Chapter 4
CALLUM
Sitting on the bench, I squirt a steady stream of Gatorade into my mouth.
I can’t look away from the game. Though this break is necessary to catch my breath, I’m itching for my turn on the ice again.
Chicago’s center has been taking slapshots all evening, but Theo’s been holding strong with twenty-one saves, letting in only one goal.
We’re leading in the third period and, with less than a minute to go, we’re in good position as long as we defend our net.
Coach Ross yells for a line change and I scramble to get into position, letting the air whipping my face cool my skin.
The noise in the arena sinks in, powering my strides as we rush into play.
The puck slides between the forwards as we chase it down toward Chicago’s net, the opposition following like bloodhounds.
The countdown to the end begins just as our defenseman and captain, Mateo Vega, bodychecks the Chicago center, letting Moore steal the puck.
In a play we’ve practiced hundreds of times before, Moore dekes left, slipping the puck under Chicago’s stick to Antek who slaps it farther back to me. I take my shot and their goalie dives, missing the puck by inches as it flies into the net.
The goal siren barely registers as the crowd roars, signaling the end of the game and our tenth win of the season. The team is in excellent spirits in the locker room while we pull our gear off, with Mateo yelling about cooling down.
I jump on the stationary bike, setting my resistance while Theo Novak, my best friend and goalie, shuffles through his music, incessant beats of bass pumping from the headphones he slings around his neck.
Highlights from our game play on the TV in the far corner of the room, showing the goalie saves in sequence.
Theo’s cocky grin is earned and Vega fist bumps him as he passes by to hop onto the treadmill near me.
We played a solid game and, if we keep it up for the rest of the season, we have a good shot at making it to the playoffs. That’s always the dream: to play for the Stanley Cup. And being on the ice tonight reminded me once again why I love hockey.
A well-earned victory is more potent than any drug. Being out there, feeling the pressure of performance, the palpable desperation amongst the team to win, the absolute craze of hearing my name chanted when I make a tricky goal—these moments take me on a high like no other.
But now, as the adrenaline wears off, my mind wanders and that abstruse sense of dissatisfaction returns. What the fuck is wrong with me that I’m discontent with a perfect life?
“You coming to Block on Wood with the rest of us?” Novak huffs, pumping his legs up and down on the pedals.
“Nah, I’d rather head home and watch game tapes. I’ll be damned if I let Vancouver take the lead on us again.”
“Get your dick wet so you stop being so fucking uptiiiiight,” he groans dramatically. “We’ve been crushing it on the ice. Have some fun.”
I shrug. I’m only as good as the number of goals I score and, while I have nothing to worry about, I don’t want to get complacent. But I do need to get laid. I haven’t been with anyone since early summer which is. . . unusual. Maybe that’s why I have this pent-up irritation.
Signing my first NHL contract at twenty-one was the culmination of years of hard work. Being traded to the Ironhearts two years ago was a move I hadn’t anticipated making, but I’ve found my place with them.
All my focus has been on playing the game, leaving me with no desire for a relationship.
Hockey has been my girlfriend, wife, and mistress for a long time.
As for sex, while I don’t get around as much as Novak or some of the rookies, I fully enjoy the advantages of having a variety of women willing to offer a blowie or a quick fuck.
Lately, though, something is off. Year after year of meeting energetic groupies who want a piece of my dick and nothing else has started to feel. . . boring. Season after season of the same vapid flirtations have begun to lose their charm.
Fucking hypocritical of me to think this because, beyond an orgasm or two, I’m not interested in anything more either.
If anyone finds out I’m having such thoughts, they’ll be on my ass about getting old. Especially Novak. At twenty-five, his top goals seem to be getting a shutout record to put legends to shame—and sleeping his way through every city he steps foot in.
I’m nearing thirty, no longer a fresh-faced boy enamored by the side benefits of achieving fame. I know what most women I meet in crowded bars are looking for: a chance to score with an NHLer and bragging rights.
The fame-hungry bunny who declared she was engaged to Benny DuPont, the second line center, after one night of messing around, reinforced my wariness. All season after that, the team was on lockdown because of the bad press.
Fuck. That.
No orgasm is worth any kind of complication.
I made the mistake of assuming once someone’s interest was in me, not my jersey. The sting of broken pride when my offer of a date was rejected is not something I want to experience again.
Which is why, when I don’t pick up someone new, I have a fuck-buddy I rely on to blow off some steam.
Had a fuck-buddy.
I notice Kubanski, our rookie left-winger, grinning at his phone like a man making plans to get laid. Chloe and he hit it off, which means I’m back to self-service until I find someone who wants no commitment and plenty of orgasms.
It’s not like I haven’t tried going on dates but meeting someone organically while my face is splashed on billboards isn’t easy. Less common? That chemistry that keeps you wanting more.
It’s been years since I had a girlfriend. Not since Jenna. That relationship was an absolute shitshow. I don’t like dwelling on it, but the ugly truth is I wasn’t enough for her not to screw her boss during my absence.
Where I do feel that sense of belonging is on the ice. That’s why hockey is my priority. I can measure my success by the number of points I get. By winning the Calder Memorial my rookie year. And the Art Ross trophy. Twice.
With my personal life, counting the number of women I’ve fucked somehow doesn’t give me the same satisfaction.
I grimace, vexed by the frustration strumming through me. Failure isn’t something I’m familiar with, but can I successfully maintain a relationship when hockey takes up so much of my time? I don’t want the added responsibility of another person. Not right now, anyway.
If I’m missing a real connection, it’s nothing family time can’t resolve. Seeing them might be the reset I need because this unabating emptiness is annoying as fuck to live with.
Too distracted by my thoughts, I don’t hear Novak’s question. He leans in, a small smirk on his face.
“What’s got you so lost, Spuddy? Dreaming of a bunny you’d like to chase?”
Instantly, my mind turns to Alia.
“Hey, do you think Lennie knows the people who visit his bar?” I ask, referring to our friend who also happens to own Block on Wood.
Vega doesn’t look up from his phone but answers me anyway. “Probably. Why?”
“I’m curious about someone.”
He frowns, questions littering his expression as he finally glances at me.
“I met this girl,” I explain. “Kinda disappeared on me.”
“Girl?” he asks, just as Novak squawks. “It’s the end of an era.”
“Charming Cal didn’t get his dick sucked by some bunny!” he yells for the room to hear, leading to jeers and unnecessarily dramatic reactions from the rest of the guys. Everyone regresses to teenage shitheads in the locker room, feeding off each other’s energy.
“What?” gasps Sam O’Callaghan, our back-up goalie, setting up Novak to spew more bullshit.
“He’s losing his touch.”
“You wish,” I spit, leaning over to increase Novak’s resistance level in the hopes it’ll shut him up.
“Maybe he’s been through all the bunnies already,” Moore adds in a bored voice, walking past us toward the steam room.
“Is this the girl you ditched us for the other night?” Theo jumps off his bike to block my path. He wags his brows like an annoying retriever, his red hair matching the flush of exertion on his cheeks. “You louuuuve her? You gonna maaaaarry her?”
“Shut up, you turkey. She was fun.” And she was. I can’t remember the last time I laughed over silly jokes. She hadn’t fawned over me but had flirted all the same. Shy, sweet, interesting, but not cold.
“Spuddy, no pussy is worth chasing,” DuPont yells from the floor, bent backwards over his foam roller. “Especially when there’s a buffet to pick from!”
I shake my head, biting back my inclination to throw my bottle at his head. She wasn’t just some pussy.
“Never took you for someone interested in the chase,” Moore comments while I shuck off my damp shirt, more than ready to escape this conversation for a much-needed shower. “You’ve always avoided complications.”
He isn’t wrong. I prefer straightforward and easy when it comes to the women I spend time with. Hockey takes up so much of my energy, I haven’t felt inclined to chase anything more than a puck.
Days after meeting her however, I still catch myself thinking about Alia. With her, if only for a little while, life wasn’t static.
Will I make sense to anyone if I admit this?
Theo is a man-whore. Kubanski is new and ready to enjoy the buffet that DuPont is determined to introduce him to.
Vega is married; happily or not, I’m not certain.
And Moore has never been one for chronic flirtations—I’ve never seen him with a woman in the time since I’ve joined the team.
Unlike me, he seems perfectly content with the status quo.
“After a long time, I felt it,” I confess out loud to no one in particular.
“Felt what?” Theo asks, grabbing his suit.
Connection. Interest. I recall the flush on her face, the way her irises had expanded when I leaned in.
“Heat.”
“Hey buddy,” he replies, his tone serious. “There’s medication now for STIs.”
“Fuck you.” I yank my towel off and throw it in his face, leaving my balls shrinking in the cold air.
“Not today, I still have bunnies I can score with before I turn to you.” Theo winks, finger combing his coppery hair while sending me a flying kiss. Idiot.