The Thanksgiving weekend game was horrible. I don’t know if we were still all slow from the fucking turkey or what, but we played sloppy. No one anticipated passes, including our goalies Strass and Kap. We lost 2-7. It was a joke.
The locker room is quiet as the ass whooping we received sinks in. What’s worse is knowing my family and Jordan were watching from home. Probably cringing since the first period.
Jordan: How are you doing?
Me: Shitty. Got our hat handed to us.
Jordan: We saw. I’m sorry.
Jordan: You had a great third period.
Me: Yeah. Ready to come home.
Jordan: You could probably get a pity blow from one of the bunnies.
I know she’s trying to cheer me up with a joke, but it pisses me off.
Me: Stop.
Jordan: No good?
Me: Rather have your pity blow.
Jordan: Yikes. That would be a pity.
Me: Quit with that self-deprecating shit. Wanna know something?
Jordan: What?
Me: No bunny’s lips have ever made me come as hard as yours did.
I wait a minute . . . no response.
Me: . . .you gonna say anything?
Jordan: Why do I miss you?
Me: I don’t know.
Me: But I miss you too.
The guys talk about wrapping up bad games and wanting to go home to their wives and girlfriends, seeking comfort. I never wanted comfort when we lost, I wanted an escape. An escape by inviting a new face into my bed. Tonight? She’s all I want. I’ve been away for not even twenty-four hours and miss her.
And it’s not the sex—though it is great. I want to see Jordan wrapped up in that ugly, grungy hoodie and spend the night watching a movie, or talking, or telling her the three best things about my day.
