Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 90364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Still, a billion hours on a flight with someone who hates his own son, even the thought of Anton losing doesn’t cheer me up.
When my dad played for the NHL, he’d come to the States after playing in Europe for a few years. He met my mom and had a quickie wedding and even quicker divorce. I like to tell myself that my mother wasn’t a puck bunny, but I’ve seen the photos.
Got the mental scars to prove it.
The only reason they got married was because of me. That’s not a secret.
Sometimes I wonder why I bother to make an effort with either of my parents, but as Dad likes to remind me, I’m where I am today because of him. He got me top coaching, made me practice six days a week, bought me all the equipment I needed and a lot that I didn’t.
I’m his protégé. His pride and joy … but only if I win.
After a trip to my dad’s motherland, I come home to my own paradise in Boston, and the last few weeks of summer are spent playing poker with the guys—because I do have friends in the league fuckyouverymuch, Anton Hayes—grilling on the terrace, hanging out and drinking beer and eating all the food we can’t during the season.
My man-cave of an apartment is my own slice of heaven right across from TD Garden. The location is convenient for game days, not so much for practice, which is in Brighton.
Anton’s right when he says my place is as insane as his, but there’s one big difference. They may be in the same price range—I had to look it up because, you know, it’s important to note the extra three hundred and fifty grand I dropped on my place means it’s superior to his—but where his place is put together and an uppity kind of rich, mine is laid-back.
His apartment is filled with art and strategically placed furniture. Mine’s got a beer fridge bigger than my actual fridge.
The overall theme of my place is dark wood and bright walls. It has character. Unlike Anton’s.
During my whole off-season, I didn’t think of him once. Not once. Definitely not every day for months. I didn’t pay attention to the social media photos of him dressed up at charity events or in casual clothes while he was out with friends. And I definitely didn’t wake up with his name on my lips and my hand wrapped around my cock.
Nope, nope, nope.
This is my denial, and I am happily living in it.
Summer passes so fast that training camp springs upon me in the blink of an eye.
A few rookies show promise, and leading up to preseason, I get a sense that we’re going to have a good season this year. I don’t say that out loud though. Never out loud.
That would be like walking under a ladder inside with an open umbrella and carrying a black cat kind of bad juju.
We endure a charity showcase, a dinner for the team and important people with money—all routine stuff. I haven’t even had to think about Hayes until now.
As if the universe has decided to fuck with me, our first preseason game is against Philadelphia.
And okay, I will admit that one time I did contemplate contacting him and trying to see him over the break. Not for a repeat, no matter how much my ass wants it, but to come to some sort of agreement that we never speak of what happened again.
We haven’t had the chance to have that conversation. The only reason I didn’t seek him out is because I realized I don’t need to face him to pretend nothing happened.
He didn’t turn me inside out. He didn’t fuck me so hard I felt him for days.
He wanted me to beg, and screw that. Ezra Palaszczuk doesn’t beg. Ever. Even with guys he actually likes. I will never ask him to fuck me again. And I won’t say please.
I’ve never wanted to voluntarily put myself on the IR list before. I’m coming down with a sudden case of food poisoning and can’t play. I accidentally threw myself off my terrace, and every bone in my body is broken.
Damn it. I should not be letting Anton Hayes get in my head like this.
Fuck him. Or better yet, don’t fuck him. Again. Because what the hell was I thinking? He sucks away all my awesomeness and leaves me a neurotic mess.
I am not this guy. I’m the fun-loving man-slut who doesn’t get worked up over anybody. One hookup, and I turn into this?
I stare out my window at TD Garden across the street, where I need to be in fifteen minutes to suit up for the game, yet I can’t bring myself to leave the apartment. We had a warm-up skate this afternoon and then got sent for downtime, but like my summer, it went too fast.