Page 9

Cash

"Brooks! Brooks! Brooks!" the crowd's chants. Hymns of praise echo into the rafters as I fly from one blue line to another.

The puck dances against my stick as I weave past the opposing team's defensive line. I break free and come face-to-face with the goalie. The crowd ripples into a heated frenzy of cheers and screams as I crack a shot on the net. It slices past the goalie's helmet and pings on the top post, tipping into the mesh.

The sirens go off. The crowd's cheers vibrate in the ice beneath my skates, and music booms through the Jumbotron. I shoot my fist in the air and slam into the boards. My teammates skate into me, patting my helmet and back.

I've tied the game against the Ohio Bulldogs, the team hockey critics said we'd never beat.

The crowd goes wild again, their cheers rising and getting louder as the replay of my goal is shown on the Jumbotron.

I glance up at it, my brow furrowing.

It was a wicked play, and I buried the puck hard into the net, but as I watched it, I had no desire for the spotlight that would come with my game-tying goal.

I'd rather not be here, pretending to be something I'm not when all I can think about is how much I've fucked up my life.

The announcer's voice comes over the PA system: Santa Anna Tornadoes goal! Scored by Number Seventeen, Cash Brooks...

We skate back to center ice, ready for the next puck to drop.

Sweat drips from my brow, and adrenaline pumps through my veins.

I glance up into the crowd, breathing heavily as I scan the sea of bodies calling my name.

They roar and throb with fervour, cheering me on.

I love being back up in the pros.

I am exactly where I need to be.

No matter how many goals I score or how many fans worship the ground I walk on, it's painfully evident that something is missing in my life. Or, more pointedly, someone. My fans think I have it all together, but they don't know that once I untie my skates and hang up my jersey, my life is a living hell.

For a brief moment, I feel lightheaded, my vision blurs and my hands shake.

I take a deep breath and ignore my rapid heartbeat as it pounds in my ears.

The puck drops, and our sticks tangle as I steal it from the opposing centerman.

A quick pass to my teammate on my right sends him flying down the boards.

I can hear my coach hollering my name from the bench.

It's time to switch it up.

Skating back to the bench, I step up through the open gate and sit.

Our trainer handed me a water bottle, and I squirted it into my mouth, swished it around, and spit it back out.

I wish it were whiskey.

I'm not stupid enough to drink before a game, which is probably why my hands won't stop shaking like a motherfucker.

I can't wait for this game to end. I need to get the fuck out of here and have a goddamn drink. My self-disgust spurs me to keep slamming more water. These tremors in my hands need to go away. Unfortunately, I only know how to get rid of them is to slam a glass of whiskey. This water isn't doing shit.

Thank God, I'm going out with some of my team after the game.

My teammate Jason nudges me. "Nice goal, Brooks."

"Thanks," I grumble and splash another bit of water into my mouth.

"Brooks! Get back out there!" Our coach yells at me to make the next shift change. I grab my stick and head over to the bench door. "Get me that winning goal, Brooks," he says before I bolt out from behind the bench and back onto the ice.

I pass, skate, and shoot for the rest of the game. But I can't catch a break. The tremors in my hands worsen by the second period, and an opposing defender is pissing me off. With minutes left in the game, he slams me into the boards, and I lose my footing.

Coach yells at me from the bench, "Get me that goal! Dig harder, Brooks!"

The coach wants that winning goal, but I want to smash that defender's face. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and all the pent-up rage I've been suppressing over the past few months boils and steams inside me until I see red.

I know I shouldn't do it. I've been warned to keep my temper under control.

But I want to smash that son-of-a-bitch for knocking me off of my game.

The faster I skate, the harder my heart pounds in my ears.

WHACK!

I cross-check the defender.

He flies into the boards, and the crowd goes wild.

He steadies himself and shoves me in the chest.

I whip off my helmet and toss it to the ice.

My first swing hits him in the helmet with a bone-cracking impact.

My fist stings with pain, and blood drips from my knuckles, but I don't care. I pound at him until my fist successfully knocks off his helmet. He gets a few swings at my chest, but before I know it, the referees pull us apart. He spits and spatters out blood onto the ice.

As the referees drag me away, I shout at the top of my lungs, "There's more where that came from!"

_________________

I sit in the empty locker room, head down, shoulders hunched.

I grab the nearest item— which happens to be my helmet—and hurl it at the wall.

The knuckles of my right hand are cracked and bleeding, thanks to the punches I unleashed on that defender.

I press my palms against my thighs and let the blood soak into my hockey pants.

I shouldn't have done it. Coach has warned me that I'm on a short leash.

The league is watching me, waiting for me to screw up.

I know this is my last chance.

I've made a lot of gains on the ice, but I'm still fighting to tame my temper.

And it doesn't help that Quinn's no longer mine.

The slightest thought of her makes me feel hopeless, raging, and wild.

I unlace my skates and then whip them at the wall, too. They thump against the concrete wall and crash onto the floor. I drop my head into my bloody hands and run them through my hair.

A glass of whiskey would be great right now.

If I'd had one before the game, it would have dulled my hot temper and kept me from unloading on that asshole who decided to slam me into the boards. Instead, I'm tossed out for the rest of the game. I'm waiting and stuck in the locker room until I get my ear chewed off by Coach.

When the rest of the team pours into the locker room after the game, my mood is foul as they strip off their gear.

Jason flops down beside me on the locker room bench. "Hey, Brooks," he says. He glances down at my bloody hands with a smirk. "Nice blow."

"I shouldn't have done it," I grumble. "I've been warned not to lose my cool."

"That asshole deserved it." Jason laughs. "You did what you had to do."

The coach debriefs the team on the pros and cons of the game.

He congratulated us on the win (Jason scored the winning goal in the last thirty seconds) and then asked me to meet with him in the physio room.

After he reams me out for thirty minutes about acting like a goon, he continues lecturing me on proper focus and not letting my temper get the better of me.

I walked out when he finished his rant, wanting a whiskey more than ever.

"You coming out with us?" Jason asks as we hit the showers. "We're going to Club Mirage. Nick made sure we got a section in VIP with bottle service. You in?"

I know I shouldn't go. I've been going out way more often than not lately, and being out at a club in the public eye with my history is a terrible idea.

But I feel like I need to go.

I need to get out and go somewhere else besides my condo, locked away in my misery, drinking alone.

And even after Coach just warned me not to mess my future up, my need for a good night out is overshadowing my ability to give a shit.

"Fuck yes, I'm in," I reply.

"Good. It's good to have you back, man. I missed you, Brooks."

__________________

The club is dark, deafening, and stuffed with boozing bodies.

.

.

on the dance floor, in the VIP section, against the bar.

I've been sitting on a blue crushed-velvet sofa, legs spread, arms draped along the back, with girls rotating on and off my lap. A DJ spins music from a small stage while my teammates celebrate our win with expensive bottle service. Jason and a few of my teammates dole out shots to a bunch of our female visitors. Of course, I'm not included because I'm supposed to be sober. Luckily, I hid a flask inside my suit jacket to spike my Coke and limes. No one can come to this type of club sober.

When no one is paying attention, I splash whiskey into my glass. One sip that's all it takes to steady my trembling hands.

The tiny brunette on my lap keeps her hand up and down my chest suggestively.

She smiles at me with her cat-like blue eyes focused on my crotch.

She wants to fuck me.

It's obvious. She's pretty, no doubt.

The problem is, I don't want to fuck her. And even if I did, I haven't been able to get my dick hard enough to want to fuck someone, not even this cleavage showing vixen straddling my lap.

"Anything I can get you?" she coos in my ear.

How about a fucking time machine? Can you manage that?

"No."

I sip my drink, watching another seductive smile touch her wet pink lips.

"Whiskey? Rum? Scotch...?" She pauses for a moment and bites down on her bottom lip. "Sex?"

I choke on my drink and brush her off my lap. She flops down onto the empty cushion beside me with a frown. Before, I would have tossed a girl like her into the back of a limo and gotten my rocks off. Now, I want her off of me.

"I'm going to pass on the offer." I clear my throat and look where Jason is doling out more shots. "Although I'm sure one of my teammates would be happy to accept."

She blinks and then blinks again. "So you're not going to leave here with me?"

"No."

And with that truth, I tip my drink to her, ignoring this girl's pout about me not leaving with her, and down the whiskey-laced Coke. It's strong, numbing, and precisely what I need to clear my head. I stand up and walk over to Alex.

"Hey! Brooks!" Jason yells over the music.

I reply with some similar greeting, but just behind Jason, set into the shadows of the next VIP booth, stands Theo, the Bruiser's Marketing Manager. He was also known as the biggest power tripper and dick shit I've ever had to work with.

When Quinn was an intern for the Bruisers, it was apparent he was attracted to her, and even though it drove me insane that he couldn't keep his eyes off of her, I also couldn't blame him.

Who wouldn't want Quinn? She's intelligent and beautiful.

She's the whole package.

Our eyes meet, and neither of us looks away. He's sipping a drink with one of my Tornadoes teammates, but I can tell how unsurprised he is to see me here. He would love nothing more than to see my career burn down. And seeing him here isn't good.

Keep it together, Cash.

"Cash Brooks," Theo says once we face to face. He takes a slow sip of his drink and glances over my shoulder at the multitude of girls and booze in our section. "Look at you, right back to where you started."

I clear my throat, feeling that familiar distaste for Theo spread along my skin from my chest to my fingertips. "What do you want, Theo?"

"Can't an old colleague greet another at a club without an ulterior motive?" Theo takes a swig of his drink.

"Not when that old colleague is you greeting me."

He nods, lifting his drink and taking another sip, studying me. "Did you enjoy the holidays, Brooks?"

"Holidays are for people who have a family. I didn't enjoy shit except an empty home and Chinese takeout."

"Oh, come on, you're Cash Brooks." Theo nods to the women behind me, pawing my teammates in the VIP section. "You just play more, fuck more, and drink more to make everything A-Okay."

"Screw off, Theo." I scowl at him, then turn away. I don't need his patronizing shit right now. I have enough regrets, and punching Theo out at a club doesn't need to be added to my never-ending list.

"Aren't you going to ask how my holiday went?"

I freeze and step away from him, waiting. The way his shit-eating-smirk carries through his voice makes me struggle to keep walking, and I suddenly become a little overwhelmed with the enormity of the question.

He knows something about Quinn.

"I spent Christmas evening at Hilton Ashby's place," he gloats.

Slowly, I turn around to face him and hesitate a beat before offering.

"No surprise there. You're an epic ass-kisser." My voice remains steady as I swallow the taste of bile. He doesn't have to say it for me to know he saw Quinn. I've never felt such a tormenting mix of protectiveness, resentment, and a blinding need to drink a bottle of whiskey to numb the pain.

"Quinn was there," he confirms and takes a long sip of his fucking drink.

Fuck. Everything.

My fists clench as I try to shake away a memory of Quinn in the late-morning sun, all sleep-warm and cheek pressed into the pillow in my bed. The image of her wavy hair was a tangled mess around her head as I watched her sleep. I feel ill at the memory and the reminder that she was mine.

I clear my throat and keep my face emotionless. "Great. I hope she's doing well."

"She's doing more than well." Theo stirs his straw in his drink. His expression remains unreadable, and I can't tell if he's gloating or maybe even speaking neutrally. "Accepting her offer of admission to Harvard was the best decision she ever made. She looks great. She's killing it with her studies. And she's found herself a boyfriend. A nice guy named Aiden."

I struggle to swallow the lump of rage in my throat. Did he say Aiden? That slimy little fucker she was friends with? I feel lightheaded with emotions...confusion, fury, and so much of everything...but I don't let Theo see how this news is affecting me.

"I met him at Hilton's for Christmas dinner," he continues, watching me with a sneer. "If she invited him, they must be pretty serious."

I don't respond; I don't know what to say.

I want to break Theo's mouth for even suggesting Quinn is serious with someone else. The thought of Quinn touching, kissing or, even worse, fucking someone else makes me see red. My heart is pounding so hard it seems to blur my vision with every heavy pulse. I clench my fists, resisting the urge to grab Theo by the collar of his shirt and throw him over the railing onto the dancefloor.

"Hey, Cash," a busty blonde coos from my right. "Who's your friend?"

"He's not my friend," I growl.

"Enjoy your evening, Brooks." Theo raises his glass. "And good luck this season. Everyone's saying you're going to make a huge comeback, but I can see you're already on your way to fucking it up again."

I turn away from him, my jaw clenched.

The only thing on my mind right now is the thought of Quinn with Aiden—more pointedly, Quinn fucking Aiden, to be exact.

It makes me sick to my stomach and green with envy.

My knees feel like they might buckle at any second, and my heart is pounding so hard I think it may explode.

I've never felt anything like it.

Knocking back the remainder of my drink, I am about to push past this blue-eyed babe and throw in the towel from this clusterfuck of a night when I realize inviting her to join me in the back of a limo would be better than sitting in the VIP section bitter and sulky.

"Want to get out of here?" I ask the blonde without an ounce of hesitation.

I watch her eyes grow increasingly excited as I wait for her to attempt an answer.

My eyes caress her shapely thighs and rounded hips.

With legs as long as hers in a pair of sky-high heels and a dress so tight and short it barely covers her crotch, she's about as good to go as any other puck bunny in our section.

"With you?" she coos.

The way her big blue eyes gawk at my crotch tells me she isn't about to turn me down. I bend my head, take a deep breath and whisper in her ear, "Yeah, with me."

"Yes," she pants out, almost orgasming on the spot. "Let's get out of here."

I pull my phone from my pocket and dial my limo driver's number. If I can't drink Quinn away, I will just have to fuck the memory of her out of my head for good. And this long-legged, sparkly-dress-wearing blondie will hopefully do the trick. Clearly, I am incapable of love.

I hate myself for what I'm about to do, but it's the only way to cope.

I give her my most charming smile. "Come on, sweetheart. My limo driver is already on his way."