“Gee, thanks,” I say, pursing my lips to hold back the chuckle that wants to escape.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Lola winces. “There’s tons of stuff close to us. We should hit some galleries and shows. Maybe go to a local concert.” She chews on her bottom lip, narrowing her eyes like she’s gauging my mood. “Catch a hockey game.”
My palms go clammy and my heart picks up speed. Somehow, I’m simultaneously warm all over and chilled to the bone. “Lols.”
“Just saying, Inds. You came here to be close to him. It’s not like you’d have totalkto him.”
Could I do that? Be in the same building with him?
I’ve followed his career religiously since he was in college. I’m no stranger to his stats or the way his face has grown more angular and defined as he’s aged. Every time he’s been linked with some beautiful woman or other, I brace myself for the day the headlines proclaim that he’s found the person he wants to settle down with. I’ve mostly desensitized myself to all of it.
But could I sit in the same building as him and remain desensitized? Or will all the feelings I ran from ten years ago crash into me with the force of a runaway train?
“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
three
SEBASTIAN
Tryingto wrangle my drunk teammates is like herding cats when their wives and girlfriends aren’t around.
“Griffin. No one wants to see the bruise on your ass. Please do not pull your pants down. I really don’t want to bail you out of jail tonight.” Pinching the bridge of my nose when our first-line left-wing pouts like a disappointed toddler, I shove him down onto the padded seat of the booth, grateful when he stops trying to unbutton his dress pants.
I understand why they’re all letting loose—we had a solid win tonight, and the past few weeks have been crazy stressful, what with our right-wing, Logan’s, girlfriend and her little brother almost trapped in an apartment fire set by his stalker, moving them in, and everyone having to make statements with the police—but I don’t think public nudity was what the ladies had in mind when they suggested we enjoy a guys’ night without worrying about driving home.
They’re planning to pick us up from the bar, not the police station.
“Don’t be uptight, Bashy,” Griffin says, his voice louder than normal thanks to the alcohol. “You’re being very dad-like tonight. We need to get you laid, bro.”
I close my eyes and bang my head on the back of the booth, tired of this conversation. Griffin means well, I know he does, but it’s not as simple as needing to get laid. Especially when I’m the only responsible one at the moment. Which isn’t uncommon. “I’m good.”
I’m no saint, despite their teasing. When you’re a professional athlete, there’s no shortage of beautiful women willing to give you as much attention as you want, and I’ve taken advantage of that plenty of times. Not to the degree that Logan and Griffin used to before they met their women, but I’ve never gone this long without sex.
Watching my best friends fall in love, get engaged and married, and go from enthusiastic bachelors to men excited to go home to their partners seems to have put the final nail in the coffin of casual sex for me. Because I want what they have. At one point, I thought I’d found it. Now, I’m not sure it’s in the cards for me, and I’m tired of the whole game.
Ryder, one of our defensemen, props his elbow on the table and leans his chin on his palm. “I bet Lexi and the other ladies could set you up with someone.”
God, no. That sounds like torture.
“I’m good.” I’ll concentrate on the kids I always visit at the hospital and hockey. We’re on a hot streak, and I can’t afford to lose my focus. An off night for the rest of these guys means someone else scores or they don’t see as much ice time. An off night for me means pucks slip past my gloves and we lose games.
Maybe it’s better nothing is pulling my focus from the game.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
The buzzer soundsand red lights flash in the arena when Maddox sinks another shot, bringing the score against the Nashville Coyotes to three-zero, with only ten minutes left in the final period.
The guys have done a good job keeping Nashville’s shots on goal down, but they’re getting more aggressive as the game goes on. No one wants to lose with a zero on the board, and Nashville has had a rough season, so they’re feeling the pressure.
I’m fifteen shutouts away from breaking the existing Rogues’ record for highest lifetime regular-season shutouts, and I wouldn’t mind making it fourteen after tonight. Nashville doesn’t feel the same.
“Back the fuck off,” Ryder growls at one of the Coyotes’ wingers as he crowds the crease, getting way too close to the little blue box that makes up my territory. He’s been pushing the limit for most of the game, but as the clock ticks down, his skates get closer to the line.
The winger chirps something at Ryder that I don’t catch, because I’m too focused on watching the puck, then Ryder shoves the guy.
“Try it,” Ryder shouts, dodging the winger’s attempt to push him back before elbowing the guy in the ribs to get him away from the crease.
Tracking the biscuit, I scan the ice as the Coyotes get it past the neutral zone on my left. Ryder and our other D-man, Javier, are on them, and I ignore Nashville’s clingy winger as he sets himself up between the puck and me. Frustration bubbles in my veins when he gets in my line of sight, and I shift in the crease.
