Rough Draft (The Games We Play: Season 2)

1. Walker

ONE

Walker

Not going to lie, there was something about a night on the dance floor.

Maybe it was the pulsing lights. Maybe it was the thumping beat of a Gucci Mayne song playing so loudly it made your ears weep.

Maybe it was the crush of bodies packed tightly together, with the smell of aftershave, perfume, sweat, and sex.

Maybe it was all of the above. Probably so.

Whatever the reason, I was shoulder deep in sexy men of all shapes, colors, and personalities.

Bears, twinks, daddies, and gym bunnies.

You name it, and you could find it at Arrows Down, the premier gay club in Soho.

Massive dance floor, basement stage for drag shows, and an open-air piano bar on the roof for the queers who wanted something a little less in their face.

A dude in a shiny pink dress with long blond hair shimmied up to me, wiggling between the two bears who had decided they wanted a jock filler for their hairy sandwich.

Something I was totally down for because, hey, a guy only lives once.

I was twenty-five, playing hockey for the New York Vipers, and hauling in a cool couple million per year.

Why not enjoy the gifts that the hockey gods had blessed me with?

“Do I know you?” Slinky Pink Dress asked as he rubbed his slim form against me. I twisted from the two bears to smile at Goldilocks. “You look so familiar.”

“Maybe,” I shouted to be heard over Gucci, slapping my hands on his thin hips, then pulling him to my thigh. He began to roll his hips, his glimmery dress riding high on his bare leg. A smooth leg. Yum. Just my type. Lean, pretty, and horny. “I play hockey.”

“Oh no, that’s not it. You do a commercial for that car dealership in Hoboken.

” He ran his fingers over my chest, manicured pink nails finding my nipples through my shirt.

I twitched, and so did my dick. “You’re so sexy in that commercial.

Want to come to my place and see what I have under my hood? ”

I laughed out loud. Probably too loud, but I was nicely buzzed. “I can feel what you have under the hood, Goldilocks.”

He giggled. I was hooked instantly. I turned to the two burly bears and shrugged as Goldi led me out of the club into a cool New York night.

The city beat thrummed through the sidewalk as we stumbled along, touching and laughing at passersby.

A few people turned to gape. I was used to that.

The Vipers were the New York team. And we all knew that if you made it in the Big Apple, you’d made it.

And I had fucking made it. Walker Hannan was pretty big shit.

And rightfully so. I’d suffered countless heartaches for this fucking sport.

It was time for it to pay me back as I deserved.

With cash, hot guys, and plenty of fan adoration.

I had a belly full of top-shelf whiskey mixed with poppers. Nothing big, just a couple to get the night rocking.

I pinned Goldi against the brick wall of a Korean market. We made out for several minutes until someone walking past yelled at us to get a room.

Bouncing off the walls and each other, we fumbled along, Goldi wobbling badly on his stilettos, until we rounded a corner.

Outside a small movie theater was a dude dressed up like some sort of squid.

It freaked me out for a second before I realized it was a guy in a suit and not a giant squid on the corner of Wooster and Prince.

I chuckled at my stupidity as I grasped a streetlight to help level out the wavy street.

“Oh look, it’s a squid!” Goldi squealed. “Now stand there with him. Give me your phone so I can take your picture.”

Being a moron who had a soft spot for men with big eyes and soft mouths—and also slightly inebriated and a wee bit high—I did as Goldi asked and tossed him my phone.

He smiled so cutely I was momentarily stunned.

The guy in the squid suit muttered something in a very Bronx accent before stuffing a ticket for a buck off a large drink into my hand.

I asked the squid what the movie was about.

He said a squid. I turned to smile for the camera only to see Goldi streaking down the sidewalk.

“Motherfucker!” I snarled, tossed the big squid aside, and set off after my phone.

It was a month old, and yeah, it held all kinds of things that were personal.

It was a no-contest sprint. Goldi in high heels versus a hockey player who creamed everyone on his team during off-ice speed sprints.

I dove at Goldi. He hit the pavement hard, crying out as his knees and chin scraped along the sidewalk.

People jumped back, shouted, and started taking video as I rolled Goldi over, took my fucking phone, and then punched him a few times in the face.

His nose crunched, his wig fell off, and four guys yanked me off the weeping thief.

They probably thought I was assaulting a woman, but to their credit, when his wig came off, they still wrestled me away, so good on them for looking out for the femme dudes in New York City.

It took all four men to keep me held to the wall until the cops arrived. Goldi was taken to the hospital, and I was taken into custody.

Things went sort of downhill after that, but I had my phone. No one steals shit from Walker Hannan.

No. One.

My sister posted my bail.

My agent called me to bail.

And now, a day later, sitting in the posh office of the New York Vipers’ general manager, I was pretty sure the team was going to bail as well.

Life sure can be a bitch.

“Walker, we need to do something about your situation,” Mike said as he studied me over the top of some thick-ass glasses.

Mike Gallows was an old-timer. He had played for Boston back in the day -- tough as nails, always finished his checks, and skated with an edge.

Like me, only now that he was wearing a suit and tie and not skates, his attitude about that edge had shifted significantly.

Along with most of the league. “This is your fourth problematic encounter with the police during your year and a half with the team. You were publicly intoxicated and have assault charges filed against you by the young man you beat up.”

“Two punches, Mike, maybe three. That’s hardly what I would call a beatdown.”

He took a moment to close his dark eyes, then reopened them to pin me to the wall like a fly.

“The young man is five-four and weighs a hundred twenty pounds. You’re six-four and weigh two-ten.”

“He stole my phone, Mike.”

“Okay, you are going to have to start addressing me as Mr. Gallows. I’ve done all I can to keep you on this team because you’re an asset on the ice.

Off the ice, you’re a fucking liability.

So, to that end, the Vipers are strongly advising you to enter the abuse and behavior program to get your addictions under control. ”

“Mike.” His frown deepened. “Mr. Gallows. I do not have an addiction problem. I was drunk. Sure. We had just won a big game. I went out to celebrate. Maybe I did overindulge, but one night on the town does not an addiction problem make.”

A vein in his cheek twitched. “As I said, you should strongly consider signing into a rehab program for at least thirty days. If you do not wish to avail yourself of the league’s program, which is quite good, I understand, you may choose a program that suits you better.

After you are released, you will report to the Rochester Copperheads. ”

My jaw dropped. “You’re sending me down for one little altercation?”

“Walker, this is four.” He held up four scarred fingers.

A lifetime of fights and slashes could be seen on those meaty digits.

“Four altercations that involved the police.” I was going to argue.

I was good at that, but when I saw the resignation on his face, I flopped back into the nicely padded chair I was sitting in and crossed my arms over my nice blue suit jacket.

“So, once you have completed your time with a counselor for anger and substance issues, you will report to the Copperheads. There, you will work on your game while attending weekly counseling sessions with a team-appointed anger management counselor. Then, we’ll look at your progress and stats at the end of the season to see if you’re ready to return to the Vipers. ”

“That sucks.”

“No, this team is bending over backward to help you help yourself. I know you had a problematic childhood. I also like you. I like how hardnosed you are, how you hit the ice with passion and grit, and how you can shoot the puck. So, to that end, go get your head pulled out of your ass, help out the Copperheads, and try to find something in your life that’ll make you happy. ”

“Hockey makes me happy.” I sounded like a truculent child, but it was the truth. There was little else that did, other than my sister Harper, but even she was weary of my shit and had told me so at full volume while driving me home from the first precinct.

Mike nodded sadly. “I know it does, but, son, there is a lot more to life than hockey. Try to find some balance. Hell, learn to meditate or do some yoga. Sip some green tea chai shit. Write poetry. Go for walks in nature. Journal. Find out what the kids are doing today to reach that happy hippy state and do that. Whatever brings you some damn happiness outside of the rink.”

“Mike, this sucks. We’ve only played ten games. The Vipers need me.” My arguments were weak. I knew it, but fuck, I had to try.

“I know, Walker. We’ll manage. Go fix yourself. We’ll talk next summer.”

That dismissal was as blunt as the crooked nose on Mike’s face. What could I do but rise, shake his hand, and slink out of the office like a whipped mutt? Nothing.

I made my way to the end of the corridor to look down at the fresh ice so far below.

The team logo at center ice taunted me as I dashed at the sudden dampness on my face.

My father’s voice hit me like a crosscheck to the kidneys.

It had been years since his death, but his words lived on forever inside my head.

What the hell are you crying for? Men don’t cry. Now get up off the ice and come at me again, and this time, don’t hit like a girl.

Hockey players didn’t cry either. They hit things. Hard. Repeatedly. And without empathy.

“Fuck you tons, Dad,” I murmured to the rink, the only place where I’d once felt some peace, and drove a fist into the thick wall of plexiglass before entering the elevator. The ache in my knuckles matched the pain in my breast, but I swallowed it down like a loose chiclet.

Men didn’t cry. Men dealt. Men grew a pair.

Since I already had a pretty big set of balls, I guess I would have to find another way to express my emotions without sniffles or snivels. Or fists.

If they made me paint with oils in rehab, I would not be happy at all. Not all of us wanted to be Bob “I am so soothing people watch me to drift off to sleepy land” Ross. Soft guys didn’t finish first.

We all knew that.