Hello! It`s time for Tuesday Tales.
Welcome back! It’s time for another snippet from my new book! I'm now working on an M/M hockey romance titled Open Net. This is the second novella in the Cayuga Cougars duology featuring LGBT players. This story centers on a young goalie, August Miles, a newcomer to the Cougars that we met in Mario and Lila's novella.
Today we have a little friendly shinny game with Mario and August. This story contains crude language and gay sexual situations. We are telling tales about hockey players so if that offends now would be the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales offering. Our word prompt for the week is "Paper”.
I glanced to the right to find McGarrity wearing a half-baked smile.“Yeah, I’m done.” I tossed my bottle on top of the net, slid my mask on, and dropped down into a crouch to stretch a little. “You planning on trying to shoot a puck at me or just standing around thinking about your AARP benefits?”
Mario threw back his head and laughed hard and long. That made me smile widely inside my mask.
“And to think you used to be this shy little kid who wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful.” He skated behind my net and out to the blue line, where a mound of pucks had been dumped. Mario picked out a puck, flung it into the air with his stick, and then swung like he was Mickey Mantle. The puck flew at me. I jumped up and caught it in my catcher’s mitt.
Another puck came in low, rolling across the ice. I managed to kick that one aside then dive to the left to slap another one away. Then the shots began coming at me faster and faster. It was like facing a tennis ball machine, only this machine was rocketing slap shots at me while wearing a maniacal smile. Puck after puck flew at me, bouncing off my chest, shoulders, and stick.
There wasn’t time for banter or chirps. Mario kept shooting and moving, slowly getting his accuracy honed in. For an old man he was wicked hot with upper left hand shots just like the sports section in the local paper always said. What he lacked in diminishing speed he more than made up for with grit and brutal snap shots. At first tracking all those pucks was hard, but the longer we were out there, the easier it became. My instincts overrode the quagmire inside my head, and I could focus and lock-in on him.
He picked up a puck at center ice, the black tape on his stick placed there to obscure the chunk of vulcanized rubber. His skates turned sharply, suggesting he was going to head to the left. Instead he rolled around the net, making me dance from one side to the other to shove my skate tight against the pipe. He jabbed and shoved the puck at my leg, making sounds like a pit bull, while I stabbed at the puck with my stick.
“Tough little pup, ain’t you?” Mario growled as we went shoulder-to-shoulder, the puck slipping and sliding around my feet.
“Got to be to play with the old dogs,” I grunted, sweat burning my eyes. I dove at the puck as it slithered forward and slapped my catching mitt to the ice. Mario rocked me to the side, his hip finding purchase and his stick slipping under my glove.
The Italian-Scot then fell on me, bowing my back until I was flopping around on the ice with him on top of me. He hooked my glove up off the ice. By this time, if it had been a real game, he’d have been sitting on the bench for goaltender interference, but since it was only him and me, he scrabbled and clawed for possession of that puck.
Copyright 2016 ©by V.L. Locey
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See you next week!