Then I played a game that Mandy didn't show up for, so the team ended up at a local bar afterward. It felt freeing to walk in and see all the chicks eye-banging us. The attention went straight to my head. Wanted. Desired. Invincible. It was fantastic.
But as everyone loosened up, the phoniness hit me. Girls were hanging all over me, but their smiles were meant for my wallet.
"You buying, handsome?" one of them asked as she slid onto my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck. She didn't even know my name. It didn't matter. She ordered a forty-dollar appletini without even confirming if I was paying. Before I knew it, I was covering drinks for an entire table. A shot here, a cocktail there, and suddenly I was the bank for a bunch of drunken women, and the girl wasn't even on my lap any longer, but in the corner making out with another chick.
Behind me, the group whispered loud enough to catch every slurred word.
"Yeah, they're in the NHL. They're loaded."
"That's right," another chimed in, giggling, "Last time I went out with a sports celebrity, it was a two-month party. He showered me with gifts. See these diamond earrings? Play your cards right, girls, and we'll be rolling in the dough."
The way they laughed and watched me, like I was their puppet, set my teeth on edge. That was when I realized I was just a dollar sign to them.
I went in expecting excitement. Easy fun. Instead, it was all transactional. They wanted things, not me. Honestly, I could've called an escort service, and it would've been more straightforward. Every attempt at a so-called casual encounter ended the same way, leaving me disappointed, frustrated, and completely speechless at the girl's sheer audacity. No chemistry. No spark. Just "give me, buy me, get me."
It was too muchwork.
Mandy began to follow me everywhere. I'd show up at an afterparty, and then she'd appear. Always there, hovering. Watching. At least it helped ward off the vultures who used me as an ATM. But the novelty wore thin. The attention, the looks, nothing sparked anything in me.
Now, I find myself thinking about my wife more and more, which leads to drinking. I can't even stomach the thought of another woman. At least not until I'm completely wrecked. And even then, it feels a bit forced and mechanical. Not even scratching an itch anymore, just doing it because it once felt important to me. If I admit to myself that I was wrong, where would that leave me? Possibly having destroyed my marriage for nothing that mattered in the end.
No. Melly loves me. When the season is over in April, we'll close this chapter, and everything will go back to the way it used to be. I've definitely gotten this out of my system, and Melly will be waiting at home with open arms.
I look at Mandy asleep next to me. This doesn't feel like freedom. It feels like I'm trapped, smothered.
A slow, sick realization settles in my gut.
I didn't just open the door.
I let something in.
The room spins as I sit up suddenly. My thoughts begin to settle, so I swing my legs off the bed and grimace. My head pounds as the floor tilts beneath me.
I hear Mandy sigh behind me. "Morning, Baby."
Don't call me that.
I don't say anything out loud. I stare at the floor, realizing a brutal truth I've been avoiding for months.
I opened my marriage because I got too comfortable in something perfect, thinking it was boring. Instead of cherishing what I had, I got greedy. I wantedmore.
And I gotmorethan I bargained for. Mandy is everywhere, hanging off my arm, clinging to me in bed, crowding my space. We don't even have sex anymore. Not that I can remember if we do. I don't acknowledge her at all unless I'm too intoxicated to stand.
But she's not more. She's not better, she's smaller—not physically, but… you know, shallow. Smoke trying to pass as fire, pretending to have substance. She doesn't.
I stagger to the bathroom, the cold tile under my feet shocking me into awareness. The mirror reflects a version of me that Melly wouldn’t recognize. Bloodshot eyes. Stubble that looks scruffy instead of attractive. Regret carved into every line of my face.
I undress and toss my clothes in the corner. I turn on the shower and step under the stream, letting the waterpound my back as if it could knock some sense into me.
Like a loop, my brain is on repeat, and I bang my head on the wall. This is not what I signed up for. The reality didn't match fantasy, that's for sure. It's awkward conversations with strangers who only want free drinks or a story to tell their friends, and Mandy, who feels like a rope around my neck that's tightening. That's not fun, it's punishing.
Now she's pushing to spend Christmas with me and meet my parents. As if. She acts like a girlfriend instead of a woman who only sleeps in my bed when I'm too drunk or spineless to stop her.
She's not special. She's just a hanger-on, a puck bunny.
And the worst part? I miss my wife.
But I don't call her. I don't text her. I don't even look at our old conversation thread. I'm afraid that if I hear her voice or read her words, I'll finally have to face that I've probably lost her.
