.

“Forget him. He’s old news. We’re totally done-zo.”

“Boston’s playing tonight. I say we turn on the game,” Stacey suggests.

Okay, fair. Sutter and I have ended and unended enough times that they’re tuning me out by this point, but still.

“Wrong intervention. You two are supposed to steer me away from him, not toward him.”

The remote’s in Stacey’s hand, the widescreen flashes to life. We’re deep into the first period. Sutter’s on the ice and of course we tune in as he’s slamming someone into the boards with a high stick. No penalty’s called. How does he get away with this shit? I swear every ref in the league has a crush on him, and it pisses me off.

But I smile, even though he’s a dirty asshole. “The refs aren’t watching this game, we shouldn’t either.”

“Nah. You only smile like that for Sutter. Don’t deny it,” Jack says.

“I will deny it because it’s not fucking true. Whose side are you on?”

“Always yours, which is why I think you should text him. You’ve been miserable.”

Sutter catches the puck. He moves through center, lobbing it across the blue line, so he’s not offside. Another player crashes into him, but Sutter’s so big the guy bounces off him. My burger plate’s forgotten while I watch two hundred and thirty pounds of Sutter charge across the ice like a bull. He seems extra agitated tonight. Wonder if it’s because of the internet’s obsession with our dicks?

Jack puts an arm around me, and I relax into him, watching Sutter dominate the ice. The burn of arousal floods my muscles. Fuck. All I can think about is Sutter fucking himself on my dick, Sutter pounding me with his dick, the way Sutter’s lips suck their way down my neck.

“I think I need a cold shower. No one can say the guy’s not hot as fuck, am I right?”

Jack and Stacey’s body language tells me I’m crazy without them ever having to say a word.

“Sutter’s hot as fuck, yeah, but that’s where it ends for me. Even if I didn’t have my own man.” Jack groans. “Oooh, now I’m thinking about Merc again. I hate missing him all the time.”

“C’mere, buddy.” I squeeze him to me.

“Yeah, same for me, bro. The way you lust for Sutter is next level,” Stacey says.

I can’t believe them. “Hot as he might be, I am never touching his ass again. The internet and my dick are both going to have to accept that.”

S utter looks good naked, but Sutter in a suit is … fucking dayum. I catch sight of him strutting into the building with all the swagger of a man who knows who he is. That’s so fucking sexy. His broad shoulders fill out a classic navy-blue suit jacket. It’s a black shirt underneath against a deep maroon tie. A maroon bandana’s wrapped around his dark hair. I stole his red one, I want that one too. I think I need to find my way into the Boston dressing room. I’d totally steal his blazer and wear it around. Why haven’t I stolen at least a hoodie by now?

It’s been three weeks since I was with Sutter in a hotel room the last time we were in Boston. Just after that was the last time I spoke to the motherfucker. He should have apologized to me by now for being such a dick. We would have had a post-game smash session to look forward to. Instead, I’m forced to ignore him.

“Casey, there you are,” Daddy Mil—er, Milton says.

“Huh?”

“Eloquent as ever.” He wrinkles his nose. “We need you in the conference room.”

“For what?” And who’s we?

“Just a quick pregame interview. You don’t mind, do you?” I get the impression he’s not asking. I haven’t had to do any interviews yet. Stacey’s done a few of them, of course. They figured out quickly how good he is in front of a camera, thinking on his feet. And there’s something about Stacey that comes off as trustworthy. Whatever it is, I don’t have that, despite sharing the same face. I think he’s gonna make captain someday.

Milton’s been suspiciously quiet since our last video call. I’ve done what he said. Kept my head down, behaved myself in games. But tonight the gloves come off. I’ve been itching to get revenge on Sutter for his dickishness. I’m owed this moment. Nothing short of me in a straitjacket’ll stop me from pounding Sutter into the ice.

“Sure, man.”

A film crew’s inside and a couple of stools are in the center of the room. Gina Armenti, the Boston Copperheads’s team manager, has her blazer hung over a chair, the sleeves of her white blouse rolled up, deep in her work, barking orders at people.

Oh, shit. A wave of terrible intuition goes through me. I’m gonna be sick.

I turn at the sound of a familiar voice. Sutter strides in, hand in his pocket, bitching about being pulled from his pregame ritual. First, pul ease. What pregame ritual? Taunting six-year-olds? Second, that means he was told just as much as I was about this impromptu interview. Have we been caught? There’s got to be a reason we weren’t given any notice.

“Sit in the chair, Casey,” Milton demands.

Sutter doesn’t like that. He has a strict “no one bosses Casey around but him” policy. He’s there, pushing into Milton’s space, extending his hand. “Hi, don’t think we’ve met. Mitchell Sutter.”

“I know who you are, Mr. Sutter. I’m aahhh—” Milton cries out, crumpling over himself, trying and failing to pull his hand from Sutter’s bone-crushing grip.

“Gina, what the fuck’s going on?” Sutter says. He doesn’t let go, watching the big man writhe on the other end of his hand. Milton works out, but he’s no Sutter.

Gina rushes over. I bite my lip to keep from laughing. She thought she’d caged lightning, and it’s a rude awakening to see that she hasn’t. Even I know you can’t put Sutter in a cage. If he’s cooperating with you, it’s for who knows why, so count your lucky fucking stars.

“This is Milton, team manager for Vancouver. Not a threat,” she explains quickly, like she’s talking to a caveman who we’ve just dethawed from the ice.

Sutter doesn’t agree, but he lets go of the man’s hand. Milton clutches his probably tender hand, looking between us.

Gina pleads with Sutter wordlessly. Guess they have an understanding, but it’s hanging by a thread.

“Fine,” Sutter says, breezing past her to take a seat. “Sit in the chair, Alderchuck.”

I scowl at his bossy ass, but whatever, I just want this over with. I try not to notice the intractable composure in the lines of Sutter’s body. Or how much of the room he’s dominated just by being in it. My gaze wants to glue itself to him, but I can’t let it. I could give a fuck about the rest of the world, but I don’t want Sutter to know about the craving for him that’s slithered its way into my psyche. I’ve already given him too much of me without getting much in return.

People descend to mic us up after a signal from Gina who’s smart enough to realize Sutter’s patience is minuscule on a good day.

“Here’s the situation,” Gina says. “Milton did some numbers?—”

“Yes, please tell me more about Milton,” Sutter says, murder glinting in his purple-hued irises.

Gina sighs. “The statistics predict a Boston-Vancouver final this season.”

That’s not good. It’s Milton’s worst nightmare come to life. “Unless it was Biff showing up with a Farmer’s Almanac from the nineteen fifties, I think we can safely ignore those numbers,” I say.

Sutter smirks at my Back to the Future reference.

“Better safe than sorry,” Milton says. “If we’re wrong, no big deal. If we’re right, our plan could save the City of Vancouver.”

“And more importantly, make us a lot of money,” Gina says.

I don’t know which one of them’s crazier, but they definitely have different motivations. Milton might be kind of a dick, but I believe he genuinely thinks he’s Vancouver’s savior.

“What’s the plan?” Sutter says.

“People have noticed how much you two brutalize each other on the ice. We thought we’d let you treat the audience to a little pregame banter. It’ll be light-hearted. Fun. Disarming. That way when we get to cup time, we can all remember we’re friends—just friends,” he adds and, yeah, that’s warning-tone octave. It also means that they probably know we’re actually fucking and that it’s not just internet lore.

“I thought the key was no fraternizing with Boston?” I ask.

“Gina here convinced me to switch tactics.”

“She did, eh?” Sutter says, frowning. At least Gina has the sense to look chagrined.

“Relationships are still a bad idea,” she reiterates. “The public goes psycho over that stuff as we’ve seen. We need to reel them in. This’ll be cute and family friendly.”

Nothing about me and Sutter is family-friendly, especially our bloodthirsty violence on the ice, but okay, lady.

In any case, I’ve heard enough. “Let’s just get this over with, so I can also do my pregame ritual.”

Sutter doesn’t look at me, but I know the fucker’s laughing to himself. I don’t have a pregame ritual and he knows it.

Everything’s fine until the damn lights blast me. My mouth dries up. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so they go through my hair a lot. So many people are watching this. Live. I think about Stacey. He took charge after Mom died. I would have been drowning in a hole somewhere if it weren’t for him. But that responsibility took a toll on my brother. Hockey’s provided us with enough money to remove the hard lines from his face. He can worry about menial shit like his love life instead of, will we make rent next month? Hell, he’s brought up the idea of buying a house. Yeah, buying a house in one of the most unattainable housing markets in Canada. But we can do that now. We have the capital.

I can’t ruin that for him.

The whole thing’s a blur, and before I know it, my mic’s taken. This suit’s too hot, and this room’s a lot smaller than it began. Fuck everyone. I have to get out of here. I bolt and run for … where? Don’t know. I turn down one hall, and then another, with the vague recollection that I’m in TD Garden. I dunno know where I am but there aren’t any people down this way.

My back cracks against a wall— oof —and I lose my breath. A real familiar aftershave scent accosts my senses.

“Fuck, didn’t mean to wind you, Alderchuck. C’mon, breathe for me, nice and slow.”

Sure, he didn’t. I’m gonna bust his chops as soon as I can breathe again.

Every breath is fire forced into my lungs. Like I’m trying to stuff air into a full place. I follow the sound of his voice to freedom, coming to my senses, and when I do, I give a mighty shove.

“This is all your fault. What a stupid fucking idea. Stay away from me, Sutter.”

His lips crush mine, which is the opposite of staying away from me. My brain knows this, but my body doesn’t get the message. It wraps a leg around him, pulling him closer, shoving my tongue down his throat. I lose my breath for a different reason—Sutter’s stealing all of it.

“Are you done having a temper tantrum?” he says between kisses.

“Not a temper tantrum, jackass.” I kiss him some more, but the itch to punch him in the face rises. I’ve never beat on him before a game. Maybe that’ll be my new pregame ritual.

He finally tears his mouth away, resting his forehead against mine, catching his breath.

“Are you okay?” he says.

Three little words, but I’m not sure he’s ever said them to me before. My heart races in all directions for different reasons.

“Not really, but I’ll live. How’d I do? I kinda blacked out.”

“I could have done without the comment about my nose,” he says, using his thumb to toy with my bottom lip. “But we did great.”

I don’t know if I should take his word for it, but I’d rather do that than ever watch that interview. My brain’s too busy catching on a word he said.

We .

Our last fight was over that word. Is this his “Sutter way” of apologizing? Whatever it is, it works. I’m a melted puddle of ice, which is just fucking great. Why does it have to be Sutter, affecting me this way?

“Do you think they know we’re fucking?” I ask.

“Without a doubt, but that’s fine, so are they.”

“You think? But Milton gives Daddy and Gina gives?—”

“Sadist?”

“Yeah.”

“You can be toppy and subby, Alderchuck. It’s called being a switch.”

“Oh, um, I’m not both. Not really.” I can play at both, but the real me likes being manhandled until I give in.

He laughs. “Believe me, I know. Me neither, kitten.” Sutter kisses the top of my head and fucking butterflies swarm through my veins. I thought they were strictly stomach dwellers, but nope. They’re opening up a whole butterfly city in every corner of my body. His big arms circle me, holding me tightly, and I get to be pressed against his expensive suit, inhaling the scent of his musky aftershave.

I’d be protected from the whole apocalypse here.

“If you don’t want to do that again, I’ll tell them where they can shove their interviews.”

“You’re not worried about getting axed from your team?”

He shrugs. “It’s not what I want, but they’re not making you do that.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“I’d do that for us—it’s wrong. No one treats us that way.”

Us.

“I didn’t know you were such a vigilante.”

“Not so much. But I hate all this political bullshit and …”

“And, what?”

He pauses. “Milton came close to losing his hand.”

“That was some kinda possessive bullshit, Sutter.” He thinks I’m his fucking pet. Like the time he told his ex-hockey team that I was his bitch. I should have clawed his eyes out, but Jack’s right, I love all that shit for some reason, and Sutter knows it. There’s something different to the way he does it. I get the nice sting of humiliation, but none of the heartache. Some part of me knows he’s doing it for me rather than to me.

“You’re damn right. Here.” He steps back and unknots the bandana from around his head and ties it around mine. “We’ve got a friendly rivalry going now, which is so much more boring than a cutthroat rivalry, but that means you can wear this. We’ll know what it really means.”

“I’m not planning to change a thing on the ice. Your nose will never be safe.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he says. He combs fingers through my hair, admiring his bandana-tying handiwork.

“Are you marking me, Sutter?”

“This is nothing. Wait and see what I do to you later. Fucking Milton. Telling you what to do.”

You know? I might send Milton a thank-you card. He’s set off all of Sutter’s animal instincts.

His fingers push loose strands of my hair behind my ear, sending tingles down my neck.

“I wanna fuck you in my jersey later.”

“What? No fucking way, Sutter.”

“Please?” he says, lifting a flirty brow.

“Die, Sutter. Just … impale yourself on a hockey stick.”

He laughs. “Okay, then. How about a bet? I win tonight and you wear my Copperheads jersey while we bone.”

“Sutter—”

“Afraid you’ll lose?”

I dig fingers into his large lat muscles. I like being in his arms way too much. Fuck, why do I like it here so much? I’m not even exaggerating when I call him the world’s biggest asshole, yet I always end up right back here, clinging to him.

“Never.”

“It’s a bet then.”

“Fine, but if I win, you wear my jersey while you fuck me,” I say, hoping he’ll see how dooming that possibility sounds.

“With pride, kitten,” he murmurs.

What’s with him today? He’s not supposed to agree so easily. I don’t give a fuck about that for long, not with his sinful lips sucking my neck.

“Fuck, I need you so bad, Alderchuck.”

“Mmm. Mmhmmm. Y’know, I don’t actually have a pregame ritual. I’m sure there’s somewhere?—”

He smacks my ass. He smirks. “Nope. I’m making us both wait. Next time my cock’s inside you, you’ll be wearing my jersey.”

Why do I put up with him again? I might never know the answer to that.