“Oh, shit.” I groan out, remembering that it is a practice day. “What time is it?”
“Time for you to get your ass out of here,” the brunette snaps.
“It’s 7:40 a.m.,” another woman says.
I grab my jeans and pull them on, then pick up my phone and open the Uber app. I have to be on the ice at a quarter past eight. If I hurry, I can make it on time.
A blond steps in front of me, her gaze roving slowly up and down my chest. “Hey, my flight’s not until this afternoon and I’m up for round two if you are.”
“Ugh, don’t be such a whore, Mackenzie,” another woman says. “You don’t know anything about him.”
Mackenzie shoots her a look. “You didn’t know anything about him when his dick was balls deep in your ass last night, either.”
“I was drunk.”
Now that it’s daylight and I’m sober, their voices are shrill and annoying. I grab my shirt and shoes and head for the door.
“I have to go to work,” I say. “Good luck to whichever one of you is getting married.”
Did I fuck the bride-to-be? I hope not; that’s a real dick move. But those chicks were completely wasted last night, and so was I.
I put my shirt and shoes on in the elevator of…Caesar’s, I think? I’ll know for sure when I get to the lobby. I take full advantage of living in Vegas. I wouldn’t live here if I didn’t play hockey here, but I’m only twenty-eight, so hell…might as well live it up, right?
My coach doesn’t agree, so I have to keep my partying under the radar. Today, that won’t be easy if he sees me before I get changed in the locker room. My wrinkled clothes and bloodshot eyes tell the tale of how I spent the past ten hours.
When my Uber driver picks me up, I direct him to the player entrance at the arena, leaning over to wave at the security guard sitting in a booth by the gate. He’s used to me arriving in Ubers, so he waves and opens the gate.
“Thanks, man,” I say to the driver as I get out of the car.
I run into the arena, my head still throbbing and my throat dry as hell. The only downside to being a goalie is that I have to start practice earlier than the rest of my team. When I finish practice, I’m going home and drinking at least half a gallon of water, taking some Tylenol, and crawling into bed for a few hours.
“Dude.” Our team captain, Maverick, mumbles to me as I run into the locker room. “Cutting it pretty close.”
“Yeah,” I respond, pulling my shirt off on my way to my locker.
I’m kicking my shoes off when Kingston comes over to me, grinning.
“Well?” he asks.
I ignore him. That fucker looks way too well rested and hydrated. He didn’t want to come back to the hotel room with the bachelorette party last night because he said he had to get some rest before practice.
It was a practical call, I’ll grant him that. He won’t feel like death warmed over during practice today, and I will. But there are only so many years we’ll get to be twentysomething pro athletes living in Vegas. It’s a pussy smorgasbord, and I plan to keep eating up.
“You didn’t do it,” Kingston says smugly. “Just admit it, Pike.”
I dress in my practice uniform and head for the bathroom, Kingston hot on my heels.
“I choose Morton’s,” he says with a grin. “I’m feeling like a steak tonight.”
Leaning down at a sink, I splash water on my face, use my shirt to dry off, and then walk over to the five-gallon water dispenser and draw a cup of water. After swallowing ten cups in a row, I respond to Kingston.
“No steak for you tonight, unless you’re buying.”
His grin slides away. “No fucking way.”
I nod. “There were five women, and I got four of them off at least once. You said at least four, so my record remains intact.”
“The fuck?” He shakes his head. “One of them was a total bitch to you all night long.”
I shrug. “She’s probably the one I didn’t get with.”
“How do you do it?” Kingston asks, aggravated. “I get that you’re a good-looking dude and all, but…I just don’t know how you manage to do it every fucking time.”
“I’ve got the trifecta,” I say with a grin. “Beard, tats, and blue eyes. My high school teammates called my eyes Leg Spreaders.”
“If I grew a beard and got tats, I don’t think it would have the same effect on the women I meet,” Kingston grumbles.
“Dude, don’t. Your beard grows out patchy and shit. And I can’t picture you with ink; it just wouldn’t fit.”
He sighs. “I’m winning this bet, Pike. If you get unlimited ass, I should at least get a steak dinner. I’m going to have to find you more of a challenge.”
Our teammate, Alexei, approaches us with a smile. “You guys make me remember the good old days.”
“Yeah?” Kingston says. “Did you ever bet a teammate you could get any woman you wanted in bed?”
“Nah. I always preferred just doing it to talking about it.”
“Ohhh.” I laugh and shove his shoulder. “Guess that’s a burn on me.”
“I’m just kidding. And I don’t mean to sound like the buzzkill veteran teammate, but be careful, okay?”
“I am. Always.”
Alexei’s happily married with a baby on the way, but I’ve heard he used to be a big partier. A drunk driving accident brought all that to a halt, and he’s been sober for several years now. He ended up marrying the therapist he met in rehab.
He leans closer to me and speaks in a hushed tone. “Go get some eye drops from one of the trainers. You look like shit.”
I take his advice, with just enough time to spare afterward to get my skates and gear on, and hit the ice.
As soon as I skate onto the ice, my head feels a little better. The cool air of an ice rink always invigorates me. It’s the only constant in my life. I’ve lived in many places and had lots of different teammates, but for the past sixteen years, I’ve been a goalie.
After skating a few laps, I start my stretching routine. I don’t eat, drink, or sleep in ways that optimize my play, but I stretch thoroughly before every practice and every game. It’s not just a physical thing, though. Stretching also puts me in a good mental state for hockey. After all these years, my mind and body have learned to take cues from each other.
This isn’t the first time I’ve played while suffering a hangover, and luckily, it’s only practice. Drills are second nature to me, and my goaltending coach, Andy Katz, knows there’s no benefit to wearing out a starting goalie in practice. I always practice alone with Katz for twenty minutes each practice, and around half an hour with the team. Then one of our trainers, Rudy, spells me and takes rapid-fire shots for the rest of practice.
Rudy keeps me supplied with water bottles while I practice, and I drink a lot during my hour on the ice. I actually end up feeling better than before practice started.
I’m still going home to eat and sleep, though. I’m ravenous, and my eyes are burning with exhaustion.
When the rest of the team files into the locker room after practice, I approach Kingston.
“Hey, can I get a ride home?”