Point Shot Trilogy Box Set by V.L. Locey

Author:V.L. Locey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: V.L. Locey
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

There were supposed to be no hard feelings. As Ailo put my squad through another of his drills, I was beginning to suspect he was not as okay with my turning him down as he had seemed.

Ailo pushed my line harder than he’d pushed any of the others on the ice. That might have been because we were the first line, and therefore expected to be the best of the four. Or it might have been because he wanted some of me and I’d denied him. Some hockey players have massive egos. And yes, I include myself in that comment.

We were now in our fourth—count them, fourth—run-through of what Ailo called the “Michigan Mile” drill. The drill went like this. Red line and back drop for five pushups, far blue line and back then five pushups, red, back, far blue, back, five pushups, far blue, red, far blue, back and five pushups, red, back, far blue, back, five more pushups, far blue line and back with five more pushups, and red line and back with a final set of five fucking pushups. Then you vary it with sit-ups, dropping down to the knees at every stop, or adding pucks. If you wanted to be a mega-dick, as Ailo apparently did, you added a sandbag to the player’s shoulders.

While I could see the benefit, because it worked on short, explosive bursts of speed, it was killing my line and me. After thirty straight minutes of that hell, we were spent and soft. Like a dick, which Ailo greatly resembled in my eyes. The Swede blew on his whistle. McGarrity lifted his head from the boards in front of the bench. Something Italian rolled out of him.

“I agree,” I said, then lowered the sweaty towel from my face.

Ailo was in front of us, Dan’s second line now on the ice. Resting the towel on my knee, I waited for him to load Arou and the four on the ice with him with sandbags.

“I want another round with sit-ups,” Ailo told the second line.

“Poodle fucking asshole,” I grumbled. Mario spat on the ground between his skates.

“Did one of us run over his cat in the parking lot or something?” McGarrity asked. A low murmur of discontent went through the four others on my line.

“Fucker hates Kalinski just like the rest of us,” piped up Phil Prescott, the defenseman who so envied my soul patch. “Maybe he saw that ball-bumper under Vic’s bottom lip and asked if he could try it out. Looks like Arou isn’t fagging it up with him anymore so maybe Grahn—”

Shit went down.

Prescott had been begging me to clean his fucking homophobic clock since day one. Up to that point, I’d been the bigger man. The straw that broke this camel’s hairy hump was him flinging that slur at Dan. I leaped over McGarrity. Phil glanced up. His dull eyes widened just as my fist connected with his simian-like nose. Got to give the horse-faced ass credit, his reaction time was impressive.

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