Monday, August 08, 2011

Razor's Edge: Puck You by Elizabeth Jewell


Razor's Edge: Puck You

by Elizabeth Jewell

Cover art: Marteeka Karland
ISBN: 978-1-60521-911-0
Genre(s): Razor's Edge Press, Guilty Pleasures (Contemporary)
Theme(s): Gay and Lesbian
Length: Hot Flash

Rival hockey pros Bessette and Láska hate each other. When their aggression crosses the line into the dressing rooms, it creates bodily collisions nothing like what happens on the ice.
Puck You
Elizabeth Jewell
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2011 Elizabeth Jewell

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

When Bessette dropped his gloves at 15:30 in period three of game two of round one of the Stanley Cup Finals, he didn't expect it to end like this. His team was up by one, and God knew they didn't need the penalty, but when L·ska hip-checked him into the glass, he was consumed by an overwhelming urge to smear L·ska's face into the ice. It was L·ska's sneer that did it.
Instead, Bessette was flat on his stomach, his helmet skittering cheerily away, with his own face smashed into the ice and L·ska on his back, shoving Bessette's head down so hard he thought the cartilage in his nose might have popped.
The referees had come in to break it up, but they weren't having much luck. Both teams had moved in at this point, some of them scrumming but most of them trying to pry Bessette and L·ska apart. Bessette could hear Coulier screaming at him in French, and L·ska was hollering at somebody in Slovak. Bessette tasted blood in his mouth, and the ice. The ice tasted like metal and ass.
L·ska switched to French -- motherfucker spoke like four languages, none of them well. "Morceau de merde," he said, then went off on some tangent about the overall quality of Bessette's genitals, which Bessette couldn't follow because L·ska had a bitch of an accent whether he was speaking French or English or whatever the fuck he attempted to speak that wasn't Slovak.
One of the referees, aided by Coulier, who was six feet five inches of propriety and "don't piss off the officials," finally clawed L·ska off Bessette's back.
Bessette lurched to his feet, getting his skates back under him. Somebody handed him his helmet. Bessette grabbed it, screaming at L·ska, "Va te faire mettre!" which wasn't original but got the job done. One of the refs, whom Bessette knew spoke French, rolled his eyes.
L·ska turned on his skates, giving Bessette a cold look through pale, slanted eyes. "I will see you later," he said in the clearest English Bessette had ever heard him speak. "Be ready." Then he turned and, somehow utterly composed and dignified, allowed himself to be escorted off the ice.
"Motherfucker!" Bessette flung after him, and then was steered toward his own team's dressing room with much less aplomb.
* * *
They won the game, but Bessette got a talking to after. His double minor penalty led to a power play, which led to a goal for L·ska's team, which led to overtime. They'd managed to pull it off with a spectacular play from Coulier with a minute and a half to go in OT, but nobody was very happy about Bessette fucking up the lead.
And there was still L·ska to worry about. It was so fucking grade school -- I'll meet you in the parking lot, knock your teeth in. Fine. Laska wanted to make it personal, let him.
Bessette lingered in the locker room after the reporters and the other players had cleared out. He wasn't afraid of L·ska -- honest to God he wasn't -- but he didn't really want his teammates to see them confronting each other in the parking lot, either. You were supposed to leave that shit on the ice.
Bessette couldn't, though, not this time. And apparently L·ska felt the same way. The tension had been building between them all season, every time their teams met, and it was time to take care of it before it cost Bessette his chance to see his name on the Cup.
When he heard the noises coming from the dressing room, he couldn't say it surprised him. Although in a way, it did. L·ska didn't fucking belong back here.
He was there, though. Bessette stood to meet him as the big, blond Slovak meandered from the dressing room to the locker room. Sliding his hands into his jeans pockets, Bessette looked as nonchalant as he could manage.
"Well, hello there," he said.
L·ska just stared at him, eyes narrow. "We have..." L·ska began slowly. "You and me, we have, what you say, a problem." The tone of his voice, measured and careful, made it obvious the "what you say" had nothing to do with L·ska's ability to navigate English grammar, but was meant as his own kind of "fuck you" to Bessette.
"Yeah," said Bessette. He rubbed his face, feeling the bruises surfacing there from where L·ska had shoved him into the ice. "You want to tell me what this shit is about?"
L·ska tipped his head a little. His blond hair was still damp from his post-game shower, sticking up in a plethora of directions as if he hadn't bothered to get a comb within a yard of it. His ice blue eyes regarded Bessette passionlessly. "I," he said, very slowly. "Hate. You."
"Nice," said Bessette. "We can call the feeling mutual and get on with our lives."
He started to move past L·ska out of the room, but L·ska stopped him with a hand to Bessette's shoulder. What the fuck? was all Bessette had time to think before L·ska shoved him, hard.
"The fuck?" said Bessette as his back slammed into the locker doors behind him. "You really want to do this, L·ska?"
"Yes," said L·ska. "Yes, I do."
He lunged at Bessette. Bessette tensed, ready to take a blow, but then he realized that wasn't where L·ska was headed.
Good God, L·ska was going to kiss him.
But he didn't. Instead, he bit Bessette, hard, on his lower lip.
Bessette jerked back. "Shit!" He wiped at his mouth, his hand coming back with blood on the tips of his fingers. "What the fuck?"
And then L·ska did kiss him, hard and very much like he didn't want to. When L·ska drew back, he had Bessette's blood on his mouth.
"You motherfucking son of a bitch," said Bessette in French. "Fucking piece of fucking shit," he added in English, and wished he knew how to say something equally vile in Slovak.
And then he kissed L·ska back...

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