AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I’m an asshole. It seems to be my default setting these days. I’m pissed that they assigned someone to watch over me, like I’m an insolent teenager, unable to control my urges. And I can’t get past it. Maybe I’ve made a few suspect decisions in the past, but I’m human. I’m a man. And I’m a professional hockey player. People have no idea what this world is really like. Yes, there’s glitz and glam and fame. I get to play the sport I love the most for a living. I’m paid more money than I’ll ever spend. We’re treated like celebrities because we can push a puck into a net. Men want to be us, and women desire us.
But with celebrity status comes downsides. Everything I do is captured and placed under a microscope. People think they know me because they’ve seen a picture on social media or they’ve read a salacious article detailing my latest escapades. But no one really knows me, not the man beneath the image. I’m placed high up on a mountain for my successes, but torn down just as quickly as I’m elevated. I’m judged for my actions at every turn, even if no one knows the entire story. I’ve learned that the world doesn’t really care about the truth.
The GM’s daughter was just another girl to me on a night that I partied too hard after a loss. Bunnies throw themselves at my feet in every city we visit, offering anything and everything I could possibly want just because I’m an athlete. The temptation is lurking around every corner. And with the tip of the bottle on those long nights after a game, my resolve weakens, and lines become blurred.
My entire life, I’ve gotten away with pushing the limits. Until now.
The funny thing is, I wanted to be traded off the Anaheim team. I’m happy to be in Chicago, playing with Ollie again. But it’s the way that it happened. I hate the scandal surrounding the change. I hate that everyone is watching me now, waiting for me to mess up again, like I have a black cloud hovering overhead. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells. I guess that should make me toe the line. It should. It doesn’t though. Despite the threats from management, all this pressure does is make me want to rebel even more. Push back. Show everyone that I can’t be controlled.
I realize that Emerson is caught in the cross fire, and if I were a better man, I wouldn’t punish her for it. But I’m not. She’s the enemy right now.
I lied the other night when she asked if I remembered her from our college days. I was just mad that she was in my space, so I acted like she was forgettable to diminish her. By the look on her face, it worked. We hadn’t known each other well back then, and we hadn’t run with the same crowd, but I can picture the night she challenged me at some random party. It sits in the recesses of my memories because most girls bowed down at my feet instead. But not her. Despite my current resentment, remembering her fiery nature that night still makes me smile. And I can’t forget the mural she painted on the side of the building downtown. The entire hockey team noticed it. Her talent was unmistakable.
But she came across as weak the night she moved into my place at a time when I was ready to lash out. I sensed her trepidation, and I struck. Then, I felt like the asshole I was. But unfortunately for her, my conscience isn’t what it used to be. And I’m not ready to be remorseful, even if her doe-eyed expression tugged at my heartstrings momentarily. She’s still the adversary who has infiltrated my space. I plan to show her who’s really in charge—and spoiler alert: it isn’t her.
I frown when I look at the other end of the table. The team is on the road, and right now, we’re dining at a restaurant across the street from our hotel. We have a weeklong stretch of games to be played along the West Coast. We’re in Seattle on day two of the trip. We won an afternoon game today, so everyone is enjoying the spoils of a good meal after a hard workout and satisfying win. The entire crew is here, which includes the coaching staff, trainers, and everyone else traveling with the team. Unfortunately, that means Emerson is here too. She was thrown directly into the fire when we boarded a private plane two days after she moved into my place.
Time to sink or swim, Doe.
But when I see her laughing with Cruz and Abernathy, two of my teammates, at the other end of the table, she seems to be treading water just fine with everyone else. It’s me that she’s avoiding like the plague. Abernathy is grinning at her in that creepy, predatory way of his. He’s married, but that doesn’t stop him from flirting with anyone wearing a skirt. Cruz is on the other side of her. He picks something off her plate like he’s known her forever, and she shoves his shoulder in retaliation. Cruz is single and always ready to mingle.
I glance away and take a bite of my steak, but I find myself looking back a second later.
After that first awkward night at my place, Emerson was scarce around the apartment. If we were there at the same time, she stayed in her room and avoided any interaction with me. The first time we spoke again was when we left together to catch the flight with the rest of the team. I’m not sure who gave her our itinerary, but I’m guessing it was Madison or one of the executive assistants in the administrative offices because she seems to know where I am and what I’ll be doing most days.
“You coming out tonight?” Tempe asks from my left.
Matt Tempe. He’s a forward on the team, third line. He’s a few years older than me and between girlfriends right now, and he likes to take advantage of time on the road to hit the clubs and meet the local women.
I glance down the table again. Emerson is engrossed in a conversation with Bastian, who’s sitting across from her, which is interesting because he speaks very little English. He’s French Canadian.
“Yeah, I’m game.”
“Let’s meet in the lobby in thirty,” he says, rising from his seat and leaving the table.
I nod my agreement and finish my steak and potatoes. I talk to Ollie about our upcoming games as I devour dessert. I’m swallowing my last drink of beer to wash it down when I see Emerson stand and start walking toward the exit. I throw my napkin on top of my plate and rise to follow her.
“You seem to be hitting it off with my teammates,” I murmur, approaching from behind and startling her as she waits for the traffic to thin out so she can cross the street.
Her chestnut hair catches the wind, and it blows across her cheek. She shoves it behind her ear. “I’m trying to make the best of a difficult situation, which is more than I can say for some people.”
“I’m guessing I’m some people in this scenario.”
“You are,” she confirms.
When we boarded the plane yesterday, I chose the seat farthest from her even though she knew no one other than Ollie. I’ve done my best to make this situation as uncomfortable as possible, and it seems she’s noticed. But she also doesn’t seem to scare easily, so I might have to up the ante.
“I’m not going to apologize for it,” I say.
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” she counters. “Only self-aware people can admit when they are wrong.”
She starts walking across the street. I quicken my steps to catch up, irritated at myself for chasing after her.
“Stop flirting with my teammates,” I order.
She scoffs, the frown deepening across her shapely lips. “I’m not flirting with anyone.”
“I saw you making eyes at Cruz and Abernathy. And what were you talking to Bastian about? He barely speaks a word of English.”
