Free Point Shot 01 - Two Man Advantage by V.L. Locey Page B

ceiling.
    “Shit, you’re even paler than usual, Kalinski,” he said with a sense of awe. I jerked away from him as he chuckled like the moronic asshole that he is.
    “You’re such a dickwad,” I told him, peeled off my shorts, then stepped into the shower. His merry blue eyes watched me turn the water on. The water exploded over my tight neck muscles as I looked over at him. “You coming in or what? Oh, I see the problem. Let me lift you up and over, Stumpy.”
    I grabbed him under the arms. He growled and struggled like a Tasmanian devil with PMS as I hefted him kicking and struggling over the side of the tub. He shoved the door closed so violently it cracked in the upper right corner. I pushed Dan against the wet tiles. His dark eyebrows were knotted but his mouth was plaint when I pressed my lips over his.
    “You coming with me tomorrow?” he asked as our hands and mouths moved hungrily over flesh. “It’ll be okay, Vic, but if you seriously can’t, I’ll respect that.”
    “I’ll go,” I panted as he sucked my earlobe into his mouth. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I could go four days without Dan Arou. Not even a top-notch meth cook could manufacture something as enslaving as the man in my arms.

Chapter Nine
     
    Rader Arena had doubled its attendance since the last home game. I sat on the bench between my line’s left-winger, Heath Goodman, and the center for line four, Mario McGarrity, my eyes roaming over the fans. One chick was holding up a sign that read “VK for the KO!”
    “That bitch is jumbling up her sports analogies,” I said, nodding at the blonde with tits big enough to get her airborne. That was probably why her girlfriends were hanging on to her arms as they all bounced up and down. They were the ground crew tasked with keeping her Earthbound.
    “I’d like to jumble her analogies,” McGarrity said, drawing a couple of grunts of agreement from the boys on the bench. “Then come right on her chin.”
    “Nice, McGarrity,” I chuckled, giving the tape I had applied to my stick in the dressing area another inspection. “So tell me again how you got saddled with such a fuckwad combination of ethnic names.”
    “Dad was Scots, mother was Italian. They compromised,” the olive-skinned ginger at my side said by rote.
    “Maybe your father should have come on your mother’s chin and spared you the indignity of being a skirt-wearing Italian.”
    “I’d rather be an Italian in plaid than a fucking Pole,” he slung back so perfectly I tapped my helmet in respect for the quick zing. I just caught Dan’s laugh before we had to stand for the anthem. Some fat man in a pinstriped suit and a comb-over waddled out onto the ice on the arm of one of the ice crew. “Speaking of dumbasses,” Mario whispered as the singer began to belt out his “Oh Say Can You See” line, “That’s the son of Ron Rader, the owner.”
     
    I leaned out to see. Wow, the kid was not only rich but incredibly ugly and incapable of carrying a tune.
    “RDR should have spurted on the old lady’s chin that night,” I said to the side to ensure the theme of the night carried onward. Mario snorted. Coach Lambert gave us both a sharp look. Once the slaughter of the anthem was over and slight applause had been bestowed on Girth Rader, I looked down-ice to watch Dan and his line squaring off against the first line of the Waconia Wasps.
    The first five minutes weren’t too bad—you know, considering it was us playing against any team over midget age range. Joe Billie for the Wasps had the puck behind his own net. Lines quickly changed. Dan dropped down beside me, sweaty, panting and grumbling about Frank Hickok, the backup goalie, getting a free pass on an elbow infraction that should have been called. Yeah, we were challenging backup twine-herders now. That was how much fear this team generated.
    “Yeah, I saw that,” I said glancing at him to make sure nothing was disjointed on his face. It wasn’t. “Hey,