Captive by Brenda Rothert

baby right now, not fighting and giving each other the silent treatment.
    When he came back in, we ate lasagna and made small talk about the day. I hated the distance in his eyes. He was giving me what I wanted, so why did I feel so bad about it?
    He stayed a few feet away while we cleaned up and stood on the other side of the dishwasher while we loaded it together. “I’m going to Denver in the morning and then Winnipeg after.”
    I knew that already, but he was probably just trying to fill the silence, like me. “Do you have time to make fundraising calls for the Foundation tonight?”
    “Sure.”
    “Thanks.”
    He gave me a tight smile. Ryke looked physically uncomfortable. He hadn’t said the word ‘fuck’ once since walking in, which was very unlike him. I almost preferred fighting with him to this. At least the light had still been in his eyes yesterday.
    ***

     
    Jack clapped me on the back in a very uncharacteristic show of appreciation.
    “You gave me every fucking thing out there tonight,” he said. “You spilled your fucking guts on the ice. It was something to witness, Ryke.”
    I nodded and pressed the bag of ice Pete handed me over my swollen eye. It’d been a physically brutal game, which made the victory that much sweeter. Fighting for it always felt better than winning with finesse. These days, anyway.
    For the first time in a while, the pain in my balls wasn’t from lack of sex. I’d fallen hard on something tonight, I wasn’t even sure what, and my whole groin ached. I wanted to take an ice bath in the locker room and then soak in a bathtub of hot water at the hotel.
    I found my phone and saw a text from Kate: Amazing game! So proud of you! xoxo
    The message warmed me and made me miss her. Between her adoption meetings, work, the foundation and my road schedule, we’d be able to pull off this new no sex setup easily. The distance between us was wearing me down. Before Kate, I’d never had anyone cheering me on at every home game. My parents going to my high school games wasn’t the same as knowing my wife was in the stands at my NHL games. And now that I’d had it, I knew what I was missing. It fucking sucked.
    I needed more than texts and phone conversations with my wife. I missed the smell and feel and taste of her so bad I dreamed of them at night. Which officially made me a pussy.
    “Hey,” Luke called, walking toward me. “Good game, brother.”
    He slapped my back and then helped me pull off my pads, which I was struggling with due to my soreness.
    “There you go,” he said, stacking them neatly in front of my locker.
    “You gonna comb my cock hair, too?” I asked, shaking my head.
    “You wish, asshole. You need to trim that shit, you look like a fucking caveman.”
    “My cock only needs to please one person, and it ain’t you, Hudson.”
    He rolled his eyes and dropped it. “You need to come out with us tonight.”
    “I fucking hurt all over,” I said. “I need an ice bath.”
    “After.”
    “I don’t—”
    “Don’t bother,” he said, cutting me off. “You just played what was probably the best game of your NHL career so far. We’re fucking celebrating if I have to drag your ass out by your foot-long cock hair.”
    “Christ, I’ll shave the shit just so you’ll stop talking about it. And yeah, I’ll go out for a little while.”
    He nodded, satisfied, and I forced my worn out body up for an ice bath. I was feeling my more physically aggressive game all over. When I put my headphones in my ears and zoned out to the music on my phone, it relaxed me more than the ice did. I got a quick shower after that and dressed in a suit as we were required to after games. Luke had texted me the address to a bar, and I pulled on my long wool coat and caught a cab to head there.
    The downtown bar was packed with people – the kind of place I always loved in my rookie days. Tons of fans and lots of women to choose from. But tonight I just groaned inwardly at the game face