Page 4 of Power Play
"Baby...we could do that thing you like..." The bottle blonde with fake tits coos at me. Stacy or Sally or something like that. She's saved in my phone as 'Easy Back Door'. So, sue me.
I should stop doing hookups in my own hometown. At least when we play out of state, their local hockey teams are recognizable, not ours. Most of the time. And there are no expectations of more.
"Welp, I'm late for practice."
I'm not.
But there's no reason Stacy/Sally needs to know that.
She hops up next to me and wraps a robe around herself while I throw my clothes back on. She bounces behind me like an excited chihuahua all the way to the door.
"It was good to see you, sweetheart. I'll call you."
She pops up on her white painted toes and kisses me again, hope and excitement evident in her eyes. I try not to roll mine.
I'm an asshole. I know it. But I also know Stacy/Sally probably doesn't even know my first name. Guaranteed, she knows my annual income, though.
The chatter on the group chat, though, is that the new physical therapist is hot. I'm not one to shit where I eat, but curiosity's alsograbbed hold. This is her first full day at work and I can't wait to see what the excitement is all about.
I drive home, shower off the mediocre sex, and get dressed in my workout gear before heading to the arena.
I don't mind an early afternoon workout.
I toss my gym bag in my locker and head to the main gym. I'll mess around with the guys, spot someone or actually work out and wait to catch a glimpse of her. If she's as hot as they say, she'll be my next conquest.
I know it's early and stupid, but a part of me is already excited at the idea. Hopefully she's a challenge. The whole forbidden/workplace romance aspect of it. I'll put my moves on her, she'll swoon but insist we can't because it's forbidden (queue dramatic back-of-the-hand-hitting-her-forehead), and then she'll fold like a table and let me fuck her in the storage closet.
Hopefully.
I just hope she's a little more of a challenge than the endless hoard of puck bunnies I've been plowing through. After Stacy/Sally, I've realized just how boring these hookups have become. It's less of a hassle to just fuck my hand. Having to pretend to give a shit, say the right things, compliment their appearance and then avoid the awkward "call me" or "marry me" before I leave has become a charade that's not worth the cheap release these women provide.
Yes, as we've established, I'm an asshole.
It's still preseason, so training is still fairly relaxed, but most of us who have been in the NHL for any amount of time know it's easier to keep a level of fitness during the offseason than to try to get it back after sitting on your ass and drinking beer for two months.
The gym is half full which is a good turn out. Rock music plays over the speakers, interrupted by grunts and the dropping of weights. Besides game day, it's one of my favorite sounds. I scan the gym but only see men and Lauren. Our other trainers, nutritionist and physical therapists are all men.
I pop in my headphones and hit one of the treadmills. The row of treadmills face the floor to ceiling mirrors so I can scope out the scene incognito.
A few minutes into my warm-up, the door to the gym opens and Ward ushers in the prettiest girl I've ever seen. I stumble on the treadmill but catch myself and look around to make sure no one saw that.
She's dwarfed next to Ward's massive frame, but she looks up at him and gives him a small smile. She's not conventionally beautiful. Her hair is somewhere between blonde and brunette. She's average height, maybe five feet five inches. So not tall, but not short.
Her body language is tight, shy, closed off. Her shoulders tip in on themselves like she's trying to apologize for existing. She's dressed in navy blue scrubs. Even her features are...average. But maybe that's what's striking about her. She's got the perfect girl-next-door look. Something I'm definitely not used to. The puck bunnies I fuck are all beautiful, but in a stunning, playboy bunny or fresh off the runway way. They dress and carry themselves to be noticed. To take up more space than the rest of the women vying for our attention when we go out.
But this new PT? She is the opposite of everything I normally go for. But that makes sense. I'm bored with the bunny life, so it makes sense I would want to find someone opposite of a bunny.
But then my heart drops. I can't fuck this chick. She'll fall in love with me. And I'll break her heart when I don't fall in love with her. Good girls weren't made for men like me. Or, more, I wasn't made for good girls. I was made for a good time, not a long time.
Suddenly, an empty water bottle smacks off the back of my head. I hit the emergency stop on the treadmill and turn to see Ryan staring at me, hands on his hips, annoyed scowl on his face. I take my ear buds out.
"Quit putting Taylor Swift on my workout playlist, Jonesy!" He shouts, exasperated.
And I laugh.
I love pissing that guy off.
Chapter four
