Hidden Scars: An MM Hockey Romance (Darby U Hockey Boys Book 1)
Hidden Scars: Chapter 9

OUR EXHIBITION GAME IS in a few hours. I’m showered and pulling on my suit in the hotel bathroom, the newest scars on my body still bright red and angry. I had to remove the stitches myself last week since I’m not calling my father to do it.

I’ve already eaten my game day breakfast of eggs with grilled onions, peppers, and chicken sausage with a green smoothie, and lunch of a salad, grilled chicken, and protein shake. Like most hockey players, I’m a bit superstitious. Some are over the top and disgusting with it, but food is something I can and do control anyway. Making sure the food I put into my body fuels it to the best I can be is important. If any of my food is off today, not made just the way I need it to be, I will play like shit, which puts me on my father’s radar. Not somewhere I want to be. So many little things go into making sure game day is perfect. I ironed both dress shirts I have, made sure the slacks were pressed from the dry cleaners and the jackets are wrinkle free. Being put together is important, we must look professional. Being put together makes me feel powerful, like armor.

The cufflinks glint in the light of the bathroom against my white shirt and navy-blue jacket. If I’m to believe my father, these were my grandfather’s on my mother’s side. I’ve always liked the simplicity of the gold with an anchor in the center. He loved to sail, passed down that love to my mother, who spent every summer on the yacht.

They aren’t overly decorative or flashy, probably a trinket from a seaside town that they visited, but they call to me. Maybe because it makes me feel closer to my mother. I have a few memories of being a small boy on the wood deck of a big boat, my mother’s blonde hair whipping around her and a big smile on her face. There was joy in her eyes as she shared the experience with me. My father was nowhere to be seen, probably at work, and she was free to enjoy the moment. I had to have been five or six so I didn’t understand that she was just as much of a victim as I would become. If I remember correctly, it wasn’t long after that trip that I got drugged for the first time and woke up with stitches across my chest.

Lost in my memories, I rub at the first scar I received at the hands of my father. The skin is puckered and doesn’t have full sensitivity. One of the many reasons I don’t like to be touched. The sensation is off. It never feels right.

I check my reflection in the mirror, dropping my shoulders and buttoning my jacket before opening the door, only to stop in my tracks at the sight in front of me.

Why did I have to room with him? Even here at the away game, I can’t get away from him.

Jeremy is attempting to get a suit jacket onto his shoulders that is at least a size too small for him, looks like it was made in the 80s, and is definitely polyester.

“You’re fucking with me, right?” The words are condescending and I know it. I don’t care.

“What?” He turns toward me, the jacket now on his body, but he’s holding his breath.

“Whose suit did you steal? That’s obviously not yours.” I straighten up and slide my hands into my tailored wool suit pants.

He drags his eyes over my suit, the irritation and embarrassment clear on his face. He stands stiffly, face flushed. “Not everyone can afford a custom-made suit, jackass.”

His hands run down his wrinkled dress shirt.

“Your shirt isn’t even ironed.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling a frustrated breath, and setting my jaw. Stepping toward the closet behind the door, I grab another suit and shove it into his chest. I always bring two, just in case something happens and I need to change. Jeremy’s eyes meet mine, confusion pulling his eyebrows together, crinkling the skin above his nose.

“You can wear one of mine so you aren’t an embarrassment.” Jeremy’s gaze flicks down to the zipper bag on the hanger then back to mine. “Hurry up.”

He takes a step back, insulted by the offer. There’s more room in this hotel room than in our dorm but he can’t escape me.

“Excuse me? I’m not wearing your shit. This is fine.” He motions to the clothes on his body that are absolutely not fine.

“That costume should be tossed in a dumpster and lit on fire. Except I’m pretty sure it’s polyester, which is notoriously flammable.” I don’t hide the disgust on my face as I look him over again. He looks like a waiter at a cheap Italian restaurant. “You’re smaller than me but it will fit better than that travesty.”

“No,” he grinds out through clenched teeth.

I step into his space, tossing the suit onto his bed, then grab the lapels on his jacket, jerking him against me. It’s my turn to grit my teeth against the contact, but there’s enough layers of clothing that I can tolerate it. Those unmatching blue-brown eyes blazing at me from less than a foot away is intoxicating.

He smells so fucking good though. Spicy and clean. For the first time I can remember, I want to shove my face into the crook of his neck and inhale. I’ve never wanted to do that before. The men I’ve fucked in the past were just that. A quick fuck and done.

“I don’t care if you hate me or not, have some self-respect and show up to the game looking like you belong there.”

His eyes flick between mine. “Why do you care how I look?”

“You represent the team. Looking like shit makes us all look like shit.”

My gaze drops to his mouth for just a second when he swipes his tongue over his lower lip.

I can’t like him. I can’t be attracted to him. I definitely can’t fuck him.

Moving quickly, I grab the two sides of his shirt and rip it open, sending the buttons flying around our room.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” he yells. I pat his cheek and head to the elevator.

A few of the other guys are waiting for it as well, so I ride down with them, ignoring any attempt at conversation. I’m not here to be their friend.

We stand around the lobby until Coach appears and ushers us onto the bus that will take us to the rink for our game against University of Nevada, Las Vegas. We all file on the bus, most of them sitting with buddies, chatting or listening to something in their earbuds. I fall into the second category. Bach filters through my head, calming any pregame nerves that creep up.

“Carmichael,” Coach looks at me so I pull an earbud out of my ear.

“Yes?”

“Where’s Albrooke?”

Some of the guys turn to look at me.

“I don’t know, Coach, he was dressed when I left our room.” Close enough to the truth. He was dressed, I just helped him make better decisions.

“I’m here, Coach.” The man in question appears over Coach’s shoulder.

“Good, have a seat and we’ll get going.”

Coach takes a seat in the front row of the bus and I peer around the seats to see Jeremy in my dark gray suit with the light blue button up shirt. The pants are a little long but they fit his thighs perfectly.

Thighs I desperately want to feel wrapped around me.

He doesn’t look at me while he finds his seat next to Johnson and sits down. The pants accentuate his ass too. I need to stop thinking about him. Oiler looks at Albrooke, takes in what he’s wearing, then looks back at me. I make eye contact with him for a second, one side of my mouth lifts as I close my eyes and relax into the seat for the ride.

When we arrive at the stadium, we all file off the bus and down the tunnel to the locker rooms. I grab my workout clothes and head to the toilet stalls to get changed. It doesn’t take me long to switch from the suit to the t-shirt and shorts. Rolls of tape are passed around the room and we start taping up our sticks for the night. Almost everyone does their own, every player being very particular about how it’s done. Luckily, since we’ve all been doing it for years, it doesn’t take long.

Once all the sticks are stored for the game, we grab our skates to drop them off for sharpening while we get an off ice warm up in.

We all know what we’re doing, most are focused on the task but a few are laughing and joking around to lessen the tension.

Coach comes in and lets us know skates are done and it’s time to gear up.

I grab a towel to wipe my face and drink some water while I wait for my turn to grab my stuff. It doesn’t take long for us to be back in the locker room changing into our gear. I grab my base layer and head back into the stall to change. Pulling on compression clothes when you’re sweaty isn’t the easiest thing but it gets done quick enough.

There’s a high pitched “Fuck!” and running water coming from the showers. Probably Brendon if I had to guess. Taking a cold shower is probably part of his ritual for game day.

Back at my cubby, getting my gear on doesn’t take long since I don’t have the distraction of anyone talking to me. When you ignore people for long enough, they eventually get the message.

“Dude, did you wash those after last season?” Jeremy’s question has me looking up but he’s talking to Paul, who is pulling on the nastiest looking socks I’ve ever seen. All of his toes are sticking out of one sock, and I use the term in the loosest of senses, while the other one has a massive hole at the heel.

“Uh…” Paul stops to think about it. “Yeah, I did.”

“I don’t know how those things haven’t disintegrated.” Brendon shows up, a towel around his waist, shivering.

“Ten minutes, boys!” one of the coaches yells into the locker room.

Jeremy sits down and pulls on one sock, then his skate and ties it, then repeats it on the other side. When his skates are on, he knocks on the toes of each one, right then left.

Why am I watching him put his damn skates on? I don’t care what his pregame rituals are.

Focus.

I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath, letting the music in my ears drown out the white noise in the locker room. Ignoring everyone around me, I zero in on getting my gear on and pulling on my skates, shifting around to make sure my pads are set right.

We make it out onto the ice for warm ups and the adrenaline of the game lights a fire in my body. I love this part. The peace before the bloodshed of battle. My muscles warm and my body loosens as I move, the skates an extension of me. I’ve been on the ice since I was five. It’s second nature to skate, despite how much I dislike hockey because of my father. I’m good at it, it’s easy, but I don’t enjoy the game. Not the way someone trying to make it in the NHL should. I don’t have the passion for it my father tried to cut into me. He ruined any pleasure I got from it a long time ago.

The real fucked up part is I don’t know what I want to do. All I’ve ever done is hockey.

Coach blows his whistle and we line up on a blue line. He has us run through some drills to make sure we’re good to go, passing, blocking, direction changes, then back to the locker room to wait for the game to start.

We get a drink of water and the guys break off into their cliques and a few of us listen to music as we wait. I close my eyes and lean back against my cubby, Tchaikovsky playing in my head.

After a few minutes I feel someone staring at me. Again. Opening my eyes, I find Oiler watching me like he’s trying to figure me out. It’s the third time today I’ve caught him staring at me. I lift an eyebrow at him and his gaze flicks to Albrooke. Did Albrooke tell his boyfriend that he was wearing my clothes? Or that I jacked him off?

Why do I like that he’s jealous? Why do I like Jeremy wearing my stuff?

“Alright, boys,” Coach starts as most of the team is pulling on jerseys, so I get my AirPods off and put them away. “This team is good but so are you. You’ve worked hard to get here. Keep your wits about you, don’t let them in your head, and let’s show them just how much Darby is a threat.”

Coach calls us to go into the tunnel and Brendon, Paul, and Jeremy slap sticks right before shooting out onto the ice.

From the second we step out onto the ice, we’re on the defensive. UNLV plays hard and fast and it’s all we can do to keep them out of the crease. Our goalie is getting a workout and I’m two seconds from chucking one of these bastards into the boards. The refs aren’t calling shit against them and they are using it to their advantage. Off sides and illegal hits left and right. My counterpart on the ice, Willis, is exhausted and it’s only the second period.

We’re behind on the board, two to zero and our first line is falling apart from the frustration.

By some miracle the puck lands on my stick and I fling it as hard as I can across the ice, it makes it past UNLV’s defenders and lights up the lamp. My head drops back on my neck and I let out a breath. We’re on the fucking board.

My team rallies, slapping at my chest and back with “Fuck yeah!” and “Holy shit, bro!” and I try not to cringe at the touch.

The buzzer sounds and we all come off the ice for a drink and rest for the fifteen minute intermission and ice resurfacing before the third period starts. Twenty more minutes. We can come back.

After a pep talk from Coach, the team has a renewed sense of energy. The boys on the third line get the next goal on the first play, Albrooke, Oiler, and Johnson working like a well-oiled machine to get the lamp light on. The rest of the game, we struggled to get another goal in, but we managed it in the last minute of the game to break the tie and come away with the win. The most impressive part was holding UNLV to their two points.

The guys are smiling and congratulating each other as they head down the chute to the locker room. I get my gear pulled off and head toward a toilet stall to finish getting changed. I hate that I can’t take a shower but I’m used to it. Like I do every time after a game, I’ll rinse my head in the sink, basically sponge the rest of me off with wet paper towels, and get dressed. I’ll shower in the hotel room later and have to face the awkward questions of my roommate. Normally, I can pawn it off as a post-game ritual, but I’m not sure Jeremy will take that answer.

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