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Which I am, but not for the reason she thinks.

I take her hand off my cock and look around for my phone. “I gotta go.”

“Now?”

“I’m late.” Not sure how much, but from the brightness of the room and the quiet of the house, it’s too late.

“For what?”

“Practice.” Hopping out of bed, I spot my phone sticking out of my jeans pocket. I pull it out.Fuck fuck fuck. Thirty minutes.

“So after passing out on me half-limp last night, you’re not even up for morning sex?”

That doesn’t sound like me–the limp part. I mean whiskey-dick is a real thing, but in general, my cock is always ready to please andto bepleased. And if not that, I’m happy to eat pussy and show my partner a good time. A tiny part of me wants to tell her to wait for me to get back and I’ll make it up to the both of us, but another part knows I’m not going to be in the mood for it. Or maybe evenalivefor it.

Reese is gonna kill me.

AfterCoach Bryant makes me suffer.

Fucking great. My last act in this world will be having a limp-dick and passing out with a hot chick in my bed. That’s what finally gets me moving, my reputation, despite the impending berating and punishment from my coach.

“Sorry, babe,” I tell her, rushing toward the bathroom, “but I’m late.”

Woah. I sway, catching myself on the sink counter and close my eyes, counting to ten to keep the contents of my stomach inside my body. When I think I can manage it, I look up, catching my reflection in the mirror. I’m still getting used to the ‘stache. Every time I see my reflection it takes me by surprise, but today that’s not what catches me off guard. It’s the half moon of dark shadows under my eyes, and the dry and chapped lips. My skin, under the tattoos, is pale. I tilt my head and frown, thumbing at the red spot on my neck.

“You gave me a fucking hickey?” I glance over my shoulder and see her still sitting in the middle of the bed, scrolling on her phone. She shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

Jesus, the guys will never let me live this down.

Splashing water on my face, I try to wake up, but this is worse than any other hangover I’ve had. If I can call it a hangover. I think I’m still drunk. I’ve got a pretty hardcore reputation as a partier–I won’t deny it–but getting blackout isn’t my thing.

Maybe it was the weed?

Or maybe, like Reese keeps telling me, I’ve got to slow down.

That’s easy for him to say. He’s got this master plan and has been pushing towards it his entire life. He knows what he wants, and his goals align with his family, our coach, and his girl.

But I’m running out of time. Once these four years are up, the party ends. My fate is sealed. So I may as well have fun while I can.

No regrets, right?

Quickly, I brush my teeth, trying to remove the taste of cotton and death out of my mouth, then grab my Wittmore hockey hoodie and pull it over my head. My laundry is in a pile on the floor and I rummage around for a semi-clean pair of sweats. Chantelle watches me cram my feet into running shoes and shove my phone in my pocket.

“When will you be back?”

“Uh,” I turn the doorknob. “A while. Pretty sure, I’m gonna be paying for being late.”

“I can wait.”

Oh, Chantelle. Pretty, perky-tits, Chantelle. Whatever happened the night before, and from everything I can tell, it was a big nothing, is definitely not happening again. “Sleep in,” I tell her. “Or go get those waffles, but don’t wait.”

Her jaw drops, but I’m out of the room before she responds further. There’s no time. I head down the stairs and sure enough, the house is empty. The kitchen table cluttered with the remains of a hasty breakfast.

They could have at least woken me up.

I start down the street toward the arena. It’s walking distance, thank god, because I’m pretty sure if I drove right now, I’d get pulled over for a DUI.

One of the perks of living in Shotgun, the community just on the edge of campus, is its proximity not only to the university, but to the ice arena. It’s a former mill town, the majority of the houses ‘shotgun’ style. Rooms stacked one behind the other, so that you can see from the front door straight through to the back. Our house is bigger–The Manor–the former home of the mill owner.