3. Chapter 3
I’m done with women.
“This is total horseshit,” my friend and now-ex-teammate, Lane Rivera, says. “I don’t want to have to work with some fucking rookie when we could have you.” The brown skin of his forehead wrinkles into a frown.
The other member of our group, Marcus Rhodes, shares a similar expression of disgust. “They’re really trying to get Fredrickson Mitchell? His name sounds like a goddamn law firm.”
My two buddies share a look before Lane’s dark eyes fix on me. “We’ll make him feel real welcome.”
“Don’t you two go getting in trouble, or else Priestner might trade you too,” I grumble, staring down into my beer.
“That Mitchell prick deserves it after that interview he did on ESPN,” Marcus says with a sneer before quoting Fredrickson Mitchell in a mocking voice. “I’m the best defenseman in the country, including the pros.”
The buzz of the bar swirls around us, but we ignore it, including the frequent looks cast in our direction.
But that’s what happens when three giant, famous hockey players enter a bar, even though we claimed the most inconspicuous table in the back corner.
One of the bouncers hovers a few feet away to ward off unwanted attention.
I sigh. “Maybe I’ll just retire from hockey and become a commentator or something.”
Both my friends look horrified. “Fuck no,” Lane says. “You’re at the height of your career, Reno, and you’re not letting those assholes take what you love from you.” He jabs a finger into my chest. “You’re going to fuck Priestner up the ass by having your best year ever. ”
God, my friends are good for my soul.
“Agreed. Fuck them. And I’ll bet Princess Tiffy didn’t even get in trouble,” Marcus adds as he clicks on his phone. “Yep, look at this.”
He turns his phone and shows us the screen, where Tiffy Priestner is posing with both arms up in front of the Louvre. The Instagram caption reads, “Daddy sent me to Italy this week!” along with a million hashtags.
“Christ almighty, she doesn’t even know which country she’s in,” I groan.
“And who the hell names their kid Tiffy and expects her not to grow up to suck cock in closets?” Lane asks, making me snort out a laugh.
Marcus scratches the back of his blond head. “Was the blowy even worth it?”
“It was barely a two-spurter,” I admit.
“I feel like I’m partly responsible. For the situation, not your abysmal lack of jizz,” he clarifies. “I’m the one who goaded you to get off your ass and get back into the game when the princess was eye-fucking you from across the room.”
I empty my glass and smack the mug down onto the wooden table with force. “Not your fault, bro. You know I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”
“True. You are a stubborn fuck.” Lane motions for the waiter to bring us another round. “You’re going to be fine. Dallas has some good players. Baylor Ward is amazing, and from what I understand, he’s a damn good guy too.”
“He is,” Marcus agrees. “I played with him in college, and he’s a stand-up guy. I’ll message him later and tell him you’re my boy and to take care of you.”
My phone dings with an email notification, and I pull it from my hip and swipe to check it. My eyes freeze on the screen.
“What’s wrong, Reno?” Rivera asks, obviously reading my face.
I blow out a breath. “It’s an email from the travel agent with the plane tickets for my trip. ”
“What trip?” he asks, and I raise my gaze to his.
My lips twist to the side. “I was supposed to leave for my honeymoon in two days.”
“Oh. Fuck,” he says with a wince. “You forgot to cancel it?”
“I guess so. Leia planned and booked it, using my credit card, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“I’ll just email the agent and tell her the situation. I’m sure it’s non-refundable, but whatever.”
I begin to type out a response when Marcus lifts a hand the size of a tire. “Wait. Where were you supposed to go?”
Lowering my phone to the table, I shrug. “Some island in the Caribbean. Like I said, I let Leia plan her dream trip.”
He drums his fingers on his lips. “Hmmm.”
“Hmmm what?”
He points his index finger at me. “You should go.”
I give him a dubious arch of one dark eyebrow. “I should go on my honeymoon by myself?”
“Nah, dude. You should go on a vacation by yourself.” He makes a rainbow with his hand. “Just think. Sun. Sea. Chicks galore… in swimsuits.” He literally sings that last word.
“I don’t know, man. Doesn’t that seem kind of lame?”
Lane shakes his head, obviously warming to Marcus’s dumbass idea. “I dunno, Reno. I think you should go too. You need to get away from here for a while. How long is the trip for?”
I had no clue. Checking the return date on the plane tickets, I say, “Two weeks.”
“That will be perfect. Two weeks of having someone wait on you hand and foot. Island vibes. Plenty of scantily clad women.”
The images roll over in my mind, and I actually begin to consider it. I wouldn’t have to cook or any other mundane daily tasks. I could just veg by the pool or on the beach and drink myself into oblivion while feeling sorry for myself.
Best of all, I could put off making plans to move to another state because I honestly couldn’t bring myself to think about that for a while.
“Maybe…” I allow, and they both pounce, rattling off all the reasons I should go.
It took thirty minutes and two more beers before I finally relented. “All right, all right. I’ll go. But only so you two will shut the fuck up about jet skiing and fresh fish.”
Lane smacks me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit!”
“But absolutely no women. They’re nothing but trouble,” I inform them with a final slash of my hand. “I’m done with women.”