Page 21 of Hot As Ice

I’ve had pretty bad insomnia since I was a kid. It either takes hours for me to fall asleep, or, if I do fall asleep quickly, I wake up at least once or twice throughout the night, unable to fall back asleep. It’s hell. Sleeping pills don’t help. Meditation doesn’t help. Deep breathing exercises don’t help. I’ve tried it all.

“Sorry, man,” Jamie says, and I shrug. “How was the gallery opening?”

“Fucking stupid.”

“What about your date? Did you fuck her?”

I bark out a laugh. “Not even close. My dad cockblocked me real good.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. Gave me the whole ‘beware of gold diggers’ speech.”

“Oh, fuck that.”

“I know.” Jamie has generational wealth, the son of a finance tycoon. He spends his money freely. He might even be a little too generous. But he always quips that he’s not going to be able to take the money with him to the grave, so he might as well spend as much as he can while he’s alive.

“Don’t let it get to you, man. Just ask her out again.”

I nod. I was planning on it, under the guise that Stevie still owes me. Maybe once I scratch that itch, she’ll finally get out of my head. Maybe she’ll be a boring ass lay and I’ll lose interest like I always do. There’s only one way to find out.

Jamie nudges me with his shoulder. “I’ll race you back,” he says, and takes off.

JAMIE AND RYDER drag me to Finnegan’s later that night.

We sit at our usual booth. Several girls make a beeline to us as soon as we sit down. One of them puts her hands on my shoulders from behind, massaging them and whispering in my ear that she wants me to fuck her brains out tonight. I shrug her off.

“We shouldn’t be here,” I tell my friends. “We have practice bright and early.”

Jamie shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “That’s 12 hours from now.”

“Yeah, don’t be such a fucking buzzkill, man,” Ryder adds. “You’ve been acting off all day.”

I suppress a sigh. Yeah, I know I’ve been off all day. I just didn’t realize I was doing such a shit job of hiding it. I sip on my Coke and scan the bar while Jamie and Ryder go over last week’s game.

“You need to get less penalties. Every time you’re in the box, it costs us,” Jamie tells Ryder, who rolls his eyes. Ryder is a defenseman and a hothead. He ends up in the penalty box at least twice per game, and, yeah, it’s cost us the whole game before.

“I don’t give a shit. Play better when I’m not there,” Ryder says.

“That’s what I’m talking about, man,” Jamie counters. “You’re not being a team player lately.” He looks at me for backup. As the captain of the team, it’s up to me to keep other players in line. A role I sometimes resent.

“Can you at least keep it to one penalty per game?” I ask Ryder. He has a lot of shit to deal with at home, and hockey has always been the number one outlet for him. It’s how he gets his anger and aggression out.

Ryder rolls his eyes again. “I’ll try,” he says grudgingly.

“Thanks.”

Jamie throws his hands up. “You better not fuck it up for us on Friday. We’re up against Greenwood.”

Ryder gets up. “I’m gonna get another beer.”

Jamie leans in across the table and glares at me. “You know he’s becoming a liability, right?”

“I’ll talk to him later,” I say. “This isn’t the place or time.”

Jamie slumps back against his seat. “Fine.”

Jamie’s one of the most competitive people I’ve ever met, and that’s really saying something. He hates to lose. A single loss can put him in a fucked-up mood for days. He’s one of the best passers in the league. I don’t know how he does it, but he somehow manages to get the puck through the slimmest of openings. He also rarely gets aggressive, in direct contrast to Ryder.