AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Don’t go,” she whines. “I had plans for you this morning.”
I stop her hand before it reaches my cock again. She thinks she’s being seductive, but all she’s doing is wasting my time. My irritation grows as another minute passes.
I finish tying my shoes and stand, dislodging her hold in the process. I don’t care if I’m being rude. It’s morning, I’m hungover, and last night is over. I grab my keys, wallet, and phone, shoving them into my pockets as I glance over at her.
The sheet is pooled around her waist, and her large tits are on display. She’s hot—there’s no doubt about that. She makes no attempt to cover herself, but I guess at this point, I’ve seen it all anyway. Only I don’t remember any of it. And I don’t have time for this or her.
“Thanks for last night,” I mutter, shutting her door and leaving her to sulk alone in her bed.
“Wait! Let me at least give you my number …” Her voice is muffled through the closed door, and I’m already halfway down her stairs.
I’d never call her anyway. If I see her out and the moment is right, we’ll hook up again. I don’t really care one way or the other.
These women are a dime a dozen. Does that make me an asshole? Probably. But the way they throw themselves at me, they aren’t demanding my respect. They want a piece of me the same way I want to use them. I’m under no illusion that this is anything more. They shouldn’t be either.
When the cool late morning air hits my face, I realize that I don’t have my car here. I didn’t drive to the party, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to steer a vehicle by the end of the night. I recognize the neighborhood though, and luckily, it’s at the edge of campus. Trying to ignore the pounding in my head, I start running down the sidewalk. Every bone in my body protests, and my muscles ache like I played a game last night. I didn’t. I haven’t stepped foot on the ice since we lost our ticket to the Frozen Four. I haven’t wanted to.
Two minutes after eleven, I’m running through the front door of the arena. My head hurts even worse, and last night’s dinner is creeping up my esophagus, but I do my best to ignore the physical agony. Skates slice through the ice to my left. Without slowing my pace or really looking, I already know it’s Ollie.
He’s the only one who would be up here, practicing on a Sunday morning. He’s headed to Chicago soon, but even if he wasn’t, his dedication to the sport is unmatched. I’ve admired his drive in the past, but this morning, it grates on my nerves. I guess in some small way, it’s a reminder of my many shortcomings. Ollie’s pursuing his goals with fire while I’m stumbling out of the bed of a woman whose name I can’t remember. And it isn’t the first time. I’m sure it won’t be the last. If I was half as driven as him, I’d probably be headed to the professional league next year too. Somehow, I’m expecting to make it on my God-given talent alone. It hasn’t failed me so far. But the stakes are higher now, and the competition is greater. I wish that realization was enough to light a fire under me. So far, it hasn’t.
I slow to a walk as I approach Coach Hardam’s office and take a few fortifying breaths, running a hand through my hair. I’m sure I look disheveled at best. The door is partially open. I knock anyway.
“That’d better be you, Anderson,” his gruff voice answers.
I push the door all the way open. “It is, Coach.”
He’s sitting at his desk, shuffling some paperwork. He doesn’t bother to look up, instead motioning with his hand for me to take a seat.
“You’re late,” he points out.
“My car wouldn’t start,” I lie. I find that the lies come more readily these days.
He pauses to look at me. His steely gaze judges my appearance without saying a word, like he knows I’m not telling the truth. I’m not sure how coaches can do that. They annihilate you with a hard glance until you feel small and scolded. And he hasn’t spoken another word yet.
“Did you run here?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling the sweat beading on my forehead. But I think it’s more from the scrutiny than the exertion. I wonder if he can smell the alcohol seeping from my pores.
“Hmm,” is all he says while leaning back in his chair.
I can’t tell if he believes me or not. The silence extends as he studies me, and I sit here, pretending like I’m unaffected by it.
He angles forward again, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “Do you know why I called you here today?”
“To talk about next year?” I guess.
“I got a call from the Falcons,” he reveals.
“Anaheim?” My eyebrows shoot up my head. The Falcons are a professional hockey team in California.
“Do you know another Falcons hockey team?”
I don’t answer his rhetorical question. I’m used to his sarcasm. But I’m surprised one of the pro teams is inquiring about me. I didn’t think we’d be having this conversation for another year or two.
“Their center broke his tibia. He’s out for the rest of the season, and he likely won’t make it back.”
I don’t follow the West Coast hockey teams as closely as the East, but I did hear that their star forward was close to retirement. I guess with a big injury like that, he’ll likely go ahead and hang up his skates. Which means Anaheim will be looking for a replacement.
