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I close the gap between us until we are standing toe to toe. She smells like grown-up shampoo. I reach down and intertwine our fingers like I’ve seen Mr. and Mrs. Hayes do, and goose bumps rise on my skin, moving from my arms and onto my shoulders. This feels weird. Good weird.
She leans in and closes her eyes. I want to close my eyes too, but I’m afraid I’ll miss her mouth and kiss her nose or something. That would be awkward.
Holy smokes, I’m having my first kiss. Everybody says you remember your first kiss; I better make it good. At least I picked a cool person. I’m going to kiss Bridget. Bridget, who is smart and funny and brave and kind and pretty. Bridget, who has a nice family. Bridget, who knows my favorite cookies are snickerdoodles. My Bridget.
I lean in, close my eyes, and press my lips to hers. As our lips touch, my heartbeat picks up and my skin feels like it’s buzzing. Are all kisses like this? My whole body is warm and fuzzy inside... I keep my lips pressed against hers. How long am I supposed to do this for? One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi...RRRRIIINNNGGGGGG!
Fuck. I shoot up in bed at the interruption by my alarm. I’m disoriented realizing I’m no longer eight years old and about to have my first kiss. It’s that time of year when I have flashbacks of Bridget in my sleep, it always happens around the anniversary of her disappearance.
Super, my head is already pounding. What time is it? The sun is up, but I am not. The phone dings twice, alerting me that whoever called has left me a voicemail. It’s probably my mom, I wonder what she needs money for this time. I’m not ready to deal with her right now.
I fall back and roll over in the soft white sheets of my four-poster bed, and when I smell a saccharine perfume, I realize I’m not alone. I peek over with my right eye. Goddamn it. Now I have something else to deal with. I hate kicking out a woman—or women—in the morning. I don’t remember their names. I’m pretty sure the blonde is Nikki, and the other might be... Carly?
I sit up and swipe my hand down my face. I have to stop bringing home puck bunnies from the club. I keep telling myself this will be the last time, then I go out with the team and wake up next to more women. It’s real-lifeGroundhog Day.
To some men, this is probably the dream, but I’m over it. It’s the same routine every time: hit up the bar, have a few drinks, take home the women, give them a good time, blow my load, rinse and repeat. They’re empty fucks. A means to an end. I look over and there’s a tied-off condom tossed on the floor.Classy.At least I’m good about using protection. Rumor has it that bunnies tend to multiply quickly.
One girl stirs and rolls over, looking up at me. She’s cute. She looks up at me through her eyelashes.
“Last night was amazing... Lonan Burke.” She pops the K at the end and grins. There’s something in her teeth. I think she’s trying to stroke my ego by using my first and last name, but all I hear is,I don’t actually care about you. I just wanted to bag an athlete. I give a curt smile back—time to get this over with.
I hop out of bed, making a lot of noise and acting like I’m in a hurry. Thankfully, they get the hint and follow my lead. I’m relieved when they put their clothes back on. While one of them is finishing the ankle strap clasp of her ungodly high stilettos, the other reminds me I have her number and to call when I want to “party” again. Not if, when. I tell her I will.
I won’t.
“This yours, Carly?” I ask as I reach down to pick up her purse. She levels a glare at me and snatches it from my hand.
“Kayla,” she grits out.
I shrug. Whatever, close enough.
When their Uber arrives, I walk them to the elevator that opens into my entryway and say thanks for a “great” evening. They leave smiling. After a minute, I push the elevator call button again so I can ensure it’s empty and provide proof of their departure. I made the mistake of skipping that step once and found some chick trying to sneak back in. They need a code to get to the penthouse, but as long as they’re out of the elevator, I’m safe.
I hate this hollow feeling. It’s becoming a habit, a toxic cycle that seems to grow bigger by the lay. I’m tired of feeling used whenever I wake up with a woman. It can’t always be like this. A few of the married guys on the team seem genuinely happy. When will I settle down? Where would I even find someone who wants me for me?
This is it. I’m done with this lifestyle. I don’t want to do this anymore. And when I say it to myself this time, I mean it.
* * *
I get to the gym by ten and am out of there by noon. Starving, I swing by a local pizza place and pick up whatever they have that’s hot. I am well aware I eat like shit, but I cook like shit too, so there’s little motivation there. Coach keeps reminding me I need to get a better diet and work with the team nutritionists, but I won’t actually heed their advice. When I come off a workout, I just want whatever will replenish my calories and then get on with my day.
I eat two slices on the way back home and burn my tongue because I can’t wait the fifteen-minute drive. Like I said, hungry. My cell vibrates, so I fish it out of my pocket and am pleased to see Jack’s picture lighting up the screen. It’s an old photo he sent me of us playing pond hockey back in our junior high days. I love seeing it pop up every time he calls.
“Hey, man! Good to hear from you,” I answer as I hustle inside with my pizza box.
“You too. What’re you up to right now, got a minute?”
“For you, always.”
“I’m just calling to remind you about the nineteenth. Think you can swing it?”
“Yup, already checked the game schedule, all clear,” I assure him.
It’s kismet I haven’t ever had an away game on October 19 during my whole NHL career. Have I had to take red-eyes to make it back home the morning of? Plenty of times. But I won’t ever miss being with the Hayeses on the anniversary of Bridget’s disappearance.
“Awesome. Thanks, Burke, I know it’s not always easy for you to make it, but it means so much to Mom and Dad that you’re a part of it.”
“It means a lot to me too. Say, what are you doing this afternoon?”
