Page 10 of Bleacher Report
Peyton? The name doesn’t sound familiar, but now a vague memory of exchanging heated words with a woman at the bar is starting to come into focus…though hazy at best.
“She didn’t ask you because she’s heard your post-game rambles,” Trey says, casually tossing a protein bar from my cupboard into his gym bag. “Nobody’s tuning intoTheBleacher Reportto listen to you talk about your nighttime facial routine and your moisturizing sock tips.”
Aleksi stuffs a throw pillow in at his side, trying to get comfortable, unbothered by Trey’s dig. “Don’t knock it, man. The ladies love a guy in bed who doesn’t scratch them up with callused hockey feet.”
Trey huffs a dry laugh. “Mäk, no woman sleeping with you is getting anywhere near your feet. I guarantee it.”
“Is that right, Hart?” Aleksi grins. “Then why don’t you go ask your mom?”
Trey scowls and then grabs a pillow and chucks it at Aleksi’s head.
Aleksi dodges it easily, still grinning like he just lit the lamp in overtime.
Trey’s not offended. He never is. Not about stuff like that. Probably because he hasn’t spoken to either of his parents since he was seventeen, back when he forged their signatures to enlist and left home for good. Whatever scars he’s carrying, he keeps them buried under layers of military-trained resilience and loyalty to those who return it.
“She walked up and talked to me?” I ask, my memory still failing to remember a blonde that I rejected harshly enough that the team is gossiping about it.
Trey walks over to the fridge and starts filling his water bottle with ice. We’ve got morning skate in thirty minutes.
“She tried, but you said that you weren’t in the mood to fuck her…I’m paraphrasing, but the word fuck definitely came out of your mouth,” he says, topping off his water bottle and then screwing on the lid.
The memory crashes back—her face. That flash of surprise, of hurt. The way she blinked once, covered it, then fired back like she’d been waiting for a fight all night.
If I’d been sober, I probably would’ve found it refreshing. She wasn’t simpering. She didn’t cling. She didn’t ask for a selfie or an autograph or the name of my hotel.
She was sharp. And I was an asshole.
Whether she was there as a fan or a podcaster—hell, even if she had been looking to flirt—I shouldn’t have treated her like that.
I was pissed about the loss, worried about Mom, and feeling the pressure of proving to Everett Kauffman that he made the right choice to sign me. The last place I wanted to be was in that bar, surrounded by noise, pretending to be fine. And when she approached me, I went straight into defense mode. Sharp words. Crude assumptions.
Though, in fairness, most women who approach me at a bar after a game are looking to hook up with me or one of my teammates.
Cammy won’t let this slide. Not when it’s one of her people.
I sit up, hanging my head for a second.
Aleksi slaps my back. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll get another chance to make an ass out of yourself in front of her at the auction in a couple of days.”
The auction—I almost forgot.
Kids With Cancer is a foundation started by Briggs Conley and his now-wife, Autumn, years ago when he used to play for the team. The Hawkeyes co-host two events each year to raise money for the families whose children are going through treatment, and this year, Cammy and JP convinced me to auction off a date with me to earn money.
I would have been happy to have just written a check, but where’s the fun in that?
Luka and I have a bet to see who gets the highest bid. He hates to lose, so I wouldn’t put it past him to cheat and show up in a breakaway suit with a man thong under it to get higher bids. That crazy Russian.
Though technically, this is a family event, so the new owner of the team, Everett Kauffman, would probably toss him out for indecent exposure.
Everett Kauffman is still a question mark in everyone’s mind since the first owner, Phil Carlton, sold the team to him this year. But he wanted me signed while he was in negotiations to buy the team when Phil almost passed on me for another player. I need to prove to Everett that he didn’t make a mistake.
“Great. Looking forward to it,” I say sarcastically—though inside, I feel a flicker of excitement.
Until I choked out on the ice last night, I was looking forward to the charity event.
"Get up," Trey says, tossing my gym bag at me, and then hands me a glass of water and two Advil. "Best cure for a hangover is sweating it out. Plus, Coach will have your ass doing drills until you drop if you miss morning skate."
"I hate you both," I mutter, but I drag myself up off the couch anyway. The room spins slightly before settling, like a bad power play rotation.
