Tuesday Tales - Restless

It`s time for Tuesday Tales!

Today we have a snippet from Touch of a Yellow Sun., Colors of Love #2, my current MM hockey romance WIP. In this opposites attract tale instigator and on-ice pain-in-the-ass Marek Hafer and yogi Shey Pierson find themselves living next door to each other. Talk about conflicting professions! Will the two men’s personalities clash as well, or will they be able to find some common ground to build a relationship on?

Our word prompt today is “Restless”. In today’s snippet we get to meet our storyteller, Marek Hafer.

This story may have gay erotic scenes, strong social issues addressed and mature language. If those things offend now is the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales blog. Thanks for stopping by!

“Hand to God, I did not go into that bar to start something. I know that’s what the cops said but the cops are biased. Kind of like the refs.”

I stared right back at my new head coach. He had a twitchy, restless eyelid. I folded my arms over my chest, sighed, and settled in for an ass-reaming. I guess, in retrospect, stopping for a beer and a burger might have been a bad idea even though I’d been driving for over five hours and was dry as a turd rolled in the sand and my stomach was gnawing on my spleen it was so empty. Guess I should have kept driving hindsight being twenty-twenty and all that shit…

“The cops are biased like the refs,” Coach Bell repeated in a slow, dull, monotone way.

I nodded. “Known fact,” I said. He continued to stare at me as if I were some sort of alien from a different solar system. Guess that confused look was to be expected. Bet he’d never had to go bail out a new Badger before. “Seriously, they hear the name Marek Hafer and they come in guns blazing.”

“You’re telling me that the Pennsylvania State Police shot at you?” He blinked tired blue eyes at me.

“No, it’s just a saying. They never drew on me.”

“Okay, that’s good. I thought they said it was just a drunk and disorderly since the man you punched in the head dropped the charges after he realized who you were. I mean a D and D is bad enough but…”

“Nothing like the notoriety of surviving a haymaker from Hafer,” I laughed. Coach did not laugh along. So I tried again to lighten the mood a bit. “No bullets were flying although a few fists were,” I joked and winked. Coach Bell didn’t seem to think that I was funny. Sighing to myself, I melted into the old, stuffed chair across from his desk and wondered how it was I had ended up here, in Berger Lake, on an ECHL team that had one skate on the ice and the other in the grave.

Flexing my fingers, the scabs on my knuckles cracked, and I was instantly reminded of how I’d gotten here. It was my salty and somewhat aggressive personality. My last GM called it ‘Short Man Syndrome’ once and I punched him in the nose for that crack. Five foot eight wasn’t short, the fucker. And now I was playing in this rural little cow patty town for the next two years. Which would get me to thirty-five and retirement age. Do not ask me what I’d do after I hung up my skates because I didn’t have a clue. Maybe I could find a bar somewhere and be a bouncer. I could see myself as a bouncer. Yeah, me and Pat Swayze.

      “Roadhouse,” I mumbled as Coach Bill Bell, I shit you not that’s the poor mans name, began rambling on and on about obeying the law and hockey and rules and beating up men who said you were short. Seemed knocking someone out for calling you a midget was frowned upon in this state. Who knew?

Copyright 2018 ©by V.L. Locey

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