“Puck bunnies, desperate housewives, college girls with daddy issues—I don’t discriminate.” I start stripping down, already planning my equipment routine. “Equal opportunity fantasy fulfillment, that’s my motto.”
Rodriguez looks up from his pre-game TikTok preparation. “Bro, did you really tell that blonde she could be your good luck charm?”
“Among other things.” I grin, pulling on my compression shorts. “Why, you jealous? Worried I’m gonna steal your twelve-year-old followers?”
“My followers are legal, thank you very much.”
“Barely.” I start laying out my gear with military precision. “Speaking of barely legal, anyone seen the new intern in media relations? Brunette, about yea tall, looks like she’d be very impressed by a hat trick?”
“Jesus Christ, Malone,” Keller shakes his head. “You’re like a walking HR violation.”
“Someone’s got to maintain this team’s reputation. Can’t all be boring family men like Johnson over here.”
“Hey, my wife is—” Johnson starts.
“A saint for putting up with you, we know.” I cut him off. “Seriously though, how do you guys do it? Same woman, same conversation, same everything for years? Doesn’t that get mind-numbingly boring?”
“Some of us appreciate consistency,” Varga says.
“Some of us have functioning relationships,” Keller adds.
“Some of us aren’t terrified of commitment,” Johnson finishes.
I laugh, pulling on my shoulder pads. “Commitment’s for people who can’t do better. Why would I settle for one when I can have my pick of dozens? You seen my DMs lately? It’s like a buffet of beautiful women, all dying to prove they’re worth my time.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” Johnson asks with the tone of someone who’s had this conversation before. “All those beautiful women making you happy?”
“Happiness is overrated.” I adjust my chest protector. “I prefer satisfaction. And I get plenty of that.”
“From Instagram models who don’t know your middle name?”
“From women who know exactly what they’re getting.” I pull on my jersey, smoothing it down. “No expectations, no drama,no pretending to care about their feelings or their problems or their kids?—”
I stop, thinking suddenly about last week. About Tyson’s shy smile when he finally nailed that backward crossover. About Blythe explaining her elaborate theories about proper skating technique. About their mom, Golda, watching from the stands with that mix of pride and worry that seemed to define everything she did.
“Earth to Malone,” Keller snaps his fingers. “Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere. Just thinking about tonight’s game.” I grab my gloves, pushing away thoughts of copper hair and nervous laughs. “Chicago’s defense is soft. I’m planning on making them look like JV out there.”
“You gonna back that up, or just talk about it?” Rodriguez grins.
“Kid, I’ve been backing up my mouth since before you hit puberty.” I stand, fully dressed and ready to destroy. “Question is whether you can keep up when I start feeding you passes. Try not to fan on any easy ones tonight.”
“I never fan?—”
“Tell that to the shot you whiffed in practice Tuesday.” I’m already moving toward the door. “Come on, ladies. Time to show Chicago why they should’ve stayed home.”
The tunnel to the ice is my favorite part of the arena. Dark, quiet, the calm before the storm. I can hear the crowd already, twenty thousand people who paid good money to watch me work. The energy builds with each step, anticipation crackling like electricity.
We burst onto the ice and the crowd erupts, cameras flash, music pounds through the speakers. This is what I live for—the moment when everything else disappears except the game and the knowledge that I’m the best player on the ice.
I take a lap during warmups, stick-handling through cones, letting the familiar routine settle my mind. The crowd noise follows me around the rink, cheers getting louder when I glide past certain sections. I spot the blonde from earlier, front row behind the glass, holding up a sign with my number.
I skate over and tap the glass in front of her, giving her a wink that makes her scream loud enough to hear over the arena noise. Her friends are recording everything, probably already posting to their socials with captions about how I noticed them.
This is my world. My kingdom. And tonight, Chicago’s about to learn why I’m the king of it.
First period, I’m flying. Everything clicks—my edges are sharp, my passes find their targets, the puck sticks to my blade like it’s magnetized. Twelve minutes in, I strip the puck from their defenseman at center ice and go coast to coast, beating their goalie five-hole with a shot that’s pure poetry in motion.
