What’s that saying? Go big or go home?
I went too fucking big.
I’m not a big party guy. I don’t do loud and crazy. My idea of a wild night is drinking coffee and starting a Lord of the Rings marathon at 9 PM.
I’m boring and known for being a bit humdrum. I rarely let loose or get rowdy anywhere other than on the ice. I’m notorious for not being involved in many extracurriculars, and I don’t do anything to draw any extra attention to myself.
Of course the one time I actually do, I fuck it all up majorly.
Me, my best friend and teammate Collin, and two other guys on the team I’m closest with—Miller and Lowell—had a weekend planned in Vegas. It was supposed to be a getaway just for us to celebrate winning the Stanley Cup. We were going to eat good food, drink a little booze, and bet way too much money on black.
Then Collin had to go and fall in love and bring his girlfriend along. Naturally, she brought her best friend along because she was sad. Something about her being dumped and needing time away.
Collin made me promise I’d be “extra nice.”
I highly doubt this is the kind of extra nice he meant.
I can feel the weight of it pressing down on me.
Or more specifically, I can feel the weight of it pressing down on my finger.
I peel open one eye and peek down at the gold band that feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. I press my palms into my eyes like I’m trying to rub away the memories of last night.
And really, I am trying to rub them away, because what the hell were we thinking? Why did we believe this was an okay idea? In what universe is getting married in Vegas a good idea?
It’s not. It’s an awful idea.
I should have taken Ryan back to her hotel room safe and sound just like I promised Harper I would.
But no. I had to drink away my sorrows and do something monumentally stupid.
I hate drunk me.
My head pounds—probably from the dehydration—but I don’t dare get up for water.
Ryan’s sleeping right next to me, and I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with her right now.
My wife.
My stomach turns at the thought.
We can get it annulled; I know that. And if I really want to cause a scene, I’m sure I can get a lawyer involved because of us being so intoxicated. There’s no way that was legal, no matter how much money (it was a lot) I threw at them.
I know deep down none of that matters though.
I can hear my phone buzzing on the bedside table, which can only mean one thing: I did not imagine us videoing the wedding and posting it online.
The nail is already in the proverbial coffin. There’s no way I can walk this back now without looking like a complete fool. I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen and forget it.
I wish I could though. I wish I could forget it all.
Except for the part where she kissed me. The way her soft lips felt under mine. The way she melted into my touch. Those little noises she made as our tongues collided.
That I do not want to forget.
Or the part where we couldn’t keep our hands off each other after that and spent the Uber ride back to the hotel with our mouths pressed together.
The moment I pushed open the hotel door, she stripped down to her underwear. Somewhere in my drunken brain, warning bells started to ring, and I had to put a stop to what we were about to do.
The look in her eyes when I turned her down about killed even drunk me.
But I’m glad I did it. I don’t think I could manage the aftermath of that on top of everything else.
My phone buzzes again and Ryan groans. I should silence it before she wakes up.
As slowly as I can, I roll over and grab the phone from the table.
The first thing I catch sight of is a message from my mother.
Mom: ADRIAN TYLER RHODES! THIS HAD BETTER BE A JOKE!!
Shit. Middle name and double exclamations. That’s how I really know I’m in trouble.
My eyes wander to the text from the general manager of the Carolina Comets.
David: I expect a phone call with an explanation.
I wince.
Fuck.
Usually, the organization is cool and doesn’t give too much thought to what you’re doing as long as you’re not breaking any laws.
But when you start making headlines…they start caring. And I know this has already made headlines.
I click on the NHL app, and there it is, the first article of the day.
ADRIAN “THE BEAST” RHODES MARRIES BEAUTY INFLUENCER RYAN BELL
I cringe at the nickname the media won’t drop. It was something I got back in my early days of hockey, and I haven’t been able to live it down. I guess that’s what happens when you take a skate blade to the face and get cut just an inch under your eye, through your lip, and down your chin.
The aftermath of that? Two surgeries, over a hundred stitches, and a big, ugly scar that’s changed everything for me.
So, yeah, I guess I do look like a beast.
I’m sure tacking on about thirty pounds and six inches and constantly holding records for most hits in a season doesn’t help.
I click away from the article just as a slew of texts come through, my phone buzzing like crazy in my hand. They’re coming in so fast I can hardly keep up.
Britt: UR MARRIED
Britt: Is this sum joke????
Britt: Dammit! ANSWER ME! I’ve been calling you for 30 mins!!!!!
Britt: Srsly! Ur jealous I’m engaged to sum1 else, so u get married in Vegas to sum slut??? GROW UP!
Britt: So glad I don’t have to waste NE more time on u
Britt: Hope she’s worth it bc WE R DONE
I want to text her back and remind her that we were done when she let another man—especially my teammate—put a ring on her finger, but it’s pointless.
More texts appear, some I really shouldn’t be ignoring, but I do anyway, silencing my phone and setting it facedown so I can’t see whatever else is coming through.
I should get up. I should deal with this whole mess.
Instead, I close my eyes and force myself to lie back down, hoping this is just one really bad nightmare.
