ONE
WES
Vancouver is a beautiful city, but I can’t wait to leave it.
We’ve just finished the longest road trip on our schedule, and I cannot fucking wait to go home. Standing in a fancy hotel room overlooking the waterfront, I shake the tissue paper out of a shirt I just bought at the boutique around the corner. Since I’ve been living out of my suitcase for so long, I’m out of clean laundry. But this is a great shirt, and it looked at me as I passed the storefront on my way back from signing autographs at a charity luncheon.
I unbutton it and slip it on. In the hotel mirror, I check the fit, and it looks fine. Great, even. The cotton is a fine weave, and there’s a lime-green checked pattern shot through the fabric. It’s very British, and the lively color reminds me that it won’t always be February.
Now that my dress code includes a suit and tie three or four times a week, I’ve had to pay more attention to my wardrobe. In college I wore a suit maybe three times a year. But it’s no hardship because I like clothes. And the hotel mirror says they like me, too.
I’m a sexy motherfucker. If only the one person I care about was here to appreciate it.
Last night we obliterated Vancouver, and it’s not bragging to say that I was the reason why. Two goals and an assist—my best showing yet. I’m having the kind of rookie season that makes headlines. Though right this second I’d trade it all for a night in front of the TV with Jamie and a blowjob. I ambeat. Whipped. Knackered.
Luckily, all that’s left of this trip is one more ride on the team’s jet.
I grab my phone off the desk and unlock it. With the selfie cam, I shoot a picture of my abs, the shirt parted to reveal my six-pack, my hand over my crotch. It took me a while to figure out that Jamie has a thing for my hands. I swear he likes them more than my dick.
I send the picture. No commentary needed.
The hotel room gets one last glance, but I’ve packed everything. I’ve learned in a hurry not to leave charging cords and toothbrushes behind. We’re on the road so often that packing has become my new skill.
My phone vibrates with a text.Grrrr. Just get home, would you? I don’t need any pics. My poor lonely dick is so hard.
That reminds me of old vaudeville jokes. So I reply,How hard is it?
Hard enough to pound nails into our bare walls, he replies. It’s true that we haven’t exactly decorated our apartment. We both work a lot and there’s been no time.
But, as always, sex is a greater priority than home decor.Show me, I beg. There’s a reason I keep my phone locked down. Jamie and I like to indulge in some private photography.
He doesn’t answer, though. Maybe he isn’t at home. It’s afternoon in Vancouver, which means it’s later in Toronto… Fuck. I’m sick of doing this math all the time. I just want to go home.
I grab my suitcase and head downstairs. A few of the guys are already waiting in the lobby, just as eager to get home as I am. I wander over to where they’re standing.
“Jesus,” Matt Eriksson says as I approach. “My wife better be home and naked when I get there. And the kids had better be asleep. With, like, fucking earplugs in their little ears.”
Eight days is a long time, I inwardly agree. But I don’t say it out loud, because even though my teammates are great guys, I don’t engage in these discussions. It’s not my style to lie and pretend there’s a girl at home waiting for me. And I’m not ready to tell them who is. So I keep my own counsel.
Except Eriksson’s Nordic features have turned in my direction, and a goofy grin breaks out on his face. “Shit, my eyes! I think I’m blind.”
“Why?” I ask halfheartedly. Eriksson is always joking about something.
“That shirt! Jesus.”
“Seriously,” the veteran Will Forsberg says, laughing as he covers his eyes with one hand. “It’s so bright.”
“It’s sogay,” Eriksson corrects.
This comment doesn’t faze me in the least. “This shirt is Tom Ford, and it’s killer,” I mutter. “Bet you twenty bucks it shows up on the puck bunny blogs before the end of the week.”
“Attention whore,” Forsberg accuses. More than any of the other guys on the team, Forsberg eats up the media attention we get. When my mug started showing up on HockeyHotties.com, he didn’t appreciate the competition.
Joke’s on him, though. He can keep the entire population of puck bunnies.
“Just sayin’,” Eriksson presses, “you could do well in the bars on Church Street in that shirt.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “You know from personal experience?”
