Page 12 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

ME: I have advanced sex!

GENEVIEVE: ROFL.

Genevieve had rimmed me before. Maybe I did sort of remind her with my hands where I wanted her to focus on, but I thought she enjoyed it.

A story pops up immediately. Genevieve’s tagged me on a screenshot of the text exchange.

Who’s going to read that? My teammates? Other hookups? My family?

I drop the phone. Then set it on my charger and back away.

That night with Genevieve is my favorite jerk-off material. Now even that’s tainted.

Well, I didn’t like those women anyway. In fact, I didn’t like them first.

And Genevieve was focusing on all the wrong things. Teeth on my shaft. I’m a problem solver. That’s a good thing.

I go back to my smoothie maker. I jam the lid on the blender harder than necessary. How can they all be against me?

I thought I would have more contacts there, but I’m all about the hookups. That’s what players do.

I whirr my blender. The sound thunders through the kitchen, but I still hear Coach’s voice roar over the chopping, slicing blades.

If he wants me to stay focused, maybe he shouldn’t have yelled at me so much. I mean, all I said was that there were a lot of gay players on the team suddenly. That’s all. And yeah, maybe I implied Dmitri’s marriage was for a green card, but even the US government agrees with me.

I hate the guilt bubbling through me. I hate how all the hours I’ve put into hockey since I was two years old feel discarded. It’s not like I went to college. It’s not like there’s this great back-up plan.

My phone buzzes. Dad’s image pops up.

I don’t want to talk to him.

The phone continues to ring, and I grab it. I’m Jason Larvik, not some loser who’s afraid of glass and aluminum.

“Hi Dad!”

“Jason,” Dad hesitates, and I brace myself for the diatribe. I brace myself for him explaining what I did wrong, like he does after every game.

Because Dad used to play too. He never made it to the NHL, but he often explains that was because Mom got pregnant and her parents insisted they marry and Dad get a real job.

Plenty of guys in the NHL are married, but I guess they were lucky they weren’t burdened with an eight-pound bundle of screaming havoc and a wife without the imagination to understand that hockey was a great career.

Dad never became a millionaire in the end, but the fact I am one doesn’t seem to make him happy. There’s always more for him to teach me, and as Dad always says, that makes me lucky.

Still, I’m not in the mood to listen to him yell.

“I messed up,” I say.

“What are you talking about?”

Oh, no. I collapse onto the sofa.

I’m going to have to break the news to him.

“I’m benched,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“Fuck.” Trust dad to always be there with an expletive. “Is this about the press conference?”

“Yeah.”