Delicious.
I swallow, keeping her coffee in my hand as I move around the counter. We move over to a pair of Victorian-styled chairs in the corner, which I’d set up for customers who might want to peruse a book for a bit. When she takes a seat, I do the same, lifting her coffee for another sip before handing it back to her.
“He’s just not my type,” I say, hoping she won’t dig further.
But this is Veronica. She knows me inside and out, warts, weaknesses, and ugly anxieties. “You mean he’s confident, gorgeous, and gregarious.”
“I like confident men,” I argue, but even I hear the lie in those words.
Her patronizing glare settles on me. “Please, girlfriend. You’re a solid beta dater.”
I wave her off. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“Yes, you do,” Veronica asserts. “It’s everything an alpha isn’t, and you tend to associate with men who aren’t very assertive. Let’s face it—you play it way too safe.”
“With reason,” I point out.
Her face softens. Veronica has seen me at my lowest, and all at the hands of a man who ruined my life.
She reaches a hand out, touching mine. So I don’t end up crying like a baby over her empathy, I snatch her coffee back with my free hand, even as our fingers squeeze in solidarity.
“Next time,” I grumble. “Bring me some coffee, and I won’t have to steal yours.”
CHAPTER 3
Wylde
Over the course of our first season here in Phoenix, the team started hanging out at The Sneaky Saguaro. It’s a restaurant and beer garden, boasting well over a hundred different types of beer on tap. A two-story monstrosity with a massive saguaro cactus at least twenty-five-feet tall running up the center of the building, it’s usually packed every night of the week.
I like coming here because the food is spicy, the beer cold, and the waitresses scantily dressed in cut-off jean shorts and plaid western shirts tied off under their breasts. The cowboy hats and boots are cute but unimportant.
The first floor is for regular diners while the second is for the drinkers. The Vengeance has claimed this establishment as our official hangout, so we get preferential treatment. Because we just won the Cup championship, that extends into the off-season as well. A call ahead tonight ensured we had a table reserved just off the massive upstairs bar for my teammates and me.
“Cheers,” I exclaim, holding up a mug of Narragansett lager. Four mugs join mine, then we each drink deeply to get this party started.
Well, not exactly a party.
Just dinner and beers with some of my teammates.
Single teammates, I should say. Definitely not my closest friends on the Vengeance, but we’re all brothers by virtue of the bond we have as players.
My closest friends are the guys I play on the first line with. The ones I spend the most time with. The dudes I can anticipate both their thoughts and moves.
But those guys are leading new lives with their lady loves, which means my time with them has become limited. I don’t hold any grudges because of these circumstances and, quite the contrary, I couldn’t be happier for my buds. They are leading their best lives, which is the way it should be.
I invited these guys out, some who are new to the team and others I need to try to get to know better. To my left sits Kane Bellan. He is our newest member, having been traded to us from the Cold Fury during the playoffs for our player, Rafe Simmons. Rafe wanted to return home to North Carolina because his dad was dying of cancer and our illustrious owner, Dominik Carlson, made it happen.
Kane’s a great acquisition. As a center, he’s instrumental in keeping stability on the second line. The team all affectionately started calling him Superman, not only because of his amazing skills on the ice, but also because he has that whole Clark Kent thing going on with his midnight-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and a jaw that looks like it’s built from granite.
Next to him is James Steele, the left-winger on the second line. He came to the team in the expansion draft last year from the Quebec Royals, and he’s one of the older players at thirty-three. The fans call him by his last name of Steele, but we just call him Jim. While he’s not technically single, he’s been separated from his wife for the last few months. I’d invited him out because if I hadn’t, he’d stagnate at home.
Beside Jim and sitting opposite me at our round table is Jett Olsson, a twenty-seven-year-old Swede who is as fast on his skates as his name implies. He’s the second line’s right-winger and quite the lady’s man. He’s been eye-fucking our waitress since she first came to take our orders, and I’m pretty sure he’ll be going home with her at the end of the night.
Finally, Baden Oulett, our backup goalie, is to my right. Weirdly, he’s perhaps the steadiest and most reliable member of our team as a whole. He plays second fiddle to one of the best goalies ever, our own Legend Bay. It means Baden has to be in prime condition at all times, ready to step on the ice at a moment’s notice and expected to play at a level equal to or greater than Legend. It’s a huge responsibility for a backup goalie—the pressure to perform is immense. While Legend took the vast majority of games this season and was never injured—knock on wood—Baden guarded the net on several occasions and was quite remarkable earning a .927 save percentage by the end of the season. It meant our team was formidable because we had a goalie who could easily carry us through should something happen to Legend, which was a commodity many teams would kill for.
These are my new buds, the singles, who I hang with while my closest friends enjoy the harmony of monogamy and true love.
I can’t help but snort, because while I’m happy for my friends, it’s not something I really aspire to attain.
I mean… one day, sure. When I’m retired from the game, and I’m ready to settle down. Until then, I get all the willing pussy I could ever want, answer to no one, and have the best friends in the world. Who could want more than that?
Looking to my left, I ask Kane, “You finally all settled in?”
The poor dude had to make a move across the country right at the start of the playoffs just two months ago. It has been non-stop practices, team meetings, travel, and games since. He’d been basically living out of boxes.
But now we’ve had a few weeks since the championship game for everyone to get settled into the off-season.
Kane nods. “Finally got everything unpacked, but I still have an entire room full of cardboard boxes I’ve got to take to the dump at some point.”
Kane lives just a block from me in another condo unit downtown, so I offer, “Let me know when you want to do it, and I’ll help. We can load it all up in the back of my truck.”
“Or bring it to my house,” Jim interjects. “We can burn that shit in the backyard while we drink beers.”
“Pretty sure there’s a perpetual burning ban in the southwest,” Baden points out. “You’d get arrested.”
Jim grins and shrugs. “Hey… what happens in the off-season, stays in the off-season.”
“Tell that to Dominik.” I give Jim a pointed look. “You’ll find yourself on the fast track to play in the Siberian league.”