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“Don’t take my word for it; download the app and poke around.”

Another raucous cheer from the hockey fans nearly deafened us. I glanced up in time to see Hart Myers gliding around the rink, pumping his fist with a triumphant smile after scoring the game-winning goal.

Asshole or not. That man has a beautiful smile.

I’d made up my mind by the time we drunkenly stumbled into our apartment with Monica’s plus one an hour later. It might’ve been the alcohol talking, but I didn’t want to put off college for a semester or year because my father couldn’t make me a priority.

I took a two-minute basic training shower and flopped onto my bed butt-ass naked to air dry because I was too lazy and drunk to towel off and dress in pajamas. Instead, I snapped my charger into my phone and downloaded Sugar Rush from the app store.

“Let’s make this money,” I whispered as I entered my profile credentials.

Hartbreak

Hart

Clinching the game-ending goal never got tiring, especially when it happened against our longtime rivals, the California Cougars. I smirked at the sight of Rick Olson’s blood on the front of my emerald green and white jersey. It was no secret to the fans that we hated each other. In fact, our game attendance was highest when we played against the Cougars. Fans flocked to our games, hoping they’d witness a brawl on the ice. They weren’t disappointed because Olson had it out for me ever since my rookie year when I faked him in front of millions and made him fall on his ass. I may have accidentally slept with his girl, too.

Did I know she was his girl when she approached me in a bar after a game a year later? I did. Should I have turned her down when she offered to blow me so hard, I’d forget my first name? Theoretically, yes, but how could I possibly resist an opportunity to get back at the motherfucker who always targeted me on and off the ice? In the end, it wasn’t worth it. She became another forgettable face amongst the sea of women I’d been with, and I had an even bigger target on my back. Olson swore he’d get me back one day, but I was still waiting. As far as I was concerned, he was all bark and no bite.

“Now that’s what I call a season opener!” Coach Wells bellowed as he entered the dressing room with his infamous tablet clutched between his fingers. He wasn’t a “techno guy,” as he loved to put it, and preferred the good ol’ fashioned days when you had to flip through pages on a clipboard. He named the tablet Susan because he said it reminded him of his ex-wife—a real pain in the ass.

“That cup is coming home with us next year!” Chandler exclaimed as he high-fived the nearest teammate.

“Hmph! Big talk for someone who spent most of the third period eating the board.” I smirked as our teammates ragged on Chandler. He blushed, but I didn’t feel sorry for him. Jace Chandler was a cocky piece of shit. Even cockier than me—something I never thought possible. But what made his over-inflated ego unbearable was that he was a mid-player by NHL standards; not great, but not horrible. He was an okay right winger, and to this day, I still wonder who he had to blow to get drafted by the Washington Warriors. In my opinion, he was one step above a benchwarmer.

“I think you’re exaggerating, Coach,” Chandler said.

“I’ll make sure you have a front-row seat tomorrow when we review game footage. For the rest of you, the Cougars were off their game tonight, didn’t have their star forward on the ice, and are dealing with a rookie tender. Do not let your guard down. We play them at least twice more this season, and they’ll be looking for blood. The road to the cup will be contentious, and I expect nothing but your best. For you well-seasoned players, you better tighten the fuck up because there are some hungry rookies out there on the ice who are looking to leave their mark on the franchise—don’t get left in the dust. It is never too late to teach an old dog new tricks.”

Our captain and my friend Marlon Clark snorted from beside me as he packed his duffle. Cap was pushing 34, and questions from the media about his retirement began floating around two years ago when he suffered a fractured collarbone when he was clobbered against the boards by an opponent. He claimed he had a few more years in him, but I think that was his pride speaking.

I loved hockey and couldn’t picture my life without it, but after playing twenty-two years with seven years in the pros, I was gassed. No doubt I’d have mixed feelings about hanging up my skates, but there was only so much wear and tear you could put on the body. Some days, I woke up and felt like I was 82, not 28. Hockey was my passion, but it wasn’t my fucking lifeline.

“As always, celebrate your win responsibly—no drinking and driving, no drugs, no fighting, and wrap it up! I want you back at the barn at 10:00 AM, ready to work your asses off. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

“Night, Coach!” we echoed as he retreated, foisting his tablet on the equipment manager as soon as he had the chance.

“What are you getting into tonight, Hartbreak? Playing DM Roulette?” Marlon teased. I rolled my eyes and slung my gameday bag on my shoulder.

Hartbreak.

I earned the moniker Hart ‘Hartbreak’ Myers because the women loved me. I loved them too—at least for a night—or for a quick fuck in the men’s restroom at a bar, but even that shit was starting to become mundane. I couldn’t tell you how many women I’d slept with over the years, but what I could tell you was that my poor mother would be rolling in her grave if she fucking knew.

The women I was used to sleeping with were all the same—the same in appearance, mannerisms, and goals. They were eager—hungry for a chance to be with me. I could leave the locker room, and there’d be a line of doe-eyed women who were perfectly tanned, despite the lack of sun, with long lashes and drool-worthy cleavage spilling from their tops. Some of them wanted a story to tell their girlfriends or the Internet. They wanted to brag about sleeping with me, not realizing, or maybe not caring, that I’d forgotten their name in the first two minutes after meeting them, and couldn’t pick them out of a lineup to save my fucking life. Some thought that because they scratched that post-game itch for me, there’d be something more for them: a follow-up DM, a plane ticket to watch me play, money, or a chance at becoming a WAG. Sadly, they were mistaken.

I never envied my teammates who were in committed relationships. For one, 90% of them cheated so egregiously that I lost respect for most of them. A few had arrangements with their wives who knew what they signed up for. They didn’t give a fuck what their husbands did as long as they could still shuttle their kids around in their luxury SUVs, go to brunch at high-end restaurants, swipe their credit cards at designer boutiques, and fly first class to some tropical island with their girlfriends.

I take that back; there are some rules.

No pictures or videos.

Always wear a condom/No STDs.

No babies.

Don’t bring any puck bunny drama home.

NDAs are a must.