Chapter 19
AVERY
We had a game that night, and I both loved and hated PR for the tribute they did for Leif’s birthday. It was an emotional night for all of us, and it didn’t help that Rachel—now visibly pregnant—was there with the kids.
It was amazing, and it was exactly what Leif deserved, and I was glad to see the family.
But holy shit. Putting on the happy, professional face, being the captain, being a hockey player, being me—that had all been exhausting already. That night, it was like our home opener all over again. Too much emotion. Too much hurt.
Worse, we were in a four-game losing streak, and even our efforts to play well on Leif’s birthday couldn’t stop us from extending that to five.
Afterward, I didn’t fall apart in the locker room.
I kept my media smile firmly in place, and I didn’t let my voice shake through my postgame interviews.
Not even when they asked about life after Leif.
I’d gone through the motions of showering, getting dressed, eating with my teammates, and signing autographs on the way out of the parking garage, and I’d stayed smiling and stoic the whole time.
Anyone got a photo or a video of me, they’d see nothing but the usual Avery Caldwell.
Then I drove home on autopilot and poured booze down my throat until I didn’t feel anything anymore.
Practice the next morning… yeah, that didn’t happen.
My alarm went off like usual, but by then, I’d already been up for fifteen minutes, heaving my guts out and wondering if my skull was going to explode.
God knew if Coach Tabakov bought my excuse about being sick, or if he saw right through to how hungover and fucked up I was after last night.
He didn’t give me any grief over the phone, though. I’d probably hear about it tomorrow.
Honestly? I couldn’t bring myself to care. I felt too awful to give a shit about anything.
Sitting back against my bathroom wall, I let the cold marble cool my throbbing head while I waited to see if my stomach was done punishing me.
I’d been doing so damn good lately. Games, interviews, just…
existing—everyone, including Peyton, had been acting like everything was normal with me, so I’d obviously been keeping the cracks hidden.
I was damn good at hiding the red in my eyes whenever I came to a practice or joined my team for breakfast in a hotel.
I knew how much I could drink in front of my teammates before they’d worry—less these days, thanks to Peyton making them all scared I was drinking too much—and then I’d retreat to my room and drink some more by myself.
I knew exactly how drunk I could get to numb myself for the night and still pass for functional the next day.
But last night…
Last night, I hadn’t cared, and now I was paying for it.
And I didn’t care all that much about that, either.
The only thing I could bring myself to care about right now was how much my head hurt and how much I desperately wanted to be numb and distracted.
Once this hangover was gone, I was heading back into a bottle and I wasn’t sorry.
Not just a bottle, though. Not this time. Getting drunk and oblivious like I had last night wasn’t going to be enough this time.
Tonight, I wanted to be so drunk that I was oblivious to everything except a hot man banging me senseless.
I didn’t even care if the sex was good. I just wanted to get dicked down until I was trembling and aching in all the right places and numb as hell in all the others.
I hadn’t had sex in months—not since before all this pain started—and now I wanted it.
A club. I’d hit up a club, get good and fucked up, and then get, well, good and fucked.
Would I be able to practice tomorrow morning? Eh. That sounded like tomorrow’s problem.
I went upstairs, showered, and started putting myself together for a night out.
It felt weird, getting ready to go clubbing, and not just because I hadn’t set foot in a club in ages.
There was no tingle of excitement. No anticipation of a fun night out and maybe an even more fun hookup.
It reminded me of heading to the emergency room with an injury—just trying to get there and get this over with before the pain got the best of me.
I took an Uber into downtown Pittsburgh, and I had the driver drop me off a couple of blocks over from the club.
I was out and everybody knew it, and hockey players didn’t get recognized as much as football players and A-listers, but I still felt weird about my driver letting me out in front of a gay nightclub.
Did it make sense? Hell, did anything in my world make sense these days?
Eh. Whatever.
I walked the rest of the way to the club.
I’d checked online that they were still open, and I was pleased to see the information had been correct.
Clubs came and went sometimes, and I’d pulled up to some that had gone under but hadn’t updated their online info yet.
Or they rebranded, changing everything but their name, for better or worse.
This place was exactly as I’d left it. Same garish green-and-yellow neon signs outside. Same bead curtain between coat check and the lounge area. Same long bar tended by incredibly hot men.
In fact, I was pretty sure that blond at the second station had spent his break blowing me in the alley behind this place a year or two ago before we’d gone back to his apartment after his shift.
From the way he grinned when our eyes locked—yep, that was him.
Talented mouth, too; maybe I’d have to see if he was busy after his shift.
I wasn’t so sure if I wanted to wait that long, though. I was on a mission tonight that didn’t lend itself to hanging around until the place closed. Though if he had a break coming up…
Nah, even that wasn’t what I needed. I wasn’t here for a blowjob or a quickie.
I did get a drink from him, though, and we exchanged a few flirty looks. I tipped him well, and he leered at me in a way that made me think maybe I could wait until the club closed.
Maybe. If I didn’t find someone interested in a hookup before then, I was all his.
For now, step one—get hammered.
One cocktail and three shots in, I was feeling good enough to hit the dancefloor.
Well… “good.” I was getting to the point I had to stop and think about why I’d been so miserable earlier, so that meant I was on the right track.
One more shot, and I was among all the men dancing to a song I probably could’ve identified sober. Eh. Whatever. It had a good beat.
I wasn’t the only one here on the prowl, either.
It was easy to spot the guys who were here for more than just dancing; it wasn’t a predatory look per se, but it kind of was.
That expression and body language that said this dancefloor wasn’t their final destination for this evening.
The way their eyes raked over other men’s bodies.
The touches that were clearly more than just a means of making contact while dancing.
That blissed-out look of a man who was almost hypnotized by another’s scent and body and hands.
I made my way from one to another, slipping away between songs to throw back some more alcohol. My thoughts were getting hazy and the floor was tilting a little, so… perfect.
At some point, I found myself pressed up against a redheaded guy who looked at me and touched me like he wanted to devour me.
As we danced without a sliver of space between our bodies, he slid his hands up and down my back, over my ass and hips—anything he could touch, he did, though he kept his lips just out of my reach.
He didn’t strike me as someone who wouldn’t kiss me—some guys didn’t kiss hookups—but rather like he was teasing me.
I’ll kiss you, this closeness said, but not here. Not now.
God, I wanted his mouth.
I wanted him. He was taller than me by an inch or two, and built thick and broad, not lean like a hockey player. He had gorgeous eyes, too, and a sexy-ass smile that made me wonder what else that mouth was capable of.
That mouth that kept hovering just out of my reach.
Needed to do something about that. Like now.
We couldn’t hear a damn thing, but there were ways to communicate without speaking.
A head tilt toward the back of the club accompanied by an inquisitive eyebrow lift.
A grin and a nod in response. A hand on the small of my back, leading my weaving ass off the floor and through the crowd and into the back and—
He had me up against the wall, his tongue in my mouth and his hard-on grinding on mine.
He kissed deep and hard, almost bruising my lips, and I gripped the front of his shirt to beg him for more.
I couldn’t hear either of us moaning, but I could feel the thrum of his voice, and oh, yeah, he was into this. So was I.
He broke the kiss and nipped the side of my neck. Then he found his way to my ear. “I wanna bend you over and pound you.”
I bit my lip, whimpering as my knees went slack. “Ooh, yeah.”
A low growl vibrated beneath the bass, and he rutted harder against me.
“I’m gonna take you home, and I’m gonna—” He cut himself off by kissing me again, even more greedily and forcefully than before.
My knees and spine had turned to liquid; if not for him pressing me up against this wall, I’d have melted to the floor at his feet.
And then he could just get down and fuck me right there.
Somehow I knew that wouldn’t happen—that this wasn’t where we’d end up screwing—but the thought drove me on. I slung my arms around his neck and opened to his kiss. Holy fuck, I wanted—
Out of nowhere, a memory flashed through my hazy mind of how Peyton’s mouth had felt against mine.
Of that dreamlike, drunken kiss I barely remembered and we both regretted.
For Christ’s sake. No. Don’t think about that right now.
Peyton isn’t here. This guy is here. I’m here. And I—
Do I even want to be here?