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The boys all nod in agreement, exchanging high fives and fist bumps. Liam walks over to me, wrapping his sweaty arm around my head. I throw a punch into his hard stomach, and he backs away, chuckling.
“You may be unstoppable on the ice, but your tongue needs work. You kind of suck at giving speeches, Dom,” Josh remarks, walking backward to his locker. He’s got a stupid grin on his face, but I know exactly how to wipe it off.
“That’s not what your sister said to me last month. She thought my tongue was exceptional.”
A few of the guys snicker, but none of them speak up. Josh’s eyes shoot daggers, and his face turns crimson against his dark complexion. I bite my tongue, attempting to stifle my laughter.
“Fuck you, we agreed you wouldn’t bring that up again.”
I lift my hands in the air, pretending to surrender. “You were the one who told me it was okay to date her.”
“I don’t want to fucking hear about it,” he spits out, hands balling up at his sides. “Especially since your second profession is being a manwhore.”
A part of me really wants to tell him how much his older sister begged me to fuck her. How she basically clawed at my pants so she could suck my dick, but he’s a friend and my teammate so I hold my tongue. He was okay with me dating her, mostly because she told him if he got involved, she would never speak to him again.
Even though I did warn her from the beginning that I don’t date. I fuck once. It’s a hard rule, and there are no exceptions for anyone.
Ever.
They scratch that itch, can tell everyone they slept with a hockey player, and I get to get off without using my hand. Win-win for everyone. I don’t date because I don’t have time and because there is no room in my life for attachments. Besides, I’m not interested. There is no challenge or real desire, just the need to have some fun. The women always approach me, and I set out my conditions up front. A lot of them actually don’t even want to date me. Why would they? I have a reputation, and they don’t want their hearts broken. Which works out perfectly for me.
Let them think what they want about me. I prefer that, actually. Even if it’s not who I am; even if, deep down, I ache for something I’ll never have again. I’d rather remove the emotion from the act entirely. I’m comfortable there even if it might sound horrible. I just don’t have the desire or time for relationships.
Josh calling me a manwhore should sting, especially when his tone has a bite to it, but I don’t give a shit. I want them to think that about me. Let them believe I’m the cold-hearted captain who gets shit done. The opinions other people have about me are none of my concern, especially when I’m standing at the top.
“Noted.” I look Josh dead in the face as I walk past him, heading for the showers. Anger radiates off his body, but I pretend like it doesn’t phase me.
And honestly, a part of me doesn’t really give a shit what he thinks. We’re all consenting adults, and if I want to fuck his sister and she wants to fuck me, then so be it. If he has a problem with it, he should take it up with her. The no-sister rule has only ever been a non-negotiable with one person in my life, and she belongs in the past now.
Stepping into the elevator, I enter the passcode for Aaron’s penthouse suite. My gaze drops to the floor, reflecting my own image back at me. It’s a four-by-four, floor-to-ceiling mirrored box, which currently frustrates me because at times, I can’t stand the sight of my own face. I clench my teeth, fighting the urge to shatter the glass before me. Sometimes, I just want to escape from the judgments people pass when they see me and from the image I continue to project into everyone’s minds: the NHL’s all-star, the player with a stone heart, here for a good time but never a long time.
I've meticulously crafted the facade of a professional man known for his flings, indifferent to anyone but himself and hockey. Yet, despite the effort to build this reputation, why does it occasionally repel me? Especially when I’m alone and caged in, surrounded by mirrors reflecting my own image—mocking and challenging me. Reminding me how I don’t quite belong.
Josh’s words from today replay in my head, twisting and turning until there is nothing left. I shake my head, the damp curls brushing against my neck and cheek as I physically swat away the negative thoughts. I envision them as if on an Etch A Sketch, watching the letters gradually fade away.
They’re just words.
They mean nothing.
Forcing my thoughts back to the present, I take in the smudge-free mirrors surrounding me and the pristine floor. How is the floor not even scratched after four years of constant use? It can’t be glass, or the constant scuff from shoes and boots would have scratched the shit out of it.
Seventeen Hudson Yards is still one of the most sought-after apartment buildings in Manhattan. The entire building is known for its sweeping panoramic views high above the city. Depending on how deep your pockets go, you can see the Hudson River, the Statue of Liberty, or the Empire State and Chrysler buildings all from here. Each side of the apartment building was designed so residents could enjoy whichever view they could afford. Aaron gets to see the entire city light up every single night because the penthouse is wrapped in floor-to-ceiling windows, offering an unparalleled panoramic view of the metropolis. He told me it gives him the sensation of being on top of the world, as if he owns it. And Aaron loves that feeling.
If anyone deserves the title of being king in this building, it’s him. He works harder than anyone I know. Nothing was or has ever been handed to him. Even when his parents offered to buy him a car or pay for college, he worked to earn it. I have so much respect for my best friend. He inspires me to push harder every day and become better at my own game.
Tristan and I live three floors down from Aaron, facing the Hudson River. And my commute to Madison Square Garden—the world’s most famous arena and home to the New York Slashers—is a nine-minute walk from this building. Hudson Yards is quickly becoming a premier, sought-after location. According to Aaron, it’s currently the hottest spot in New York City.
Living near my two best friends is the icing on the cake. Aaron scored Tristan and me a fantastic deal at Seventeen Hudson when they began selling units, and it just made sense for all of us to live nearby, given how much we see one another and the business ventures we’ve started together. With the demanding schedules we maintain, free time is a rare commodity, so being neighbors has been a game-changer. Our proximity allows us to spend our time wisely, and we actually get to hang out once in a while too, like tonight.
Aaron might be a hot-shot realtor in the heart of New York City, but what I respect most about him is that he doesn’t let it go to his head. He’s consistently stayed grounded, and I doubt any sum of money could change that. Regardless of how ambitious we are or how successful we become, Aaron and I try to hold on to our humility and remain tethered to our roots. We will never forget where we came from and what it took to get here.
Leaning my six-five frame against the back of the elevator, I finally muster the courage to look up, straightening my sore back muscles. My eyes crawl upward, catching on my washed-out jeans and gray hoodie. I’m usually in hockey gear or suits for games, so any opportunity to dress comfortably is a welcome one. A hint of black ink adorns my neck, winding down my veiny forearms. I began with a few tattoos years ago, but the addiction has only grown. I only visit the shop when there’s something truly worth inking onto my body, and I doubt the well of ideas will ever run dry.
My shaggy black hair is damp, the top curling over my forehead and occasionally brushing into my eyes. The first thing I’m doing after the playoffs is getting a damn haircut. One deep-blue eye and one pale-hazel eye stare back at me. My mismatched eyes often throw people off; one is dark, the other light. It tends to make people uncomfortable, and no one usually holds eye contact with me for too long. I don’t take offense to it; I know it’s an unusual trait. Even my own father couldn’t stand to look me in the eyes, and he often wondered why I had heterochromia when no one else in our family did. He would accuse my mom of cheating, and as I grew older, those comments pissed me off more and more. He was always a fucking dick to her.
I love my mismatched eyes. They’re the one thing I genuinely appreciate about myself. It’s as if my own body couldn’t make up its mind and decided to take one of each. This uniqueness sets me apart, and I’ve never had any interest in blending in.
Dark circles mar the skin under my eyes, evidence of sleepless nights and grueling hours at the rink, compounded by restless evenings with different women. It’s beginning to take a toll on my body, and with playoffs fast approaching, I can’t afford to let anything slow me down. I’ll have to slow down on the partying, at least until hockey season is over.
