“I’m telling you, asswipe, that’s what I did. I tried to deke him, but he’s too good.”
“Well, then you didn’t deke him right. If you make it convincing enough, he’ll bite. Ask the goalie—he’ll tell you.”
Moe and Larry—no, scratch that. That would make me Curly, and the Three Stooges we are not.
Tweedledee and Tweedledum—much better—going quiet has me glancing up from my beer, the same one I’ve been nursing for the last hour. The cloudy amber beverage is warm, and my stomach is turning at the thought of trying to finish it.
Well, it’s either that or the pit that started forming the minute I hung up the phone with my mother.
My stomach turns yet again just thinking about the call.
Yep. That’s it.
“Well, Mr. Hotshot Goalie? Any input?” Fitz, the forward for the Carolina Comets, asks impatiently.
“Fitz is right, Hayes. You have to sell it harder. I’ve given up a few soft goals on good dekes.”
Fitz throws his fist into the air and lets out a loud whoop. It’s obnoxious enough to draw eyes, something I really don’t want to do tonight, so I tug my hat down lower.
“Shut up,” I hiss with a scowl.
“What?” He shrugs, glancing around. “Nobody is paying us any attention. Besides, it’s Slapshots—they know better than to mess with us in here.”
That’s usually true. This place is a haven for those on the Comets, but sometimes there are nights when people don’t care that it’s our off night and want to hound us.
I don’t typically drink during the season, but I couldn’t say no when Fitz and Hayes invited me out. We’ve just come off an eight-game winning streak where I recorded not one but two shutouts.
It’s February, and we’re on a roll. I feel fucking unstoppable right now, and I don’t want to let that feeling go just yet, especially not right now when we’re walking into a six-game homestand. We kill it on home ice.
“Come on, man. Lighten up.” Hayes claps me on the shoulder. “We’re hot as hell right now, so have fun and stop scowling at everyone.”
I glance down at Hayes’ hand, which is still resting on me, and that scowl deepens. I look back at him with one brow raised in an Are you seriously touching me right now? kind of way.
He lifts both hands in the air in surrender. “S-Sorry,” he mutters.
I nod once, letting it go. I’m not big on touchy-feely shit, but he’s the rookie, so I don’t expect him to know that.
I can’t seem to let go of the call I had with my mother just before we stepped into the bar, the one that’s put a damper on my whole evening.
She’s getting married.
Again.
Or should I say again again again. It’s her fourth marriage, and I don’t even know how many “serious relationships.”
I want to be happy for her. I really do, but it’s difficult when I know this one will end in the same heartbreak as all the others.
“What’s up with you, Greer? You seem grumpier than normal, and you just chased the rookie off.”
I glance up to see that his seat is, in fact, now empty.
Oops.
“Just tired,” I tell him.
Fitz’s eyes narrow, and I’m annoyed by how hard he’s staring at me. He knows I’m lying.
“Does this extra scowly-ness have anything to do with that mysterious phone call you took before we came in?”
I sigh, then toss back the rest of my beer because why not? I’m already miserable as fuck. May as well go for broke at this point.
I cringe as the warm liquid slides down my throat. I know some people love their warm beers, but I am not that type of person. I want it ice cold, like so fucking cold you feel like you need to wear gloves to tip the bottle back. The coldness matches my dead, black heart, and I relish it.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Fitz says.
I nod. “It was my mom.”
“Oh? I fucking love talking to my mom.” He glances around, then points at me. “Don’t tell anyone I said that or sounded so damn excited.” He clears his throat and pushes his shoulders back.
I try to hide my smirk at how tough he’s trying to look.
“I love talking to my mom too,” I tell him, and he relaxes at my words. “She’s getting married.”
“Married? That’s awesome! Congratulations to her.”
I scoff, and Fitz doesn’t miss it.
“Uh-oh. Do you not like the guy or something?”
“No clue. I haven’t met him.”
David seems like a nice guy from the few times I’ve said hello on FaceTime, but so did Archie, Harry, and Kenneth, and not one of those relationships endured. Besides, I learned a long time ago not to get attached to anyone my mother is dating because the likelihood of it lasting is slim.
“Does she seem happy about it?”
“She’s fucking ecstatic.” And that’s the truth. The problem is, she’s always happy about the wedding. It’s the whole making-a-relationship-work part she’s not so keen on.
“Then what’s the issue?”
“It’s not her first wedding.” Far from it. “The last one…I wasn’t on my best behavior.”
“You slept with a bridesmaid, didn’t you?”
I wince. “Three.”
“Huh?”
“I slept with three of them.”
Fitz’s eyes widen. “At the same time?”
“No! Well, kind of. Two of them, yes. The third, no. I slept with her at my mom’s second wedding. She was not happy when she walked in on the threesome and caused a scene.”
Fitz’s mouth is hanging open at this point, and I can’t say I blame him. I was shocked, too, when the door to the coat closet flew open and I had two sets of lips wrapped around my cock. I was just about to come when Maggie—or was it Mary? I can’t remember—started screeching and chased away my orgasm.
“So, is this your mom’s third wedding? Maybe the third time is the charm for all of you?”
“Fourth,” I correct him.
“Fourth…” Fitz swallows once, twice. “Well, that’s okay. Sometimes things don’t work out.”
My lips twitch at how diplomatic he’s being right now, choosing his words carefully so he doesn’t offend my mother or me.
“Also, maybe don’t sleep with bridesmaids and ruin your mom’s big day this time?”
“Therein lies my problem—she wants me to bring a date to the wedding. Guess she thinks it’ll prevent me from sleeping with anyone from her salon, which I assume is who will be in her wedding party.”
“A date? Yikes.”
It’s a well-known fact to everyone on the team that I don’t do relationships. Period. Ever.
It’s why, as much as I like my teammates, I don’t hang out with them often anymore. Wright and Rhodes are both hitched, Lowell has a damn kid—hard pass on that shit—and now even Miller found someone to love his dumb ass. Having to see them all wrapped up in their lovey-dovey shit? Yeah, no-fucking-thank-you.
It’s why I’m hanging out with Fitz so much lately. He’s single, therefore he’s not shoving all that happy, hearts-in-the-eyes bullshit down my throat. I swear I can feel my esophagus swelling at the thought of having to watch all the puppy-dog looks those guys seem to have. It’s annoying. What the fuck is so great about love anyway? All it does is beat you down and break you and lead to misery. I’ll pass on that.
“It’s just a date, though, right? Not like you’re the one getting married.”
I gag, and Fitz laughs, slapping me on the back.
“Don’t be so dramatic. I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“You think marriage isn’t that bad?” Is he drunk? Am I drunk?
Fitz shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, hell, look at the other guys. They seem happy enough.”
“So did my mom during her first marriage. Oh, and her second and third. My dad has fathered children with multiple women he’s had long-term relationships with. He just called me last week to inform me that he and his latest baby momma are ‘taking some time apart.’ Is that the kind of happiness you want?”
Fitz grimaces. “Maybe not.”
“That’s what I thought.” I raise my glass to my lips, but I’m disappointed to see that it’s empty. Fitz talking about marriage left such a gross taste in my mouth that I somehow forgot all about my awful warm beer.
I slide the empty glass across the counter. From the other end of the bar, the bartender tips his head in a silent question: Another?
I signal that I’m done, figuring I’d better quit while I’m ahead. This night is clearly a wash.
“Okay, so you’re not rushing down the aisle. I get it, but one date won’t kill you, especially if it’s for your mom. Do you know the number of horrible dates I’ve been on for my mother? You’ll be fine for one night.”
“Then you’re a better son than me. I’m not bringing a date.”
“Scared you won’t be able to find one?”
I narrow my eyes, not liking the cocky smile that’s taken over his face. He’s trying to bait me, and fuck me, it’s working.
I hate that it’s working.
“I can find a date just fine.”
“Damn straight you can,” Hayes says, slipping back onto his empty stool. “You were the NHL’s first star of the week last week—you could have your pick of women. Hell, I bet there are at least ten ladies here tonight just waiting for you to ask them to go home with you.” He inclines his head toward the other side of the bar. “Including those babes over there.”
“Don’t call them babes. You sound like Miller,” Fitz says to him before I can.
“Babes, women—whatever. When I was getting my drink, I heard them talking about us. They’re definitely interested. Could make for a fun night.” Hayes bounces his brows up and down.
I slide my eyes toward the group he’s referring to. A few hours of rolling around in the sheets doesn’t sound too bad. It may be just what I need to turn this now-soured evening around.
There are four women sitting at a round table. One is a blonde looking this way, her lashes fluttering as she takes a sip of her drink, which looks like it’s more sugar than alcohol.
When I make eye contact with her, another throws her head back. She slaps the shoulder of the other woman next to her, who is also laughing. It comes off as forced and fake, especially with the way they both keep looking over here as if they’re waiting for us to pay attention to them.
Finally, there’s the woman with dark hair who is partially hidden from view and isn’t looking over her shoulder to get a glimpse. In fact, she has an elbow resting on the table, and she’s twirling her straw in her drink. She seems bored, like she wants to be somewhere else right now.
I want to go over and ask her where that place is.
“Should I go talk to them? I should go talk to them, right?” Hayes asks, already pushing himself off the stool.
I’m quick to reach out and grab the back of his shirt, dragging him back down.
“Leave them alone, Hayes.” I shove his shoulder down hard, letting him know I’m not kidding.
“Why do you ruin all the fun?”
“Because two of the women have wedding rings on their fingers. If you want to make headlines, do it on the ice, not off it.”
“Oh shit.” Hayes gulps. “I missed that.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yeah, that’s because you’re allergic to commitment, so you pay extra attention to that shit,” Fitz comments.
I don’t argue because he’s right.
“We should get going anyway.” The forward rises from his stool. “Coach Heller said the practice isn’t mandatory, but he did that eyebrow thing he does that means he’d like to see us there anyway.”
Hayes groans. “But…but…babes!”
“Don’t call them babes, Miller Jr.” Fitz shakes his head, tugging the young player up by his arm. “Coming, Greer?”
“Yeah. I’m going to take a leak. Meet you out front.”
“Sounds good.” He steers Hayes away from the poor, unsuspecting women and toward the door.
I chuckle to myself when I see his bottom lip come out. Fuckin’ rookies, man.
As I cross the bar toward the restroom, I can’t help but let my eyes wander to the table of women Hayes pointed out. They are hot; I’ll give him that, and burying myself between a set of legs does sound better than drowning in alcohol.
But…I should go. It’s the responsible thing to do. We’re on a heater right now, and I don’t want to risk that by staying out too late or drinking too much or for some random pussy.
This season is all about no distractions.
We have a Cup on the line, and I intend to make it mine.
