“Nah, I’d rather head home and watch game tapes. I’ll be damned if I let Vancouver take the lead on us again.”
“Get your dick wet so you stop being so fucking uptiiiiight,” he groans dramatically. “We’ve been crushing it on the ice. Have some fun.”
I shrug. I’m only as good as the number of goals I score and, while I have nothing to worry about, I don’t want to get complacent. But I do need to get laid. I haven’t been with anyone since early summer which is. . . unusual. Maybe that’s why I have this pent-up irritation.
Signing my first NHL contract at twenty-one was the culmination of years of hard work. Being traded to the Ironhearts two years ago was a move I hadn’t anticipated making, but I’ve found my place with them.
All my focus has been on playing the game, leaving me with no desire for a relationship. Hockey has been my girlfriend, wife, and mistress for a long time. As for sex, while I don’t get around as much as Novak or some of the rookies, I fully enjoy the advantages of having a variety of women willing to offer a blowie or a quick fuck.
Lately, though, something is off. Year after year of meeting energetic groupies who want a piece of my dick and nothing else has started to feel. . .boring.Season after season of the same vapid flirtations have begun to lose their charm.
Fucking hypocritical of me to think this because, beyond an orgasm or two, I’m not interested in anything more either.
If anyone finds out I’m having such thoughts, they’ll be on my ass about getting old. Especially Novak. At twenty-five, his top goals seem to be getting a shutout record to put legends to shame—and sleeping his way through every city he steps foot in.
I’m nearing thirty, no longer a fresh-faced boy enamored by the side benefits of achieving fame. I know what most women I meet in crowded bars are looking for: a chance to score with an NHLer and bragging rights.
The fame-hungry bunny who declared she was engaged to Benny DuPont, the second line center, after one night of messing around,reinforced my wariness. All season after that, the team was on lockdown because of the bad press.
Fuck. That.
No orgasm is worthanykind of complication.
I made the mistake of assuming once someone’s interest was in me, not my jersey. The sting of broken pride when my offer of a date was rejected is not something I want to experience again.
Which is why, when I don’t pick up someone new, I have a fuck-buddy I rely on to blow off some steam.
Hada fuck-buddy.
I notice Kubanski, our rookie left-winger, grinning at his phone like a man making plans to get laid. Chloe and he hit it off, which means I’m back to self-service until I find someone who wants no commitment and plenty of orgasms.
It’s not like I haven’t tried going on dates but meeting someone organically while my face is splashed on billboards isn’t easy. Less common? That chemistry that keeps you wanting more.
It’s been years since I had a girlfriend. Not since Jenna. That relationship was an absolute shitshow. I don’t like dwelling on it, but the ugly truth is I wasn’t enough for her not to screw her boss during my absence.
Where Idofeel that sense of belonging is on the ice. That’s why hockey is my priority. I can measure my success by the number of points I get. By winning the Calder Memorial my rookie year. And the Art Ross trophy. Twice.
With my personal life, counting the number of women I’ve fucked somehow doesn’t give me the same satisfaction.
I grimace, vexed by the frustration strumming through me. Failure isn’t something I’m familiar with, but can I successfully maintain a relationship when hockey takes up so much of my time? I don’twantthe added responsibility of another person. Not right now, anyway.
If I’m missing a real connection, it’s nothing family time can’t resolve. Seeing them might be the reset I need because this unabating emptiness is annoying as fuck to live with.
Too distracted by my thoughts, I don’t hear Novak’s question. He leans in, a small smirk on his face.
“What’s got you so lost, Spuddy? Dreaming of a bunny you’d like to chase?”
Instantly, my mind turns to Alia.
“Hey, do you think Lennie knows the people who visit his bar?” I ask, referring to our friend who also happens to own Block on Wood.
Vega doesn’t look up from his phone but answers me anyway. “Probably. Why?”
“I’m curious about someone.”
He frowns, questions littering his expression as he finally glances at me.
“I met this girl,” I explain. “Kinda disappeared on me.”