Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
MIKAEL
“What are your plans for Valentine's Day?” Finn asks.
“Drinking to oblivion.” I marvel at my retorts. What a silly question. What does any single man or woman do on that day? Not all of us are lucky in love.
“You can't be serious. You've got a hot woman who adores you,” Finn argues, but he should know better.
I hate Valentine's Day. The women I date expect romance, diamonds, or an engagement ring. The problem? I haven't met the right woman. To avoid complications, I make it a point never to have a girlfriend near February. Or any other holiday for that matter.
It's crazy, I know. Most men would love to be in my position with available women, but trust me, they all want something. Whether it is a picture, an autograph on their shirt or their boob, or a date. Many are happy with a one-night stand. Who am I to complain?
“Steph is nice, but she's not the one.” My indifference might be because I’ve never been in love. Am I jaded? Perhaps. Maybe I date women I know I won’t love. I’ve seen enough breakups to know that love doesn’t guarantee a happy ending.
As much as I loved my best friend, it didn’t save him. Memories of Jimmy haunt me to this day. Haunt might not be the correct word. He was my best friend and he taught me stick techniques I use today. We went to every hockey practice together and played on the same teams. He was the one who instigated floor hockey in hotels when we played travel hockey. He was fun. His dream was to hold the Stanley Cup one day. I’d like to accomplish that for him. I like to think I carry a piece of him with me.
“Oh, no. Here you go,” Finn says as he sets his beer on the table. He gives me a disapproving look.
I dig into my juicy Angus burger. The fries, drizzled with truffle oil and sprinkled with parmesan cheese, are heavenly.
If Kal, our team’s prankster were here, he'd douse these burgers in hot sauce.
“So what's your breakup plan?” he casually asks. He’s known me for years, so it’s the logical question. I always have an out. It’s ingrained in me. From the ridiculous to the mundane, I can always pull together a reason to break up.
“I'm not sure. I'll figure something out. I have a few weeks.”
“I'm sure you will.” He chuckles.
“What?” I ask defensively.
“Maybe you are setting the bar too high.”
“You're single. Don’t you set the bar high?”
“I'm selective, not picky. However, I date many different women, and not all of them are in our friend group. It's always a whirlwind with hockey season. I'm still recovering from the holidays.”
I roll my eyes. He has his eye on someone, or he wouldn’t be selling me the “I’m a bachelor” line.
“Your whirlwind is the fact that you drink like a fish and blackout.,” I chuckle. It sounds to me like you're not feeling anything but this frigid weather.
“That's a given. Maine is a bitch in winter.”
I meet women daily so it's easy to get dates. And inevitably, women and girls gawk at me. It's getting old. Social media scrutiny and talking to the press are part of the job. The last thing I want to do on a day off is to attend events that aren’t mandatory. I get invited to everything because of who I am. I can always bring a plus one, and my dates are happy to be my arm candy.
I'm thirty years old and thought I’d be married with a family by now. I find myself going through the motions of first-date questions, drinks, and dinners. I would love to hand out a cheat sheet to cut through the getting-to-know-you items. The laundry list of questions is supposed to be finessed into the conversation, so I'm not obvious. However, I am observant, and I do believe in first impressions.
In a few weeks of us love-bombing each other and countless rounds of sex, I reassess where we're going. If I'm in doubt, I'll date her longer. Then, I ask myself one question.
Can I picture myself with her in fifty years?
That’s a big decision.
I don't want someone who lives their life through their phone. I don't want someone who parties every night. I'm looking for a woman who is sweet and knows her mind. I want her to be an equal partner in a relationship. I want someone grounded and not chasing the jet-set lifestyle. Some might say I want an ordinary woman, but in today's world, I consider the ordinary as someone extraordinary.
And I haven't found it—yet.
Valentine's Day. I cringe. My vision of Valentine's Day is Cupid with Hawkeye's crossbow in his ass—like Marvel’s Hawkeye meme. Does true love exist? Perhaps it's a fantasy fed to us by marketers, chocolatiers, and jewelers.
I finish my burger and wipe my mouth.
“Damn, that was great. I'm stuffed.” I take a bite of my burger and finish my beer. The server pops by and places another one before me.
“I am, too,” Finn replies before finishing his drink.
“So, do you have plans tonight?”
“Steph is coming over later.”
“I need to grab popcorn for that,” he teases. His wry smile is short-lived. He’s a character. The amount of smack we give each other is crazy, but it’s expected—welcomed even. It keeps us in the mindset for our hockey games. We love to chirp in our opponent’s faces.
“No. I hate having to be the bad guy. Some women rush in, then act surprised when it's over. We're not the right fit. She's a model, and the glamorous world is where she lives and breathes. I refuse to live through social media. And—our schedules are crazy.”
“You want a regular life. I get it. You should find a woman in Wisconsin who understands you,” he suggests. I admit it’s not a bad idea. But I don’t make it home as often as I should. I do love getaways. It’s a perk that comes with my lifestyle.
“Yeah. I guess I do. It’s an idea, but I don’t have time to go over old stomping ground.” Am I bullshitting myself? I’m not sure anymore. I’m from the Midwest. I grew up on a farm. We weren’t wealthy; I knew the value of a dollar, and my hockey equipment set my parents back a pretty penny. We’re down to earth, and my parents have been instrumental in not letting my fame or money go to my head.
I pay my tab and drive home to my mini-mansion in Camden Bay. I park my S65 Mercedes Benz in the garage. It's not a cheap ride, but it's more practical than a Bugatti.
I text Steph. We're on for tonight. I relax in the living room with the sports channel. The chill in the air gets the best of me, so I start the fireplace. The house is modern, and in the center of the first floor is a double fireplace that serves as a room divider. I have a mudroom, and it’s rather large to accommodate my hockey equipment for impromptu pick-up games. I enjoy hitting the neighborhood park and often skate on the frozen pond.
Our hockey team did well this week. But so did other top contenders. I'd like to know what I could have done differently to improve my game. We're not perfect. One day, we sparkle and play a near-perfect game—the next, we're flat like stale beer. There's no way to predict it. I’m superstitious, but do our beliefs impact the game?
I suppose I'll never know.
Steph arrives looking like the cover of a fashion magazine. Her face glistens from airbrushing. Damn, I forgot she shot a local commercial today. Her body is groomed within an inch of her life, and her eyebrows are weaved—whatever that means. She’s fanatical over what she eats, and at that, it’s not much.
She breezes through my spacious home.
“Hello! How was your day?”
“Great. You?”
“We had practice, and I went to lunch with Finn.”
“How is Finn?”
“Great.”
I take her overnight bag. It's impressive how she fits fifty pounds of stuff in carry-on luggage for a sleepover.
“What do you want to do today?”
When she hears the TV, her brow furrows.
“Sports in the middle of the day?”
“It's kinda my job.”
“Right. I was hoping you had a day off,” she sulks.
“I never have a day off. We have to be the best. That means we eat, drink, and sleep hockey.”
“I didn't realize how obsessed you are over it.” She gives me an irritated look.
Hm.
That's kind of the point, isn't it?
“Olympians work their entire life for one event. I have numerous events every week.”
“I suppose,” she concedes as she walks to the remote sitting in the console of the leather couch and turns the TV off.
“I have other things in mind,” she purrs as she turns and leans over me.
We kiss, and nope—I’m not feeling it.
Why did I ask her to come over?
Because it's expected of me.
“You know, this new indoor gaming center opened up last week. We should check it out.”
“What?” She pretends to be oblivious. But then her pouty lips curl. Seriously? There are commercials and billboards all over town. One can’t live here and not know of it. And she knows everything going on everywhere!
“Yeah. It's popular. You'll love it.”
“Who will be there?” Now, she perks up because it’s an outing where she can wear a new outfit.
“I'm not sure,” I answer, not knowing if the wives and girlfriends of my teammates will be around. The married guys will likely be at home with their families. But she doesn't know this. After two weeks, you’d think she’d have some insight into our lives. But sadly, I've been overly optimistic.
We head to the gaming center. I make some calls, but everyone has plans. Steph is disappointed. It took her an hour to get ready; we might as well go. She has on fashion boots, so playing indoor putt-putt will be a challenge as the course creates the illusion of being a flat surface, and it’s a wonder no one breaks their faces at places like this. I worry she’ll break her neck walking from hole to hole. We play the easy course, and afterward, I buy drinks and appetizers to pass the time. We play foosball, and she’s quite good at it. It helps that she’s from Estonia and her winters were spent playing indoor games. We watch hockey games on the overhead TVs and order dinner.
It's not the glamorous or sexy night she anticipated, but we all must adapt to life’s disappointments. We return home, and I walk her into the house. She’s had a few drinks throughout the day. I’ve never seen her buzzed before. Perhaps she drinks when she’s unhappy with me.
I help her into bed and watch TV until I fall asleep. I wake at two a.m. to the sound of shooo gugg. The rhythmic sound of her snoring keeps me from falling asleep for over an hour. I nudged her until she rolled over and breathed a sigh of relief when the quiet night prevailed.
The next morning, I am filled with angst. I’m not happy. I know I have to end this relationship and I hate to be the bad guy. My mood counters the brightness of the sun that fills the room. I glance out my bedroom window and discover it snowed all night. I’m looking forward to pristine snow on the lake. I love being the first person on the pond. I love nature and hockey. Plus, there’s something magical about snow before it turns black with car exhaust.
Steph is not a morning person. She doesn't have any appointments today, but my list of things to do has begun. I sneak out of bed without waking her. I don’t want to ditch my time at the pond to play nursemaid. I’m not opposed to taking care of a partner when they’re sick, but we’re too old to be tossing our cookies.
I quietly dress in my trainers and grab my hockey bag and a coat before I slink off to my car. I drive to a local park with a pond that's been frozen all winter. It only takes ten minutes to get there.
I park. The neighborhood is filled with apartment complexes mixed in between the upscale neighborhoods. The streets are void of snow—thanks to winter lasting most of the year. I pull into the local public park, and the trees look like they are dusted with confectioner's sugar.
I’m filled with dread. I have to break up with Steph. I don't enjoy breakups, but I know when a 'thing' isn't a thing anymore. We’ve run our course.
I enjoy the sun’s warmth on my face as I walk; I haven't seen the sun in days. The wind is cold, so I hike the trail to warm up. I pull on a hockey jersey and sling my skates over my shoulder. I walk in Crocs and make my way to the pond. Once there, I slip into my skates. I stretch my arms and bend over my legs to touch my toes numerous times. The warmup is very important, even if it’s a casual skate.
I survey the horizon, relieved to find myself alone in a bubble of peace. There are no adoring fans to ask for autographs or invade my privacy by uploading videos of me on social media.
I take to the ice and circle the pond with laps to loosen up.
I love hockey. My life is a true dream come true. I get paid to play on a pro team.
My time on the pond is a special time for me and reminds me of pond hockey games growing up in Wisconsin. I swing by the shallow bank and grab my stick and puck. I deke like I have an opponent and skate like the wind. The cold air stings my lungs, but I shrug it off.
I'm in my element. I know how lucky I am to get paid to do what I love. My life is sublime. If only I could find the woman to complete me.
But I still have an issue at home I have to resolve before I can move forward.
I’m not into Steph. I have to tell her.
And I need to do it soon because Valentine's Day is approaching.
She's not the one. I could lead her on, but I don't play games. I don’t like to waste other people’s time, and I like to think others give me the same courtesy.
I’m criticized in the media for dating many women. Even my teammates joke about it. I refuse to settle, even if feelings get hurt. It’s the price we pay to find our significant other.
It's not that I don't believe in love—it's that I've never been head over heels in love with a woman. If I could find a woman whom I could say I’d love to grow old with, I’d marry her.
I wish I had a childhood sweetheart I could have married out of college. The best marriages I’ve seen are those who are best friends and lovers. I mean, getting married at this age means we'll have over forty years together. I never saw myself with anyone for that length of time without second-guessing what we would look like. Would we still love each other? Or would we be on each other’s nerves? Perhaps I’m cynical. But hey, it’s my life, and I like to think my life experiences have taught me something.
Finn says I'm too picky.
He might be right. But I refuse to marry someone to make my parents happy or to fit in with my peers. Luckily for me, I don’t have a ticking biological clock.
I want a family. If I have kids in the next few years, I could retire and be home to watch them grow. I contemplate being a stay-at-home dad. It might be a nice change after years of being on the road.
I admit I'm a late bloomer. However, I have my standards, and I refuse to commit if I know it's not right in my heart.