Let's Do This

by Loren Leigh

The texts just keep coming like puck slaps to the head, reverberating over and over. It’s always a constant onslaught with my father about how everyone around him has failed.

Ah. He's got a lot in common with my ex. Everyone around him is always wrong. Misogynistic, homophobic, racist, alcoholic, verbally abusive, gaslighting asshole.

I know what it’s like to live in that house, under a constant barrage of negativity.

Lacey, my sister, is in her last year of high school, and she’ll be off to college soon. Probably at Ole Miss. But for my mom? He’s a life sentence.

Nope. Mom, it might take you 32 years to get the traction like it did me, but do it. Shuck that ugly.

I’m still feeling lighter than I have in a long time when I step through IFU’s ice arena doors.

There cannot possibly be an actual IFU. Even Florida's university system isn't that stupid. They did come close with FGCU... 😅😆

He itches at the side of his jaw. “I’m not sure it would be boring.”

Jeez, I want to hug him. I swallow and grab the opaque moonstone, bouncing it in my palm.

Seems like an awful lot of bouncing in this book so far.. (book search count =17 times total)

He itches at the side of his neck,

Is there some part of the country where this is a thing, or is it just widespread ignorance? You scratch an itchy spot. The action involved is scratch, not itch.

He tips up and takes my lips again. His softness is overwhelming, completely mind-consuming. I break the kiss to suck across the bottom edge of his jaw, my hat knocking askew.

What's with the fucking hat, anyway? Is this a grownup (well, sorta grown up) version of a teddy bear or thumb-sucking? Does he take it off to sleep, or does he cuddle it? He obviously has to take it off to play hockey, and to shower, but otherwise it seems to be a permanent fixture. He's either wearing it (indoors and out), or fussing with it like worry beads. Will the secret of the sacred pink ballcap be revealed in time? I mean, there are favorite accessories, and lucky talismans, but this hat is practically becoming another character in the story, albeit, thankfully, a silent one. Although, one wonders how much stank it's acquired after living on Shaw's head for at least twelve, maybe fourteen hours a day.

My tongue is heavy and wet in my mouth as I stare down at him spread out below me.

??? One's tongue should be wet...

pre-cum slicks my palm.

I find myself wondering sometimes if the cum-loving authors think it's posh, or educated to use the Latin word for "with" in place of come. I will admit that the "summa cum laude" tee shirt earlier in this tale gave me a snort-giggle. But mostly, my mind goes straight to some pimply, "Hukt on fonix wurkt fer me" dropout scrawling angry, hideously misspelled teen graffiti on bathroom stalls---or worse yet, some cro-magnon grownup version of same, scribbling his now-solidified hatred before going out to beat the crap out of someone smaller, weaker, and most of all, different from what he perceives, or wishes to perceive, himself to be.

“Don’t be,” I reassure him. “I want to hear it.” All of it. “Every dirty thought in your head. Stack ‘em all up and throw them at me. Hell, I’ve kinda wanted to say things too.” “Like what?” “Your sack is hot. I want to nuzzle it.” My brows rise. “Can I nuzzle it?”

Careful not to get your hat in the way...

“Here goes.” I step forward, and I brush my cockhead over those thick, reddened lips of his.

I'm going to say, for the second time (not this book): "thick" is simply not an attractive word to rescribe lips. Lush would be great. Thick is for dicks, or hair. As an adjective for lips it makes me think of Alfred Hitchcock.

“Did you hear Redgie got traded in a two-for-one deal with the Sharks?”

WTF kind of name is "Redgie"??? Reggie is short for Reginald. No "D" in Reginald that I've ever seen. I'm all for inventing unique names, but this is just silly.

We snuggle into his fluffy pillow.

Boy, this author has a real thing for Burkie's fluffy pillow. Okay, only seven mentions total in this story, but still. I'm barely past a third of the way through this book, and the number of attention arrestors is rapidly accumulating. Really difficult to get into the groove with tiny snags everywhere. Shame, because there are lovely bits here. The story is getting caught between all the fluffy, inconsequential details. (And cum.))

“That felt good with Les earlier,” he says. “Him knowing, I mean. Not necessarily about us, but about . . .” He swallows thickly. “I think I want to come out.”

Still prefer "swallows roughly" to "swallows thickly". The latter sounds kind of gross. Even if T.J. Klune, one of my fave authors, uses it. Even then.

smiling while he bounces on his toes, excited for me.

Ah. Add bounces to bouncing, the total goes up. 15 bounces plus 17 bouncing. This story's got a lot of bounce per ounce... edit: search book for bounce rather than bounces, and I get the total for both, which is 25. So, 25 plus 17. So, I guess she was aiming for the answer to the universe? Not sure it's in this story...

“So fuckin’ sexy,” he says. “Watching this black shaft slide into you. The way you clench.” He shutters, pre-cum flooding my tongue. “Your beautiful ass spread for me.”

Shudders? Is this author one of those who's learned how to spell (or not) from listening rather than reading?

I grit my teeth, struggling to stave off back the release that’s starting to crest,

Stave off back? Need to remember to check if author thanks any proofreaders, because if there were any, they should get a quick knock on the noggin.

Lacey wearing her white shrimp boots with unicorns drawn in blue Sharpie all over the sides.

Author is also really into the Sharpie art: on boots, jeans, skin...

She’s leaving him? I stare at her, completely clueless about what to say. But I get a hopeful flutter in my stomach. She’s actually leaving him?

Booyah!! Go, Mom, go! As my daughter told me when I said I was thinking of divorce (after she had escaped to college, then life in another state): It's such a good feeling to not always be wrong.

We don’t let up until he bares down in his orgasm,

Okay, yeah, author doesn't know their homophones, and neither do the proofreaders, if any. It's bear, not bare.

“So you’re coming back here after Montreal?” He itches under the edge of his hat and bounces his knee some more. “All alone?”

Itching instead of scratching, and I swear fucking Tigger doesn't do this much bouncing. Add some misdone homophones, and my least-favorite non-word for semen, the shit cherry topping it all off. This could have been a pretty good story (there's still the college-age dude-bro party BS detracting a bit), but any story that breaks my groove this often is going to lose stars, and most likely any followup reading of that author (plus a lot of caution regarding recs from the reader who raved over it).

He’s just standing there like normal. Like I’ve seen my best friend stand a million times. But, jeez, he strikes me as he sets his forearms on the ledge, his brown eyes stacked full of thoughts.

I freaking love kissing Burkie. The softness of his lips, the sweep of his tongue against mine as he backs me up against the ledge. Can’t believe I used to avoid kissing. But then, I’d never kissed a Burkie before.

Our eyes meet. Breaths shallow. Heat swells in my throat. Being inside him is so fucking emotional. Like we’re both exactly where we should be. And, shit, I have to hold back some kind of a sob. It’s relief and satisfaction and hot-edged need all wrapped together. It’s so much.

Gah. How can lyrical and "cum" exist in the same story? If you're going for crass, vulgar shock value, fine. Cum heads the list of available words to achieve that goal, at least in my head. Use ANY other word. "Jizz" is less offensive. But if you're getting into sweet emotional territory, the three-letter non-word version of come absolutely ruins it IMO.

We both start to move, desperation and need tangling together, our rhythm feeling like this innate pulse resonating between us. Something so far beyond what I ever thought sex could be. Hell, I thought I knew what sex was. I didn’t. It’s the entire world folded down to him.

We’re snuggled under a sleeping bag with a hushed morning light seeping in through the glass balcony door.

Can't decidevif this is wonderful or ridiculous---and is this the same closed sliding glass door that had freezing air somehow creeping under it earlier in this chapter grouping? I grant, a sliding glass door isn't the best insulator against the cold overall, but air shouldn't actually blow under the door when it's closed.

“Damn, we’re cute,” I say as we stare at the picture. “But we should talk about Insta.” “Alright.” He trails the tip of his nose into the side of my neck, lighting goosebumps. “What about?” I clear my throat. “There’s been a suggestion that it might be obvious we’re snapping bed frames and giving each other cockrings in non-platonic ways.” “Can you give a cockring in a platonic way?” He laughs, his breath tickling. “Maybe that should be our next offering for the team. Wolfpack cockrings.”

I flip back to the photo I just took. We look so content, our hair mussed, our eyes sleepy, a satiated Burkie-is-cupping-my-junk smile on my face. We look happy. I want to share that. “It’s more up to you.” He squeezes my junk carefully. “It’s your Instagram.” “It’s both of our futures on the Wolfpack.” I pause. “And maybe the NHL.” It’s gotta be hard being out in the NHL. Even if you do find a team that’s cool, that doesn’t stop the digs that you’d get on the ice from other players. Or from fans. Or from who-the-fuck-ever feeling like they have a right to comment on your life.

Sorry, but really. If you want to not have strangers weighing in on your private life, you shouldn't toss it out there on social media. Not to say that I approve of trolls, but you know there are assholes who just live to shit all over whatever turns their particular hate crank. It would be lovely if folks could just pass on by if what they see isn't hurting anyone, but it's not real life. If you can't handle the inevitable haters, don't air it in public.

“Jeez, I missed you,” I say. “Like a whole freaking lot. And when I was lying there in your bed—by my lonely-ass self—I thought about how I want people to know that I miss you. That you’re important to me.” His eyes rove around my face. “I want them to know too.”

Okay, good. An aware, informed decision, with realization that there may well be serious negative (potentially, planned-career negating) consequences following this statement post. Considering how much unnecessary verbiage this author drags into this tale, I'm really curious about how this will end.

We went on a night-time walk around the Butterfly Haven, the little creatures flitting all around us.

Eh? Really? Though butterflies were creatures of the daylight hours?

I scratch at the scruff on my jaw, staring

Holy flying pigs--- author actually does know the word scratch. So why doesn't she use it in all the other bazillion places where she improperly uses "itch"?

Standing right here and hugging me back with all his strength. I sniffle, tears slipping out and rolling down my cheeks. “I don’t know why I’m always crying around you. I’m always feeling so much. Like it’s leaking out all over, and jeez . . .” I hiccup on my words. “I can’t hold it in.” “Don’t. Don’t hold it in.” His arms lock harder. “I love you back. With everything I have. Like fuckin’ everything.”