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AIDEN
“Nice game, Slate.” Mason slaps my back on his way to his locker. “Might’ve been your best yet.”
He isn’t wrong.
I played a helluva game tonight.
“Thanks, man. We dominated for sure.”
“Hell yeah,” he whoops, swinging his white shirt over his head.
We wouldn’t have had such a blowout if not for him. He’s the best goalie in the league, holding the Renegades to a scoreless game.
He’s also the reason our enforcers work overtime. He likes to run his mouth the whole game. I find it comical, but only because it’s not my responsibility to defend our guys taking the heat for his chirping.
“You comin’ tonight?” Dane asks, running his hands back through his dark hair. That’s something I’ve noticed he does often.
Maybe I’m not the only one with things.
“Nah. I’m wiped,” I say.
A large dramatic groan echoes across the space, and I turn to find Hudson shaking his head at me. “You need to let loose every now and then, Slate. That was your best game. Celebrate.”
Typical Hudson. That man hasn’t met a drink he didn’t like. Or girl, if I’m being honest.
By his standards, I should already be popping a bottle, I was on fire.
Definitely my best game yet, and I have Cassidy to thank for that.
For the first time in a long time, I’m relaxed. Focused. My head was in the game and not even the chirping could throw me off. Maybe I should reconsider the no-sex thing because this is definitely the best I’ve played in a long time.
I shake my head, but as I do, I realize that it probably seems I’m answering Hudson. What was the question again? Oh yeah, celebrating with them. “Next time.”
Hudson frowns, but he doesn’t argue. He knows better. It won’t change my mind.
“Whatever. Later, man.”
I nod, allowing him to make his way out. This is one of my things. I’m the last to leave the locker room. Every time. I’m also the last on the ice and the last off the ice.
Why?
No clue. It’s just my thing.
There’s a pretty fucking long list of things.
From the piece of tape around my right wrist to the way I put my socks on before I play. The helmet kiss before skating onto the ice. Dunking my head in cold water to ground myself.
Sometimes it feels like my quirks are never-ending.
The need to check my gear three times. Not once. Not twice. Three.
Which is what I’m about to do right now.
As soon as the last guy leaves, I pack my gear. Counting all of my things and putting them in place. Three times. When I’m finally done, I finish getting dressed and make sure everything is perfect. Then and only then do I grab my bag and head to the door. Just like every time, all the sports reporters and fans have given up on trying to get an audience with me.
They won’t get anything anyway. I never speak a word to the press unless the coach mandates it. And I’ve never fucked a bunny. Well…not until recently.
I don’t take chances of choosing the wrong woman. I’ve seen too many teammates get involved with drama I have no interest in. Fuck. That.
