“Hey, Boy Band,” I say casually, but somehow I feel embarrassed about being caught drinking alone.
He rolls his eyes at the horrible nickname the team gave him—insinuating he looks more like a goofy boy band member than an elite athlete. The moniker stuck like glue since he came up from the minors last year.
“Are you waiting for your wife?” he asks, and I realize I’m great at keeping secrets. The team doesn’t have a clue what’s going on—well, except for our goalie, Mitchell Lupo, whom I told outright because I crashed at his house when Ashleigh first asked me to leave.
“Nope. Just some alone time,” I reply with a forced smile. “You take it easy. We have practice early tomorrow.”
“Yeah, of course.” He nods and pays Vinnie, then hesitates. “You want to join? We’re at the back watching the Winterhawks game on the big screen.”
I think about it. Watching my brother Jordan’s team play and hanging out with some teammates is definitely better than sitting alone stewing in my frustrations. I nod, hop off the stool and follow him back to the seating area with the TVs on the wall.
At the table are three other guys I play with: Todd Anderson, Zach Klaussner and Riley Adams. There are also three girls—all of them wearing too much makeup and not enough clothing. The boys all call out jovial greetings to me as I sit down at the end of the table next to Tommy and turn my eyes to the big screen against the far wall.
The Winterhawks are playing the San Francisco Thunder. The guys talk through the game. Tommy critiques the plays the coaches are calling. Zach makes snarky comments about the players, calling every single one of them a pussy. Riley explains the game to the girls—using layman’s terms and the salt and pepper shakers as makeshift players for visual cues. Halfway through the second, I watch Jordan deliver a solid hip check, sending a Thunder forward to the ice on his ass. Our table cheers and whistles its appreciation.
“I taught him that,” I joke cockily and they laugh. It feels good to have an authentic smile on my face. I order another round for everyone and add shots of tequila to the mix.
When I get up to take a leak between second and third period, one of the girls from our table is walking back from the restrooms. She smiles at me and licks her lips. “So you’re the captain of the team? That means you’re the best, right?”
I chuckle and shrug. “It means I’m one of them, I guess.”
“You look like you’re the best,” she says coquettishly and rests her hand on my shoulder. “At a lot of things.”
She drifts past me, continuing down the narrow hall and back to the table, her tight ass swinging under her short skirt. I feel my dick twitch in my pants. It’s not that I think she’s all that pretty, or that I’m actually attracted to her. It’s that I haven’t had sex in a long time. Way too long. Well before Ashleigh asked me to move out.
Back at the table I order another round and Tommy gives me a cautious stare, though he’s still smiling. “Garrison, you told me to take it easy, remember? I can’t take it easy if you keep buying rounds.”
I shrug. “You can handle it, Boy Band.”
In the dying seconds of the third, Jordan is battling for the puck in the corner. He gets it and makes a sloppy pass, which is intercepted by the Thunder’s biggest star, Theo French. French gets a shot off, which sails by the Winterhawks’ goalie but, luckily, hits the goalpost and stays out of the net.
“I didn’t teach him that,” I remark and the guys laugh again.
“You know him?” the eager blonde from the restroom incident asks me, leaning over to touch my arm.
“One of my brothers,” I reply and finish my beer.
“And he’s a professional hockey player too?”
“Yep.” I always find it amusing when a girl is so starstruck she wants to fuck a player of a game she knows nothing about. How does that happen?
This woman, whose name I don’t know, turns to me and lets her eyes sweep the whole length of my body without even trying to hide it.
“I’m from a hockey family too,” Riley says, obviously desperate to get her attention. “My dad played.”
She nods, her eyes never leaving me. “Are all your brothers dirty blond and beautiful, like you?”
I chuckle at that. “They’re all involved with someone—like I am.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t even attempt to hide her disappointment.
About an hour later I decide I should go. The game is long over and I’m pretty drunk. I decide to call an Uber so I can get home quickly. When I’m drunk, I can usually sleep through the night—something that hasn’t happened a lot since I moved out. So I don’t want the cool fall air or the long walk ruining this buzz. I use the app on my cell and lean against the brick building as I wait.
I smell her even before she reaches out and touches my hips. Her perfume is overpowering and sickeningly sweet. My eyes open and I find her standing inches from me, grinning.
“You look sad,” she announces and gives me a pouty bottom lip.
“I am,” I tell her honestly, because what can it hurt? I will never see her again and I don’t care what she thinks.
