Forbidden Hockey Shot

1. A Checklist for Debauchery

A CHECKLIST FOR DEBAUCHERY

CHELSEA

Here goes nothing.

With a steadying breath, I unbuckle my seatbelt, ignoring the sudden lack of gravity in my stomach.

I turn to face my chauffeur-slash-moral support. “How do my boobs look?”

“They are definitely putting the wonder in Wonderbra.” Shanna sends me a worried look from across the darkened interior of her Jetta. “Are you sure about this? I mean, I know you’re upset that Andrew got the promotion instead of you—”

The reminder of my brother’s good news has me digging my manicure into my palms.

“—but there’s still time to drown your sorrows with a vintage romcom and a chocolate milkshake. My treat.”

My best friend’s suggestion of sweatpants and a sugar-high sounds so good that I almost relent. But I force myself to stay the course, flipping down the visor and reapplying my Chapstick in the light of the vanity mirror. “No. That’s how good girls spend their Friday nights.”

Shanna sighs. “I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but we are good girls.

You made a checklist for your quote-unquote spontaneous night of sin that’s so detailed it includes a shaving diagram.

I bailed on being your wingman because I have to work on my thesis tomorrow, and if I don’t get to the library before eight a.m., that creepy TA always steals my favorite study carrel. ”

I tuck the tube of lip balm back into my purse next to the breath mints and an extra pair of undies. Check and check.

“I love you like a sister, so please don’t take this the wrong way, but you suck at being the devil on my shoulder.” The insult is punctuated by the thwack of the visor against the roof. When I open the door, the interior light reveals I’ve done nothing to calm my best friend’s misgivings.

Her slight frown and manic twisting of a lock of her blonde hair around her index finger are both sure signs she’s worried about my adventure in debauchery.

In retrospect, Shanna might not have been the best choice to support me on my quest to let loose. I definitely should have sprung for an Uber.

My black knee boots with the three-inch heels are more about form than function, purchased specifically for tonight, and I have to brace myself on the car door for a second when I crawl out of the vehicle and bobble on the snowy pavement.

It’s not easy dressing sexy in Missoula, Montana in January. The icy air slips through the weave of my sweater, raising goosebumps across my back, but there’s no way I’m going to be able to flirt lugging around a parka, so mild frostbite is the trade off. “Wish me luck.”

“Have you got your phone?” Shanna leans toward the passenger seat to maintain eye contact.

“Make sure you turn on location sharing so if you get picked up by a serial killer, I can tell the police your last known whereabouts. If they find your body fast enough, your dad can have an open casket at the funeral.”

It’s a joke. I know it is.

Hell, I even understand why she’s worried about me, but I can’t let her doubt win.

“I know you think I’m making a mistake, but I just…” I try to find the words for this trapped, claustrophobic headspace that I’m so desperate to escape. “Being good all the time has gotten me nowhere.”

There’s heartbreak in her eyes. “That’s not true.”

“My brother is the world’s least responsible man, and now he not only has more life experience and better party stories than me, he also outranks me.

It might not make sense, but I want to see what I’ve been missing out on.

And I promise, tomorrow I’ll go back to being punctual, accountable, responsible, old me. ”

Shanna sighs. “Couldn’t you just put a pink streak in your hair? Or steal some eyeshadow from the drugstore or something?”

Despite my nerves, I force a smile. “I’m going to be okay. People have one-night stands all the time.”

The reminder is as much for me as for Shanna.

“I know, I know. You have a condom, right?”

I reach into my push-up-assisted cleavage and pull out the foil square, brandishing it with a flourish, like some sort of sex-positive magician.

“Are you sure you should keep it in your bra? I heard body heat can break down a prophylactic and—”

“Stop worrying. The whole idea is that it won’t be in there for long.” I tuck it back into the red lace. “Look, I’m not trying to get it on in a back alley with some tattooed heartbreaker who smells like whiskey and regret.”

I gesture at myself. “I’m still me. I did the research and picked a classy hotel in the good part of town during a marketing conference. Every man in there will be gainfully employed and slightly jet-lagged. As far as wild nights are concerned, this one has training wheels.”

She sighs in defeat. “Watch for wedding rings. Text me so I know you’re safe.”

It takes her a few seconds, but she comes through in the end.

“You got this.”

“I got this.”

I push the door closed and watch until the Jetta’s tail lights disappear from view.

“I got this,” I repeat. With the fortification of a deep, icy breath, I approach the imposing front entrance of the Hotel Burke, the carefully chosen, high-class, non-NHL-affiliated location for my fall from good-girldom.

One night of rebellion, no self-imposed two-drink maximum, and every intention of finding some hot businessman to fit the condom in my bra—the Cinder-fella in my own little X-rated fairy tale.

Some inner-responsibility alarm clangs in my brain, reminding me two drinks is plenty. I work tomorrow, and showing up to the Ice Gala and Silent Auction hungover is not okay.

It’s not only the Montana Wolfpack Community Foundation’s biggest fundraiser of the year, but I’m the event director.

Everything has to be perfect. Which reminds me I need to confirm the ice sculpture delivery has been bumped an hour now that The Grand Meridian can’t give us lobby space until... No.

I give my head a shake, dislodging the thought. I can be responsible tomorrow.

Tonight, I’m getting laid.

The blunt thought rocks my confidence. I am so out of my element here.

I probably should have gotten this kind of stuff out of my system in college.

But three days into my first semester, I met Dustin. He was safe, and steady, and checked all my boxes. In return, I was the perfect low-maintenance girlfriend—patient, understanding, never too demanding. All the things he told me were important to him.

And then he left me for someone high-maintenance enough to ask for what she wanted.

Almost five years of my life ended with the utmost civility and absolutely no passion.

Passion. I shiver again, but this time, it has nothing to do with the biting Montana wind.

I’m doing this.

An elderly man with a cane and a fedora doffs his hat to me with a gentlemanly bow as I pass, and though he’s a little outside my ideal age range, I appreciate his vote of confidence.

I let the small win propel me through the fancy brass and glass door the doorman sweeps out of my way as I approach, and I notch my chin up as I make my way through the marble-tiled lobby toward the lounge.

I deserve this fantasy. The one that revs me up and, combined with my vibrator, gets me off.

One night with a handsome stranger. No names. No commitments. No regrets.

Twenty-seven minutes later, my bravado has taken a big hit, and my fantasy is fast careening into the realm of nightmares. I’m awash in a sea of small talk, and while the handful of men who approach are unfailingly polite, the whole thing seems very... flat.

Where’s the sexy spark? The heat of desire?

According to my plan, I should be sixteen minutes into an intense flirting session by now. Yet here I am, almost half an hour in, and I still haven’t managed the first item on my to-do list: locate a sexy, interesting man.

I have, however, discovered there are a surprising number of men my dad’s age in marketing.

Sigh.

Of the eligible contenders so far, my first suitor uses so much gel he could give a Ken doll a run for his money.

The second guy assures me he has an open marriage and his wife definitely wouldn’t mind us “talking.”

And bachelor number three reminds me so much of my ex that I know all that awaits me upstairs with him is half a blowjob and ten minutes of missionary with a zero percent chance of breaking a sweat.

Double sigh.

My phone buzzes, and I fish it out of my purse. It’s a text from Andrew. Asking what time the gala starts tomorrow night. The man who got my promotion doesn’t even know what time the event starts.

I bypass anger and swan dive right into defeat.

It wouldn't hurt to remind everyone where to be and when to be there. My dad, the coaching staff, the team—God, I should order Jace Decker a car service or he’ll definitely be late. I make a quick note of it on my phone.

Also, a double-check of the catering menu would put my mind at ease… aaand I’m doing it again.

No more shop talk.

A quick glance around confirms plenty of other people are getting their flirt on.

Is it me? Am I spectacularly bad at this?

These are high-quality men in high-quality jobs. Surely as a single woman with a functioning libido and a great pair of boots, I can find someone worthy among them. Someone to inspire the nipple-tingling, thigh-shaking lust I so desperately crave.

Honestly. How do people do this?

As if in answer, the familiar bar chant of, “Shot! Shot! Shot!” rings out from a particularly boisterous table on the far side of the hotel lounge.

Alcohol, I decide, getting to my feet. Alcohol will help.