Page 88 of Poetry On Ice

We pick up where right we left off. A well-oiled machine. A left and right hand. Speed and strength. Light and dark.

Two halves of the same whole.

We’re up by one goal to zero, and I have to say, I’m pretty impressed I’m playing this well. Having Robbie back is great and all, but it’s distracting as hell. And I’m not entirely convinced it’s an accident. He’s Robbie McGuire, after all. He likes making my blood pressure spike.

We’re about to head into the third period, and I watch the clock longingly before it even starts running down. There are twenty more minutes to go. Twenty hockey minutes. In other words, a lifetime.

You’ve got this, Decker. Come on. Hold it together.

I’m doing my best to keep my head in the game, but it’s almost unbelievable how sexy Robbie McGuire is when he plays hockey. Like literally unbelievable. As in, I cannot believe a human being this hot exists.

He’s playing like a fiend tonight. A man built for speed. For victory. A man who moves like an arrow shot from a crossbow. A man who plays like he lives, like it’s easy and fun. A man with a pretty face and a killer white smile.

A smile he’s currently trying his best to hide.

A smile I know is meant for me, and me only.

We discussed it beforehand and agreed on a set of protocols for the game. We’ll celebrate goals like we always do because fuck anyone who tries to stop us. We play to win, and we’re going to fucking celebrate when we do. We’re going to try to keep our banter to a minimum and avoid cameras as much as possible. If we have to talk to each other on the bench, we’re going to cover our mouths with our gloves, and we’re going to try not to look at each other because that shit is fodder for the shit show we have heading our way.

It’s been going well, I think. I’ve been handling myself okay, and Robbie’s been doing a decent job sticking to the protocols. If we keep this up, we might be okay. This whole thing might blow over. We’ll be fine…

Oh shit.

I spoke too soon.

I’m not fine.

Whatever the opposite of fine is, that’s what I am.

Robbie’s on all fours on the ice. He’s taken it upon himself to do some deep stretching before the period starts. Why he’s stretching at this late stage in the game is beyond me. He has his stick in his hands and he’s using it to brace himself. His knees are spread wide apart, skates almost touching.

He rolls his hips, undulating slowly.

Again.

And again.

He’s drawing big, slow circles on the ice with his knees.

Clockwise.

Counterclockwise.

He’s positioned himself right in front of me. All I can see is a sea of white. Pure white. Snow white. Ice, as far as I can see. And Robbie. The back of Robbie. The back of his helmet. The back of his muscular legs. And his ass.

Sweet Jesus. His ass.

I can’t breathe.

He’s on his hands and knees, back arched slightly. Ass aimed squarely in my direction.

He stretches his groin. Then his glutes. Then his hamstrings.

Christ above, how much can one man possibly stretch?

I start to sweat in my fucking cage helmet. More than I usually do in a game. My scalp prickles with heat and salty beads run down my temples. My heart beats harder than it usually beats in a game. Harder and faster.

I feel myself slipping.