But now, there's an unforgettable drug test added to the list.
Pushing myself out of bed, tomorrow's game creeps to the forefront of my mind, but I'm not worried about the Gladiators. They were in the middle of the pack last season—not much of a threat. It's the perfect game to kick us off—to set the tone. Get in, show out, and remind G.C. who the hell I am, then ride that wave into the rest of our schedule.
I'm halfway between my bed and my master bathroom when my phone vibrates in my hand. Looking down, I see the incoming number and immediately throw the device back onto the mattress.Nope. Not today.
My dad calls every so often, his way of making sure he's still a voice inside my head. Usually it comes before a big game and goes something like this:
"Hey, champ. Big game coming up. You ready?"
Like always, I'll respond,"Yeah, Dad, I'm ready."
Then comes the unsolicited advice or insight—"Remember, their goalie favors his left side." "Don't forget to keep your feet moving." "Try not to get caught on a long shift like you did last game."
I'll nod along, either agreeing or complying—whatever it takes to end the conversation—and he'll sign off in his typical manner."This is your game, champ. You're a star. Don't let them forget it."
Only whatheforgets is that stars don't shine. They fucking burn.
I thought when I finally made it to the NHL, he might ease up. This is what he trained me for since I was three and first stepped onto the ice. But now, instead of reminding me of what I'm working toward, he just likes to make sure I don't overlook everything I have to lose. And lately his motives are even more loaded.
I'm not sure when playing professional hockey becamemydream. Or if it ever really was. Mom always reminded me of therealreasons I was playing the game—have fun, meet friends, make myself proud. But Dad was quick to follow up with reminders of his own—stay focused, train hard, don't waste the gift I was given. Unfortunately, those first few weren't beaten into my head for as long as the others.
I glance in the mirror, and a light pink patch of bruised skin right above my collarbone stands out. "Fucking hell," I say, leaning into the glass for a closer look.
I didn't realize Maddie—Mandy?—went so hard last night before I left. Twisting around, I glance back at my reflection. Faint claw marks trail down my spine, and I blow out a breath. She was hot, but not brand-me-before-my-first-trip hot. Fine enough to let off some pregame steam with an added bonus of helping to get Jane off my case.
My P.R. manager, who to no one's surprise was pushed on me by my dad, makes it a point to keep me in the headlines. To keep me on the fans' radar and hold up my image. In fact, that's exactly what she was hired to do—take my rookie self, who spent his life in a hockey rink instead of with friends or girls, and make him "worthy" of my contract.
It was simple, really. What guy just starting out in the league doesn't want to become the face of a franchise? To fuck beautiful women, drink in penthouses, and say exactly what's on their mind? Soon, though, that transferred onto the ice as well. You can't only wear the mask half the time. But as time went on, the novelty of all of it faded until I stopped wanting to do any of it.
Spinning back toward the mirror, a memory springs to mind. My mystery girl. The only one that's left an impression. It's been so long, but it feels like yesterday. I wonder if she remembers me—if that night left any sort of mark on her the way it permanently inked itself on me.
Besides the fact that she was fucking breathtaking, she was also the only girl that's stuck with me in a blur of other hookups. The only one who was more than an hour of relief. The only one who treated me like an actual human being.
Everyone wants Drew Anderson—hockey star and bad boy. They want a thrill or to check me off their bucket list, only caring that they have a story for their damn group chat. They want the hair, the tattoos, the chain—the image. They don't wantme.
But she seemed different.
Gripping the sink on either side of the porcelain, I picture her legs sitting between my arms. Her chest heaving into mine as I wrap my hand around the base of her neck and pull her close.
Suddenly my bathroom smells like citrus, and her voice echoes inside my head.
"I wouldn't say Iknow you."
Yeah. She seemedreallyfucking different.
Wiping my face of the mental image I have of her straddling my torso, I push off of the sink. I crack my neck to both sides, then run a hand through my hair. Time to get moving. I've got a plane to catch.
There's nothing like the roar of the engine bouncing off the Golden City streets before an upcoming game. Cruising through the city, I always make sure to take my bike the long way to the arena. Something about the ride helps clear my head—no calls, no coaches, no cameras. The only pressure is from the weight of my bag on my back or my grip on the throttle as I weave through the morning's traffic.
My Ducati was the first thing I bought when I signed with the Flames. At this point she's a few years old, but I like her broken in. It's a machine—high performing, built for speed, perfect for pushing limits—a goddamn superbike. It's painted a sleek matte black, which attempts to conceal the power underneath, but there's no hiding all it has to offer. With its gold suspension bar as the perfect contrast, the whole design creates a tough image to cover the intricacy of the beast that lies beneath it.
The growl from the engine morphs into a high-pitched wail as I speed down the street—the roar mixing with tight crackles and snappy shifts that announce its arrival before you even see it coming. The Ducati's bold. Loud. Aggressive. It's not a sports bike—it's a fucking statement.
And that's exactly what I was going for.
Zipping through downtown Golden City toward the arena, the sun beats through my black warm up jacket, the perfect touch in the cool October air. I soak in the commute as I bend down the roads, whicharen't as busy as they might have been during rush hour. There are still plenty of people milling about—shopping, running, grabbing their mid-morning coffees. But the ease of the drive now is exactly what I need before a day like today.
I love this city. Always have. It's the perfect combination of small enough to feel like home but big enough for me to feel almost insignificant. With my helmet on, I'm just another city dweller rolling through the streets. No one knows if I'm off to throw on a ten-million-dollar jersey or push papers at my nine-to-five.
