“Was it that chick from the smoothie place? The one with the nose ring?”
“No! Jesus, Rigsy, just help me out here. My passport’s in the desk drawer. And grab my lucky socks—the blue ones with the penguins on them.”
He’d finally agreed, but not without more commentary. “Fine, fine. But you’re telling me everything later. Can’t believe you’re finally getting some. Was starting to think you were, like…”
My blood had stopped circulating.
“…broken.”
God. “Rigsy.”
“Yeah?”
“If I make the bus, I’ll buy you breakfast for a week.” That message had finally gotten through, and we’d both made the bus on time.
Even though I’d saved myself from getting reprimanded and fined, the danger isn’t over, because I’m finding it hard to concentrate on hockey. My body might be in Canada, but my brain is doing its best impression of that new concert venue in Vegas—the spherical one. There’s video on every surface, and it’s super loud.
But instead of rock music, I’m tuned into the sex channel. All I can think about is Forest—his beard against my skin, his hands gripping my hips, the way his voice got deeper and rougher when he... Yeah. That happened. It actually happened.
And when I picture the face he made when he climaxed, I skate the wrong direction around a cone. Luckily, the coach is looking at someone else.
We take a water break, and I flip my phone over for the hundredth time, weighing the pros and cons of texting Forest. Too soon? Too needy? I’ve never experienced the “after” part of hooking up. So I open up my favorite AI chatbot and ask it another question: I’m a socially awkward loser who just had his first hookup with another dude. How much time should I wait to text him, and what should I say?
The little dots pulse as the AI thinks. Then:
Hi there! Congratulations on your new connection! There’s no strict timeline—text when it feels right. Be authentic and express genuine interest without overwhelming. Perhaps a simple “Had a great time last night” with a specific detail you enjoyed about your conversation.
Conversation? We barely spoke. Most of what came out of my mouth were sex noises. I probably sounded like a drowning seal.
I try again: No, you don’t understand. This is a hot, bearded bartender who reluctantly agreed to have sex with me after I helped his hockey team. The specific detail I most enjoyed was when he growled into my mouth and came hard all over my chest.
The bot recalibrates.
In that case, consider keeping your text a little more subtle. To encourage a continued relationship, perhaps invite him to an event that will demonstrate the full breadth of your personality. Like an art exhibit, or an interesting concert.
I lock my useless phone and go back to practice.
During the scrimmage, Coach has me splitting time with Hennie, our starter, which means I might actually get to play tonight. Or I might spend another game watching from the bench, getting colder than day-old coffee.
“James!” Coach bellows. “Heads up!”
Right. Focus. On hockey. Not on Forest’s killer tattoos, or on the perfect amount of chest hair that gathers into a happy trail on his abs.
I shake my head and drop into my stance. And it’s weird, but my body knows what to do even when my brain is elsewhere. I’m loose. Calm. Making saves I didn’t make last week.
“Looking sharp, Becks,” Rigsy says after practice, punching my shoulder. “You still owe me details about last night.”
I nearly trip over my own feet. “What? No. I mean—no way. I’m a gentleman.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Dude, you got on the bus smelling like bad decisions and someone else’s shampoo.”
“Shut up.”
“Nope. Not until you give me details. Who’s got you sneaking around like a teenager missing curfew?”
I focus on refilling my water bottle, pretending the question isn’t making my palms sweat. “Just a hookup, man. Not a big deal.”
Rigsy stares at me. “Bullshit. You’ve never hooked up with anyone since I’ve known you. You don’t even go out except to that one bar you’re obsessed with.”
