Page 102 of Playing the Pucking Game
I fucking love my job. Playing ice hockey in the NHL is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. From as early as I can remember, I wanted to be just like my dad.
With a shitload of hard work and determination, I did it, and it’s the best fucking job in the world. But that doesn’t mean it can’t get overwhelming at times.
We’ve got not only the entire city watching us, but the entire country. There are thousands of fans out there relying on us, desperate for us to do the unthinkable and bring the cup home. That kind of pressure can get too much if you don’t find a way to push it all aside for a while.
Thankfully, I have the best kind of family around me.
My teammates are my brothers, and when one of us is struggling, we band together and do what we can to make things right.
No one understands the life we live, other than the men skating beside you night after night.
We win together. We lose together. And we do everything else in between together.
Tonight, I need them to take my mind off what Parker might be doing with the guy who booked a table at The Carlton.
It’s a solid choice, and it certainly makes a statement.
The guy either has money, or he’s the world’s biggest liar. It really could go either way.
But it doesn’t really matter which way it goes, as long as it goes badly.
Guilt twists up my insides for wishing a bad date on her. But I can’t help it. I’m selfish like that.
I got so fucking close to demanding she didn’t go out and instead spent the night here with me. But I swallowed down the words.
She’d have only rejected me.
She doesn’t want me.
I’m everything she doesn’t want.
I remember that all too well.
The rejection stings just as much now as it did all those years ago.
You’d think I’d be over it at this point. But it’s still there, reminding me that I’m not good enough for the only woman I’ve ever truly wanted.
“Linc? Storm?”
“Hey,” I complain when a cushion hits my head.
“Where did you go?”
“Nowhere, just thinking about?—”
“Pussy, no doubt.” Killer laughs.
“I dunno. Rumor has it that the legendary Lincoln Storm is going through somewhat of a dry spell,” Handsy teases.
“Fuck off. I’m just…I dunno, feeling a little picky.”
“Shit. If Linc is getting fussy over the women he beds, that must mean we’re getting old.”
“Speak for yourself. Thirties are gonna hit you.” Killer laughs, as if Handsy needs to know what his next birthday is. “Fuck. We’re doing something epic for that.”
“Oh yeah, like what?” Handsy asks, sounding anything but excited by the prospect of spending his big day with us.
“It’s in the off-season, so I say we need a vacation. Europe? We could eat our weight in pizza and pasta,” Killer suggests.
