Page 3

Chapter 3

Would a Drunk Person Be Able to Do This?

Wade

“Well, you can beh-tenne-tenne-tah-tah-tah-dunna woman’s man…”

I straddle the urinal, bunching the bottom of my tee under my chin while riffing the Bee Gees’s timeless hit, “Stayin’ Alive.”

The rest of the team boo from the other side of the wall, where they get dressed. Guess they don’t like today’s song choice.

“How can you hate disco?” I call.

“ You suck !”

“No, you suck!”

Blake Szeczin, one of the starting forwards, scoffs two urinals away.

“Really?” He motions to my up-tucked shirt. “What are you, five?”

“Whatever, Szecze. At least I’m not walking around with a pee-pee shirt.”

Pee-pee shirt? I facepalm internally, disgusted with how easy it’s become to pretend. But there’s no point in showing the world who you are when they’re perfectly content with the part you play.

I flip him off and turn away. Should probably use the toilet anyway. Sitting backward on it had been good luck the past few seasons. Would be a shame to mess up the streak by letting Winnipeg score. I emerge from the stall and wash up, then bump my shoulder into Szecze while walking by.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there, pee-pee shirt.”

Again, with the pee-pee shirt? Get a grip, Wade.

It’s a cheap dig on the 5’8 forward. The other starters are all above six feet.

I pinch his cheeks and talk in a baby voice. “You’we just so wittle.”

He elbows me. “Hands off, douche.”

Jaeger, our captain, and the team’s resident grouch, glares at me behind his bench. “Wade,” he intones. “Grow up.”

My arms fly up in surrender and get to my locker, emptying my mind of every violent thought. Everything except wanting to cut the arms off Jaeg’s suit between periods. That’ll show him.

After trailing the rest of the team onto the ice, my first stop is to the goal. I leave a kiss on the T-bar and stroke it from habit and superstition. “Good girl,” I murmur. “You’re gonna be a good girl for me this game, eh?”

Its metal pings in reply, and I skate back to the boards for warmups.

The backup goalie, a trade from Vancouver named Sullivan, and I stretch together, smirking at one another at the groups of women fawning over our splits. We run through a few quick edgework drills before he goes to the bench, and I return to the net.

Landon hits a puck over, and I scoop it up on my paddle, popping it against the blade. The section behind me oohs and ahhs as I throw the puck higher and higher.

“When the puck hits the screen, like a tray of poutine, that’s amore ,” I sing, imitating Dean Martin. No one can hear how good I sound over the blaring stereo system, which is unfortunate.

Getting a signal for the start of the game, I toss the puck over the glass at an adorable, bespectacled kid wearing my jersey.

We’re at the top of the league, having won the Stanley Cup twice in the past three years, so tending the goal means stretches of downtime between explosive stints.

I fill the lulls the only way I know how: the steady entertainment of my own mind.

“Here comes the puck. Here comes the puck!” My excited chant echoes in the helmet. “Can I block it?” The opposite team’s center slaps a shot my way, and I knock it away. The crowd roars. “ Ooh , I blocked it. Take that!”

Landon claps and points. “Atta boy, Wade.”

“I gotchu, dawgy.”

A minute later, in the middle of my falsetto version of “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé, Winnipeg makes a breakaway.

“Look sharp, Boehner.” I trill out a Tarzan yell, diving to the side to stop the goal.

Jaeger finally catches up and rounds the net.

“ Now you show up. We got a bunch of dusters on the ice today. Damn.”

He lightly smacks my helmet for that comment and taps away the next shot before it gets to the crease to make it up to me.

“ Aw , thanks, Jaeg! Love you, Jaeg.”

During the last intermission, I strip the pads from my torso and scarf down half a burger and a Red Bull. Jaeger’s reviewing plays with Coach. It’s the perfect opportunity.

There’s no rhyme or reason for antagonizing Derrick Jaeger. He’s married to Skylar, my childhood best friend, and the closest thing I have to a sister, practically family. I can’t stop myself.

“Hey, Peter!” I shout to my PA. “Find me a pair of scissors, will ya?”

I unzip the suit bag hanging in the captain’s cubby and chuckle. Can’t wait to see the look on his grouchy face. Two snips and the sleeves are off, their remnants stuffed into my duffle.

Third period, my men go hard. Must be all the Coke they guzzled. The game’s been a shutout, and Winnipeg is visibly tired. One attempt to get the puck through my five-hole is unsuccessful.

“Your shot can’t repel a butterfly of that magnitude!”

I growl and puff my chest, lifting my arms in victory for the arena as half of it cheers and the other half looks grossly disappointed by their hometown team.

Fletch gets the assist to Landon’s last goal before the buzzer, and we pull together in a huddle, exchanging laughter and congratulations.

“Nice one, Fletch.” I tip my helmet up before my paddle circles his neck. “That’s gonna get you laid tonight.”

“Fuck off.” He pulls away and steps through the boards.

“Fine. Be like that. Maybe you won’t, but I sure as hell plan on it.”

Or die trying.

Press appears in one corner of my vision when I turn to check on Jaeg.

Gabe Finch smiles into the camera and says something in the mic before offering it to our captain to answer. My dick doubles. Shit.

I head down the hall to undress and cool down, grumbling curses at my luck, wishing there was a way to scrub a meaningless one-night stand from my brain in this locker room shower.

All the puck bunnies in town followed us to Byzantium tonight.

Landon disappeared after team dinner, probably to meet Indi. Jaeg isn’t here either, thank God. Sky unknowingly saved my ass from a beating after our captain found his newly-cut sleeveless suit. It’s not like he can’t afford another.

Most of the guys scatter throughout the carnival-themed club’s bar area, but Fletch, the nervous Nelly, sits on a stool and nurses his drink like it’s the last one on Earth. He jolts upright when my hand claps his back.

“Bottoms up, Fletchy boy. It’ll put some hairs on your chest.”

I take a long gulp of my beer and order another.

“It’s too strong,” he complains, stirring the gin and tonic. “And I already have hair on my chest. Can we go back to the hotel yet?”

“You’re the most emo wingman I know.”

He rolls his eyes. “Pick a girl so I can go read my book.”

My palm meets the back of his head with a thwack .

“That’s not how this works. I have standards.”

“Oh, please,” he says through a sneer. “You’d bed anything with legs.”

He’s not totally off. Good-looking people are good-looking people.

“Now, c’mon. Throne of the?—”

“Seriously. Stop with the book talk.”

“Hey, you like them, too?—”

“ Shh-shh-shh !” My hand silences his yappy mouth. “Will you shut up?”

A rumble rolls through his chest, and he goes back to sipping from the tiny mixing straw.

“Excuse me, hi .” A voice interrupts.

I straighten and glance over my shoulder at a petite blonde with big brown eyes and a rack to match. Her low-cut shirt barely contains her chest.

“Hey, what’s up?” I tip my chin up.

“That was such a great game.”

Fletch winces. I kick him.

“ Aw , thanks…?” My raised eyebrow cues her to go on.

“Kyra.”

“Thanks, Kyra .” I flash her a smile. She smiles back, biting her lip, pitting a sole dimple in her cheek. Cute.

Her finger twirls the end of an intentionally messy braid. “ Um , here.” She pulls a pen from her purse and scribbles on the corner of my coaster. “If you ever, y’know…call me.”

Kyra strides off.

I tap on the coaster, then wave her number at Fletch, who groans.

“What the fuck was that?”

“I call it ‘the butterfly effect.’” A gloat stretches across my face.

“‘The butterfly effect?’”

I lean in, divulging the secret.

“Once they see me drop to my knees on the ice, they can’t help but imagine my face between their thighs.”

Fletch scoffs. “You’re pathetic.”

“Says the guy with his head in a book and hand squeezing his dick every night.”

A routine in which I am very experienced.

He glowers and punches me right on the pec.

“ Ow. ” I rub the sting away. “You should try eating pussy. It’ll make you feel better, I promise.”

His entire face flushes deeper than the copper shade of his hair. “Can’t you be normal for, like, one sec?”

“Normal? I am normal.”

He scrunches his nose. “Aren’t you gonna go talk to that girl, Kyra ?”

“Oh, yeah.” My shoulders turn, but my feet stop.

Suddenly, I don’t want that girl, Kyra . Sure, she seems okay. She’s not bad to look at. But my eyes fix across the space at a pair of bowed lips, a set of freckles topping high cheekbones that won’t escape my memory.

They belong to the only woman I can’t have.

Damn it. Why is she here? It’s throwing me off. I should be taking shots from between Kyra’s tits right now, not drooling over Gabe’s long ass legs and the curve of her pretty mouth. Or her ass.

Christ. That ass.

Fletch is right. I am pathetic. Not for the reason he thinks, but still pathetic. I shouldn’t go over there, right?

Though she’s alone. My heart pangs. Where are her friends? Where’s her camerawoman sidekick?

She frowns while finishing her drink, pushing the empty glass away. It joins a handful of other fallen brethren.

Going over there would be a bad idea. I exhale sharply through my nose.

“Fuck it.”

The bottle and Fletch are both abandoned at the bar as I dodge everyone between me and her.

Asshole #1 beats me there.

“Gabe.”

Ugh. It’s that little-pricked bastard, her ex. I caught Kurt Vaughn cheating on her at a dive bar in Montreal mid-season a few years back. And for some reason, she’s hated me since.

She glances up before rolling her eyes shut. “I’m not cool enough for this.”

I’m tempted to step in, but Gabe Finch can handle her own shit. I’m a few inches taller, at least forty pounds heavier, and she nearly strangled me when I confronted her one New Year’s Eve. But she also kissed me after. And I’m not sure what I liked more.

It’s all very confusing.

My chest pounds as Vaughn gets in her face.

“It’s too late!” she says loudly, moving his hands away. “I don’t care if you’re sorry, and I don’t forgive you.”

Atta girl.

Vaughn takes a step toward her. It doesn’t take me a split second to be right there with him.

I wrap an arm around her waist as she teeters backward. My heart races at the surprised hazel of her eyes. She doesn’t shrink away. Instead, she melts into my hold. I savor how good it feels. Inadvertently, my nose nudges her hair.

“This guy bothering you, baby ?”

Baby? Where did that come from?

Her lips part and reconnect as she studies me. Gabe hardens her gaze at Vaughn.

“Yeah. He is bothering me.”

Vaughn’s jaw drops. “You’re with this guy?”

“Sorry?” I interrupt. “Do I know you?”

That should take him down a peg.

He sneers. “No, but I know you .”

I think the fuck not.

“C’mon, Gabe. Be real now. He’s like the fuckboy of all fuckboys?—”

Gabe throws up her hands with a sharp scoff of disbelief, stepping out of my grasp. My palms twitch, and I reach for her but recede. The skin there tingles from the loss of contact.

“Unbelievable!” She sways and jabs a finger into his sternum. “ You have the nerve to say that to me ? After sleeping with, like, half” —she hiccups— “of the women in North America while we were engaged and, more recently” —she points to someone behind him— “sticking your tongue down that poor woman’s throat?”

Vaughn runs a hand through his hair. “Shit.”

“Yeah, buddy . I saw that!”

This dude is scum.

“Listen up, ladies!” Gabe calls, cupping her hands around her mouth. “I have something to say about our boy Kurt Vaughn here.”

A curious audience creates a circle around the three of us.

I’ll let her have this, then we gotta go.

“He leaves behind pubes on bar soap, the toilet seat up, and won’t kiss your mouth after eating you out. His ego is so delicate, he gets jealous of vibrators.”

I choke on saliva while calling an Uber on the app. It’s only a few minutes away. The crowd breaks into sputtered laughter.

She makes herself appear taller, raising finger guns to the ceiling and swinging them like a rogue cowboy. “That’s right! A real man’s man , this one. I feel bad for whoever has to sit on his crooked penis tonight.”

“ Oh-kay .” I swoop in before we garner any more attention. People are already taking pictures and videos. “Let’s go, baby. That’s good. They get the point.”

I hate how easily that second baby slid through my lips.

She hmphs with pride and lets me usher her away, looping her arm around my neck and using me for support.

“Mouthy cunt.” Kurt coughs out.

I pause, positioning myself in front of Gabe. My jaw ticks.

The fucking audacity.

“That’s enough,” I bark, stepping close to him, then drop the volume to a low threat. “If the next words out of your mouth aren’t, ‘I’m a disgusting excuse of a human with a tiny, limp dick,’ I’ll jam a foot so far up your ass, my toes will tickle your throat.”

A girl behind Vaughn tugs him away. Gabe’s arm returns to my shoulder and tightens around my neck as we shove through the horde toward the exit.

“You can let me go now.” She twists.

“Me? You boa-constricted around me .”

I wave to the Uber, grabbing her just in time before she nearly faceplants onto the sidewalk.

“What’re you doing, Boehner?” She fights the help.

Great. Gabe Finch is a belligerent drunk.

“You’re hosed. I’m getting you back to…wherever you’re staying.” I swing open the car door. “Come on, Freckles.”

“Freckles?” Her tongue sticks out. “ Ew . Don’t call me that. Like, ever again.”

“Get in the cab.”

“No. You’re not the boss of me!” She stomps a foot and almost loses her balance again.

“It wasn’t a question.” I bring her hand gently through the hook of my arm. “Now get in the damn car.”

Gabe grumbles but finally listens.

“Alan?” I confirm the driver.

“That’s me.”

“Alan, do you mind changing the destination?”

He shrugs. “Sure, where to?”

I look at my angered company. Her arms cross her chest.

“Gabe?”

“The Fairmont.”

“You got it.” Alan nods in the rearview and resets the map.

She doesn’t say anything for the rest of the ride. She won’t even look at me.

But when we exit the car, Gabe clasps my hand and doesn’t let go while we rush through the lobby.

In the elevator up to her floor, she breaks the silence. “I really hate you.”

I nod. “I know. That’s why you’re holding my hand.”

She peers wide-eyed at the intertwined grasp, then releases it.

“Dick,” she grits out.

The elevator doors separate, and she tears down the hall. She’s a runner, too? Fuck my life.

I yelp when she pulls me with her through the open doorway of her room. “The hell? You gotta stop doing that.”

Another harsh shove has my ass sat on an armchair across from the bed.

“This is what you wanted, huh?”

“What?” Her hand flattens on my crotch. “Whoa, hey !”

“When you came over to ‘ save me .’”

I keep her away by palming her wrists. “Excuse me?”

“It’s what you do, right? Take drunk women home and?—”

“Listen to me very carefully.” I split her words and force eye contact. “I don’t fuck with women who can’t say yes.”

She wets her lips and lowers her head to hover over mine. “And what if I’m saying yes?”

I hold her at a distance. “You’re not remotely sober. It doesn’t count if you say yes.”

“No?” Gabe backpedals three stumbling steps and clumsily kicks off her heels. One would’ve taken me out if I didn’t duck.

“No.”

“Would a drunk person be able to do this?” She drops her pants, then pulls off her shirt, revealing all that gorgeous skin, her gait going predatory as she comes back to me. Her knees press into either side of my thighs, pinning me in place.

I gulp. She’s trying to kill me.

Her hands drag mine up her bare legs and over her hips.

“I want you to touch me. Everywhere .”

“Fuck,” I mutter, resisting any movement, but she’s surprisingly strong.

“Yes.” She hisses and sways forward. “I wanna be fucked.”

“Stop it. I” —my torso reclines from her— “we can’t do that. You said it yourself.”

Her nostrils flare. A ruby-red sear blazes across her skin.

“Know what? You’re full of shit, Boehner. You don’t wanna keep me. Kurt didn’t either.” Hurt quivers her voice. “You’re no different, another egomaniac fuckboy who sweet talks his way?—”

I cradle her neck with a firm grip and pull her to my mouth so she hears me loud and clear.

“You really believe that, Gabe? Go ahead. Hope it helps you sleep at night. And you’re right, I don’t want you. Not like this. Drunk and cloudy. I want you so sober you feel every inch of me, feel how I fill you up completely.”

Her breath hitches.

“Want you to feel me hit every spot deep in that tight pussy until you can’t forget it. Just like me.”

My eyes drift down to the panties pressed against my groin. “You think I can’t feel how warm and wet you are right now? Any other time you’re sober, I’ll fuck you senseless and then fuck you some more for the road. I’ll bury my tongue inside and eat you out until you can’t come anymore. But not when you’re like this. Never like this.”

My hold loosens when she scrambles to stand. Tears gather in her lower lids.

“Get out.”

I sigh and pivot to leave. This woman makes me want to rip my hair out.

“Whatever happened to ‘thanks for getting my drunk ass to bed safe, Wade?’”

“Fuck you.”

I linger at the threshold. “You’re welcome.”

She slams the door shut.

It’s 2 a.m., and I’m aggravated beyond limit.

In my defense, it’s not only because Gabe’s on my mind. Jaeger, the old fart, is snoring like a freight train.

The team got rid of room sharing, but tonight’s hotel booking snafu has us paired up. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this cruel and unusual punishment, but it couldn’t possibly be less than premeditated murder.

A stack of pillows on my face muffles an irritated groan. Smacking him with one does nothing. Smothering him would be actual murder. Then, his wife would murder me out of revenge. It’d start a Titus Andronicus string of revengeful murders. We can’t have that. I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Plan C.”

“ Kwaaahhh ,” Jaeg replies.

I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes before throwing on some socks and slides to jog down the hotel hallway for backup.

Landon Radek sleepily grumbles while opening the door. The left half of his hair swoops up and inward, unintentionally styled like A Flock of Seagulls.

“What the fuck, man?”

I take out an ear plug. “We gotta get Jaeg a sleep study or a CPAP or something. I can’t deal.”

He yawns. “Just roll him over.”

“I tried. He’s unmovable.”

Landon scratches the back of his ear and squints an eye. “Alright, let’s gather the troops.”

Eight of us circle the bed where Jaeger putters snore after snore at the most annoyingly consistent cadence.

“This is ridiculous.”

Landon keeps his hands on his hips.

“At least he’s got rhythm.”

My palm smacks my forehead.

“Check this out,” Szecze adds, standing across from our oafy d-man, Theron Olsen. They mime the push-and-pull of a saw cutting a huge log in time with the grating noises coming from Jaeg.

I snort.

“Wait, watch.” Landon giggles and pretends to start a faulty lawnmower.

The sleep deprivation is getting to me because by the time four of the guys sit down on the floor and form a rowing team oaring in tandem, tears prick at my eyes from stifling laughter.

They keep going while I record on my phone.

Eventually, the team stops, helps me roll the beast to his side, and the room quiets. We breathe a collective sigh of relief.

Ear plugs reinserted, I salvage the remaining hours of sleep before we move on to the next city and pray Gabe Finch isn’t there to ruin more of my nights.