The city of Las Vegas glitters outside the floor-to-ceiling window. It’s beautiful in a distant, stark way. I’m acutely aware of my aloneness.
Which I’m used to. Which I like. Most of the time I’m surrounded by people but when I’m alone I treasure that time. I don’t usually get lonely.
But right now I wish Marek were here.
My imagination takes flight, imagining us making out on this couch, then moving to the bedroom with its crisp white linens and thick pillows. Imagining sex with the blinds on the big window open and city lights spread out in front of us. Imagining Marek’s strong body moving over me. In my mind, Marek is the same kind of lover as he was tonight—attentive, confident, generous.
I roll my eyes at myself and stand. It was hard enough walking away from him without torturing myself by thinking of him. I need to be responsible. My team arrives in the morning to get set up, I have All Star events to attend, and then the game is at three o’clock, which means I have to be there earlier than that. I need to sleep.
The turn-down service has been here. There’s a chocolate on the pillow, ice in the bucket, and my humidifier is running in the bedroom. The desert air is dry and I have to stay hydrated. I grab a bottle of water, which I don’t keep in the fridge. I don’t need ice, either. I drink my water at room temperature to protect my vocal cords.
I strip out of my clothes and pad into the bathroom. It’s big enough for two—well, probably four, actually, not that I’m into that—and gleams with white stone floors and counter, white walls, and a huge mirror above the sinks that reflects the glitter of the strip from the big window, because it’s a corner suite and even the bathroom has a view. I don’t bother with the drapes; nobody can see in here.
I dutifully use my saline sinus rinse, which I faithfully do every night even though it’s not exactly pleasant, then wash my face and follow my skincare routine. I know it’s important to take care of my looks, but jeez, I’m only twenty-five. I don’t have wrinkles, never had acne, and sometimes I just want to fall into bed with my makeup on.
Sometimes I want to stay up all night getting railed by a hot hockey player.
When I’m in my pajamas, I climb into bed with my phone and slide down beneath the billowy duvet. I know it’s bad to look at my phone right before bed, but it’s another rule that annoys me. I try so hard to follow all the rules but sometimes it feels so constraining. As a kid, I wasn’t very self-disciplined, but my parents drilled it into me that I had to be if I wanted to succeed. And I’m working on it. It’s worth it to be able to achieve my goals. To do what I love and share my music with the world.
I know Marek can’t contact me. He doesn’t know my number and I’ve set Instagram so I don’t get message requests. But I go to his profile.
He follows me.
A smile pulls at my lips. I wonder when he started following me. Tonight? Or was he following me before?
I scroll through his meager posts, pausing at a video. It’s Marek taking a high school boy shopping for a suit for prom. It’s adorable.
There are a couple of pics of him on game day in a suit and tie and oh yeah, he looks good.
Shit, I’m never going to get to sleep. I’m excited and wide awake. I might as well have invited him up here. At least I’d be having fun.
3
MAREK
Is it awkward seeing Nikki the next day, after that scorching hot kiss and then her ditching me? Yeah. Fuck, yeah.
I spent an uncomfortable night replaying our entire interaction, fantasizing about her, and yeah, jerking off.
She comes on the ice with us in the warmup looking cute as a bug’s ear in leggings and a big jersey, skating around with a stick, shooting the puck in the net, and laughing. Why does seeing her like this make her so much hotter? I was already obsessed with her.
She catches my eye and flashes me a sly grin, then sends the puck sliding across the ice in my direction. I catch it and send it back, and we spend a few minutes passing the puck back and forth. I laugh like a loon and the awkwardness is gone. I skate over to her and rub my big glove on top of her head. “Sleep okay?”
“No.” She anchors her gaze to mine. “I slept like crap.”
I cock my head. “Me, too.”
I break the connection because the heat rising under my equipment could melt the ice beneath us and take off with the puck on my blade.
Team Kharchenko is up first, playing against Team Street. The stands are full of fans. Nikki’s behind the bench, cheering us on, praising us when we do something good.
“Good stick out there,” she tells D-man Hobbs, and when I assist on a goal she says, “Great one-timer for the tip in.”
It’s funny and cute, but also smart and I give her a big grin before sitting on the bench. This is more fun than I expected.
This isn’t a normal game; the intermission is actually a break between two games. This is when Nikki sings and we all stay on the ice to watch her. They set up a low stage on the ice with a lot of lights and I marvel at how fast and efficient they are. And this is probably nothing compared to a real concert.
She comes out on stage with her long hair down from the ponytail she wore earlier and she’s still wearing a hockey jersey, but holy hell, it’s a different jersey, like a dress, fitted to her curves and short enough that it barely covers her ass. She bounces around the stage in white sneakers, her legs toned and shiny. And she sings.
