Chapter 3
Paxon
The fuck was that?
I press my forehead to my steering wheel, still coming down from that interaction. I’ve had my share of hot and dirty hookups, but nothing like that before. I was all set to say no, but that dude’s eyes had me locked in, and before I knew it, I had my tongue down his throat and my dick in his hand.
Fuck.
I really needed it though, and I’ll never see him again, so it’s all good. He said he didn’t even really know who I was, and I believed him. I can always tell when people are bullshitting me. Nope. He just wanted to get off with me and go. Efficient.
At least I’ll get some decent sleep tonight once I check in with Boone. Speaking of…
“Call Boone.”
My online system replies, “Calling Boone.”
The line rings three times until he finally answers, settling some of my unease.
“Hey, Pax.”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Swear.”
“And where is home these days?”
“Found a place on the south side of Mistone. It’s a studio, but it’s clean and safe enough.”
I bite my tongue to hold back my lingering concerns. “How’s the job going?”
“Not bad. You know it’s under the table, but I get paid weekly and it’s enough to cover my needs.”
“Do you need—”
“No. I don’t want your goddamn money,” he snarls.
It’s a sore subject between us, but fuck me, I’m a multimillionaire over here while my only sibling is scraping by.
There was a time when he took as much from me as he could, but now that he claims to be sober, he’s determined to go it alone, like some kind of stubborn pride thing. But I can relate. We share that trait.
“I just want to help if I can.”
“You do help, just by caring. I’m doing fine.”
“Then why didn’t you come tonight?”
“I told you. My job at work ran over and I didn’t want to come in super late. Great game, by the way. I caught the tail end.”
“Thanks. I’ll drop it if you promise me that you’ll tell me if you’re in trouble or need anything.”
“Jesus, Pax. I promise to tell you.”
My irritation ticks up slightly. After I’ve spent the better part of twenty years dealing with his shit, he has no room to be mad that I worry. I promised Mom, for fuck’s sake.
“Okay. Are you coming on Friday?”
“Yep. I’ll see you then, man.”
“See you then.”
The call ends and I blow out a breath in frustration. Something still feels a little off with him, but I told myself I’d take him at face value. I’ve lost enough time worrying about things I can’t control.
As I turn onto my street, my blood pressure starts to drop.
Home. The place I don’t get to spend nearly enough time at, but maybe that’s what makes it so sweet every time I pull into my garage.
I live in one of the posher suburbs of Mistone, Crestvale, and in one of the better neighborhoods near the city center.
I’m close enough to walk places when I want to, but far enough away to feel a semblance of privacy.
Fortunately, my neighbors are all high-profile people too, so I’m pretty much left alone unless I venture too far from home.
My detached townhome reminds me of the Brooklyn brownstones I always wanted to live in when I was a teen and first saw them on TV. I had a similar place in Philly before the trade, and finding this one helped me feel like I could make a home here. And I have.
Mostly.
It’s too quiet and dark, but that’s what you get when you’re a closeted athlete who refuses to drag an unsuspecting woman into his mess.
At my age, most of my peers are married and have at least a couple of kids.
They live in more residential areas, in houses with fences and yards and dogs.
I bet when my teammates get home tonight their houses will be lit up and warm, with people inside excited to see them.
Stepping out of my car, I shake my head.
I’m fantasizing again when I know the cold, hard reality of a professional athlete’s life.
A lot of the guys are miserable when we have a streak of away games because they miss what they left behind.
Others fuck around on their wives. Still others fill the empty spaces with drugs or alcohol.
Not that I don’t have my vices, but mine require a lot more discretion.
My cell phone buzzes in my coat pocket, and I hurry to grab it in case it’s Boone with the actual truth, but my teammate’s name lights up on the screen.
“Andres. What’s up, man?”
“Where are you?” he slurs into the phone. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
I snicker. “Dude. I left, like, forty minutes ago.”
“Whaaaatt? Yo, he’s not even here,” he yells to someone in the background.
“I already told you that,” Hen yells back. “He needs his beauty sleep.”
Andres snorts a laugh. “Gotta stay pretty, Bouche.”
“You okay, man?”
“Mm, yeah. Was gonna talk to you about something, but it can wait.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, man. Totally. I didn’t know you left. Why didn’t you say goodbye?”
“I don’t remember seeing you.”
“Oh.” He huffs, mumbling under his breath. “Friday, then?”
“Yeah, I’ll see you Friday. You good?”
“Yep.”
I hear some rustling and mumbled voices, then, “I got him, man.” Hen.
“Okay, great. Sounds like he’s having a fun night.”
“Or something,” Hen says. “He’s been putting the shots down. He’s gonna be hating life in the morning.”
“I remember those days. No fucking thanks.”
“Right? Alright, man. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“See ya, Hen.”
Ending the call, I step into my house through the garage door then close it behind me.
It’s unusual for Andres to call me, so my curiosity is piqued about what he could possibly want to talk to me about, but then again, younger players come to me all the time for advice.
Maybe the alcohol loosened him up enough to finally ask me something.
I shrug it off as I hang up my coat and kick off my dress shoes before bending to carry them upstairs with me, making a brief stop at the thermostat to turn it up a bit. Another cold night, but at least I got off with another human instead of having a quick, depressing jerk before bed.
Damn, that guy was hot. The dark red hair and beard were really doing it for me, especially when we kissed. There’s nothing hotter than a man’s facial hair when my lips are locked to his. Impressive dick too.
My cock twitches with interest, but I’m not twenty-five anymore so the surge of excitement is fleeting.
As I undress, the humor of the whole situation settles over me.
I’ve never done anything that risky. Any of my teammates could’ve walked up.
Or a fan. Jesus, I really let my dick lead on that decision, but he was so sexy and determined. How could I have said no?
It’s been way too long since my last hookup.
I keep most of my activities to when we’re traveling so I never have to worry about running into someone I fucked at home.
I tend to go for dudes who aren’t into sports too—easily discovered with a quick chat.
My type is anyone with a hot mouth and a hot ass, so I’m not too picky, but I have to admit, the super masc dudes really light me up. Like the guy tonight.
Unf. He was something else. He’s local though, so that puts him on my No Repeats list even if I do manage to see him again.
If he hangs at Chirps it’s a possibility, but unless he follows hockey—which it didn’t seem like he did or he would’ve known who I am—it would be pretty random for him to just happen to be there again when I am.
Nah. It was a fluke.
I slide under my bedding and fluff my pillow under my head, then swipe my phone open to scroll the highlights before bed.
There are already tons of pieces reviewing tonight’s game and the different players who contributed.
As usual, I get a mention for my dominant presence on the ice, and it makes me smile.
The other guys are commended for the way we managed the opposing team tonight, and as I scroll, I see some stuff about Krikowsky.
The media were equally surprised to see him back in play tonight after the very public suspension.
Instead, he didn’t miss a single fucking game, but that shit he pulled with Palachuk was unacceptable.
I’d never pry into my teammate’s life given the secrets I keep, but I’m curious as hell about what went down between those two that would bleed onto the ice.
They don’t play the same position, so it’s not a rivalry. It has to be personal.
I click off the article and go to Hen’s personal page. Sure enough, there are photos of the guys at the bar from tonight. Hugs, smiles, shots. It brings a smile to my face. They’re a good crew and I’ll miss them when I retire.
Just before I close out, I catch a photo that includes my hookup in the background.
He’s leaning against the bar, talking to his friend, and I study him for a few seconds.
Yep. Just as hot as I remember. He’s got a slight smile on his face that really softens his features and leaves me curious.
What brought him to Chirps tonight? Was he there looking for a hookup or did I just happen to be in the right place at the right time?
Memories of our brief encounter wash over me again, and my dick actually comes back to life, swelling in my briefs. I’m not gonna do anything about it though. I’ll just lie here and remember it all and hope I can find another experience just as hot in the near future.
Stranger things have happened.
The next morning, I’m skating around the practice rink, erasing all the thoughts normally clogging my head.
When I’m on the ice, I can let go of the outside world and just be me.
Cold air whips through my hair, reminding me that I’m alive, and while I’m at the tail end of a professional career, I’m still a strong, powerful skater.
The sound of skates hitting the ice draws my attention and I straighten up when I see our defense coach skating in my direction.
“Hey, Bouche,” he says. “Thought I heard someone out here.”
“Hey, Teller. What’s going on?”
“Not much. Just getting some skating in. I do that when you guys aren’t around.”
“Gotcha.”
“Nice moves last night. I’m sure Detroit players hate to see you coming. You’re like a fucking freight train.”
“Thanks.”
“But…”
My shoulders tense. “But what?”
“You’re favoring your left side again. Don’t think I didn’t notice. Coach did too.”
My stomach sinks. “It’s not bad, I swear. Just a little sore.”
“Did you have Doc look at it? Or the trainers?”
He already knows the answer to that or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
“Listen, Bouche, you know your body better than anyone, but you also know what can happen when we push too hard. At least get your shoulder taped?”
Nodding, I tap my skate on the ice. “Okay. I can do that.”
“Good. Everything else going alright?”
That’s a weighted question too. The staff are all waiting to hear if I’m officially out after this season or not. There’s at least three rookies waiting in the wings for my spot, but they don’t get much ice time since I’m still killing it.
Which leaves me in the same place I always land.
I’m sure I have a few good years left in me, but is it better to ride it until the wheels fall off or step away while I’m still at the top of my game?
One bad hit could take me out, and I know I don’t want to be one of those players the media speculate about, hinting that I’m past my usefulness and should have some dignity and leave the game.
But then what? I have no partner, no family, nothing to fill my time if it’s not hockey.
“Yeah, I’m good,” I reply. “I’ll see you at practice later?”
“I’ll be here.”
I skate off the ice and make my way to the locker room. We’re three months out from the playoffs, and if we make it, we have a good shot at the cup. That would be a high note to end my career on, but it would also be a little sad leaving and knowing I still have something to contribute.
I wish the answer would just fall into my lap.
For once, can something in my life be easy?
I scrub my hand over my face. That isn’t fair.
Hockey is easy. It always has been. It’s been my shelter through every storm of my life, and there have been many.
Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to picture a life after hockey.
I’ve never had one. The last time I existed without hockey I was still a kid. I don’t know how to live any other way.
With those heavy thoughts playing on repeat, I head for the showers. I’ll figure it out. I always do.