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Coach stands beside his desk, brows furrowed, arms crossed tightly, as if he’s repressing the urge to lash out at me right here and now.
“This isn’t true. I’ve never made anyone feel unsafe. I’m very adamant about consent and making sure everyone is willing and comfortable before anything happens.”
“Does it fucking matter? It looks bad, and it’s getting unnecessary negative attention.”
There are tons of photos and videos of me with various women. In clubs, at parties, a dark photo of me licking a girl’s neck in the back of a cab. Screenshots of the two girls messaging me. A video of one of them speaking out about me. The caption reading, “Dominik Lewis is a prick and hates women.”
I shoot up and out of my chair. “Listen, Coach, I swear none of this is true. I don’t hate women.”
He whips his ball cap off, throwing it on top of the desk as he runs his hand over his bald head. His wrinkles crack in the corners of his eyes as he shoots daggers at me. The man is ready to murder me right here. I’ve never seen him this worked up, not even when we’re losing a game. Coach is usually the definition of calm. Even if there is a war breaking out inside him, he’s great at hiding it.
“It’s all right there, Dominik. You can’t fight it. Even I can’t fight it. I’ve notified our PR team to try to take it down, but it’s spreading like wildfire. They’ve advised me to just let it sizzle out, but we need to do something to cover our asses. This doesn’t look good for the team. Especially before playoffs.”
Shit, shit, shit.
I have worked too hard to get here just to lose it all over something like this.
“What can I do?”
“You can start by keeping your dick firmly in your pants.”
Pressing my chin to my chest, I feel nothing but shame to be where I’m sitting, holding the position of captain on the team and getting reamed out for sleeping around like a careless asshole. So many guys sleep around. It’s easy to get women when you are an athlete with deep pockets, but I guess most people cover their tracks and stay within the lines. I got clumsy.
“I’m sorry, Coach. This is embarrassing. It’s always been?—”
Coach cuts me off, his voice bellowing in the small office. “I don’t give a shit about any of that, Lewis! You’re my best player, and I can’t have you pulling this kinda crap. If I have to trade you or bench you, it’s going to cost us the Cup. Fix your fucking shit!”
He’s right. This is unacceptable.
“I will, promise.”
He approaches me. His anger seems to be ramping up, despite my promise to rectify the situation. Coach isn’t exactly short; he stands around six feet, maybe six one. However, with my six-five stature and build, I usually tower over most people. I’m aware Coach despises this, so I keep my focus fixed on the wall. He thrusts a finger into the center of my chest.
“You fucking better, because the trade deadline is fast approaching, and I’m not losing my best player because he likes to get his dick wet by an endless lineup of women. I don’t care what you have to do, Lewis. Fix it and fix it now.”
I nod while desperately trying to hide my smirk.
“The fuck are you smiling at?”
Tilting my face away, I turn and grab my coat from the back of the chair. He wasn’t meant to see that, but maybe I can lighten the mood a bit.
“Sorry, Coach, but I have to take a win where I can. You said I’m your best player.” Turning around, I hope to see him crack a smile, but the man is unimpressed. Instead, he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Read the damn room, Dominik.
“Get the fuck out, and don’t make me drag you back into this office ever again.”
Don’t have to tell me twice.
Storming down the empty hallway, I wrack my brain, pulling up every night and random memory, trying to figure out where I went wrong. Who I pissed off so badly that it warranted an entire online thread which has bled over to other social media platforms. I’m not the first hockey player, nor will I be the last, to fuck for sport. We all get a lot of attention, and there is nothing wrong with that. Women love us, and we love them. So why am I getting blamed for something that has always been consensual? I take my time laying out the rules, making sure the women are always comfortable, and by the time we’re done talking, they’re basically begging me to fuck them.
Another hard rule I never break is the no-kissing rule. I haven’t kissed any other woman on the lips since Zoe at the masquerade ball six years ago. It just never felt right, and after Zoe, it made sense to leave it out when it came to sex. It also establishes a clear boundary with the women I choose to share my bed with, or so I thought. Turns out my efforts were futile.
I have a thing for quiet, submissive women, and maybe that’s where I went wrong. Because a lot of the time, they want more, and that’s not something I’m interested in.
This is completely my fault. I should have been more careful and calculated in the women I chose, and I should’ve spaced out my rendezvous. It doesn’t even matter at this point. There is no way to go back, and the only thing left to do right now is learn from this and figure out a way to shut down the rumors.
But how the hell do I do that? No one is going to listen to me.
