"Are you still seriously going to milk that?' I question with a judgy arch of my eyebrow. "Coach Braddock isn't going to put up with that, you know? And neither is Dad. Dad had both wrists operated on one off-season and still beat his own goals record in the first two months back on the ice.”
Nash gets off his treadmill, bends, and puts his hands on his thighs, glaring at me. It's the type of glare that actually makes me feel like he's trying to incinerate me and might actually succeed. "You're a fucking dick."
“And you’re still out of shape,” I reply, unperturbed by his insult. I sip from my water bottle and walk over to the stretching area. I drop down on the mats and reach for my ankles. “You need to work double-time, Nash. I’m sorry but you know it’s true. We wanna repeat, don’t we? If we can win the Cup back-to-back we’ve done something dad hasn’t.”
Our father, Avery Westwood, has won the Stanley Cup a whopping four times, but never back-to-back. It’s not easy to find something he hasn’t done in hockey, so of course this is my new obsession. It should be Nash’s too. He wants to get out of our dad’s shadow as much as I do.
“The season hasn’t even started yet. We’re supposed to be here to chill out before it starts, so chill the fuck out, bro,” Nash grumbles. He has been super-pissy since… well forever. I don’t know what’s up his ass. I’ve been trying to give him space but it’s starting to annoy me too much. If he keeps it up, I’m gonna confront him.
I watch him grab his towel and water bottle and walk towards the gym doors with a slight limp. “You need to stretch.”
“I need ice for this fucking leg,” Nash snaps. “I’ll stretch in the suite, with ice.”
He disappears, leaving me alone in this big, fancy hotel gym. I sigh and continue to stretch. Nash and I used to be so close. We were the best of friends and the quintessential twins. We finished each other's sentences, we had inside jokes and could find each other without even looking on the ice. We were two peas in a pod.
I have to admit that started to unravel when I married Anne-Marie. Nash liked her when we were in high school and I first started dating her. Hell, even my parents liked her. But all three grew concerned when I popped the question at such a young age.
Nash and I spent our first year on the Los Angeles Quake living together, with Anne-Marie who unofficially moved in. I was fine with it. It irked Nash and my dad who said it looked bad. Yeah, live-in girlfriends were fine for other players but not for me. The son of hockey's golden child. So I proposed. I was in love, I don't deny it. I loved that woman with every fiber of my being. My very young, very naive, and very immature being. And once we were married, I would do anything to make it work. I did anything and everything, which is why it was so easy for her to rip my heart to shreds.
The distinct beep of a pass card at the door pulls me from my mental walk down Heinous Memory Lane. The door to the gym swishes open and this hot dude walks in. He's taller and fairer than I usually like, but he's built like a male fitness model. Lithe but with all the right ropey muscle in all the right places. He's not that tall. Probably just under my six feet, but he's got nice lips and a nice smile, which he's aiming at me.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Hope you don’t mind some company,” he says as he walks past me to one of the bikes lining the back wall.
I check out his ass. “Nah. The more the merrier. I’m just finishing up anyway.”
“That’s too bad.”
Okay, he's not dancing around things. I smile and he catches it in the mirror and smiles back, adding a wink as he climbs onto the Peloton. Yeah, he's interested. But I don't know who he is, or where he's from, or if he knows who I am. All of this has to be established before I hook up with anyone—male or female—which is why so far my male hook-ups have just been hockey players or those working in the NHL, like trainers or equipment managers.
"What brings you to Sin City?" he asks, and I push the heels of my feet together and lean over them to stretch out my groin.
“Partying with some friends from work,” I say vaguely. “You?”
“Medical conference.”
My eyebrows lift. “You’re a doctor?”
“Anesthesiologist.”
“You put people to sleep,” I say and he chuckles, our eyes meeting in the mirror again.
“Only when I have to, I promise,” he replies and his grin deepens as his pace on the bike picks up a little. “I am pretty good at keeping the right guy awake too.”
Shit. Is it Vegas that’s making him hit on me so brazenly or is this just his M.O.? Or is he fishing for something because he’s a reporter or fan who wants a story or a reel that gets him famous? Fuck, my dad has made me so fucking paranoid.
There’s another beep before I can figure out how to respond to the guy. In walks a woman. She’s young. Like my age, or younger. She’s got the most incredible body I have seen in a long time. On a woman. It’s wrapped in a white and pink cropped lycra top and matching capri leggings. Her brown hair, which isn’t very long, is separated into two little ponytails at the base of her neck. Her skin is pale and dusted with freckles. Her eyes are wide and brown and there’s not a lick of make-up decorating them, but they sparkle.
She stops short upon entry. Looks at the guy on the bike. Look at me. I shoot her a smile. She looks at her feet before she can catch it though. I swear she's about to turn right around and leave. But she takes a deep breath, shoves her earbuds into her ears, and marches past me. There's a boxing station in the corner of the gym and she goes right over there.
I watch her as I move into the downward dog yoga pose, to stretch some more. She starts putting on the gloves as she reads the instructions for the machine on the wall. It reminds me of a giant Simon Says game. There are large pads in different colors. You are supposed to hit the one that lights up. The machine gives you a different sequence to punch depending on the workout you select. She's reading the instructions with a furrowed brow like she's really concentrating. She's even hotter in profile with a long, elegant neck and sharp cheekbones.
“You said you’re here for work?”
Right. Hot guy is still here. I turn to look at him again. He’s lifted his butt off the seat and is cycling hard now but he’s barely out of breath. “I’m here with co-workers, but not for work. We are blowing off some steam before we… head into another long hard quarter.”