Library

4. MILES

FOUR

MILES

“Say you’re proud of me. Just once.”

Stoll chuckles and shoves me from the side, almost sending me into the doorframe as we leave our last day of training camp. “You know what I miss about Czuchry? He didn’t talk.”

I humpf. “No, he poisoned my water with turmeric instead.” It might have only been one time, but you don’t forget attempted murder.

“Eh, turmeric is all right,” Bilson says.

I whirl on him. “You actually like that stuff?”

“One of my ex-wives was really into the all-natural life.”

“Maybe I need to ask for a trade.”

“Good luck,” Stoll says. “No one is going to want to be saddled with an unproven goalie who already has a cocky streak.”

“No love.” I throw my hands up. “No love from anyone.”

But I’m talking out of my ass because we’re through training camp—which I dominated—and half of my team are still wearing the bracelets I made them.

“Don’t let a shot in first game, and I’ll tell you I love you.” Stoll’s going to be eating his words.

“Annette and I have got this.”

“Who’s Annette?” Bilson looks my way. “One of your rocks?”

“Why would a rock be called Annette?” On what planet does that make sense?

“Then—” He face-palms. “Oh. A net.”

“Yes.”

“You named your posts?”

“Obviously.”

“Next, you’re going to be telling me you named your stick.”

“Which one?” Who doesn’t name their stick? “What am I talking about? They’re both Cobra.”

“There’s a story there, and I don’t want to know it.” He turns to Stoll. “United Beerhouse?”

“See you there in ten.”

The three of us split off for our cars before I think better of it. If I’m drinking, I don’t want to be driving, and after a long-ass dry spell this off-season, I’d like a night of release before we get into our preseason games. My truck can wait here for the night. I redirect toward Stoll, but he’s already pulling out, so I head for Bilson’s car instead.

He hasn’t turned it on, and when I get closer, I can tell it’s because he’s scrolling on his phone. He’s so engrossed in his screen that when I pop open the passenger-side door, he jumps.

“Shit, Rook. What are you doing?”

“Getting a ride.”

Bilson thankfully doesn’t boot me out of his car—his very shiny, very expensive car. Exactly the kind of thing I’m going to be able to afford on my contract, and considering my meager salary in the AHL, I’m still struggling to believe this much money is real.

I wait for him to finish texting and toss his phone in the center console.

“How are you finding Nashville?” I ask.

“It’s not as manly as I’d like.”

“Umm …”

He turns the car on. “Don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of women. Practically everywhere. The grocery store. My hotel foyer. Even at the arena. I can’t escape them.”

My gaze rakes over his face as I try to figure out what he means by that. Too many women … hangs out with Aleks Emerson’s queer friends. The light in my brain clicks on. “Ohhh. Because you prefer men? That’s cool with me, man.”

“What?” Bilson yelps, just about breaking the sound barrier. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It’s either that or you’re a chauvinistic dick weed, so which is it?”

“Neither. I love women. Too much. That’s the problem.”

All his past divorces support that theory. “Must be hard at your age. Loving all the pretty young things and not being able to score.”

“Fuck you, I score plenty.”

“Yet to see evidence of that.”

“What are you doing in my car again?”

I recline the seat and tuck my hands behind my head, getting comfy. “Catching a ride. Unlike some people in this car, I’m gonna get laid tonight.”

Bilson’s hands tighten on the wheel. “Have fun. I’m on a … a celibacy kick.”

“Sure you are, bro.”

“No, really.”

“Uh-huh.” It’s cute how desperately he’s trying to sell it. “I really don’t care if you strike out or not. My only concerns are my own dick.”

“Cobra?”

I push down on my crotch. “Shh, don’t summon him!” I swear to God, he rolls his eyes at me. Next time, I won’t bother to give him the heads-up. “Look, I’m just saying that it makes sense, you know? You’re not in your prime anymore, and when a girl sees you and then sees me, well …”

His head whips around so fast he almost steers us off the road. “Wait. You think you’re hotter than me?”

“Hotter, more charismatic, know what to do with my stick …”

“You’re a puppy compared to me. Women love a man with experience, who they don’t have to coach in how to give them a climax.”

I give him an exaggerated cringe. “Is that what happened with your ex-wives?” Emphasis on the plural. “Couldn’t find the button?”

“Sex wasn’t our issue.”

“Just yours, then, huh?”

“You’re very confident for a guy who only recently got off his training skates.”

“At least I don’t need a walking frame out there.”

“These old jokes are fun,” he says.

I sure think so.

“Next time, you can walk.”

“Like you did?” I ask. “For three miles in the snow every day?”

“No one wants three of you that desperately.”

“Ooh, dad jokes.” The car slows as Bilson pulls up around the corner from the bar. “But if you really want to know which of us is hotter, there’s an easy solution.”

“What’s that?” He switches off the car and looks at me.

“See who can get the most numbers tonight. It’s going to be busy, and let’s face it, none of our other teammates would give me a run for my money.”

“Ha!” He points at me. “Even you think I’m good-looking.”

“Duh, I’m not blind. Some people are into the Daddy look.”

“I’m only thirty-one. At least I can grow a beard.”

I automatically stroke my jaw because he has me there. Stubble is about the most I can manage before it looks like an untidy mess. “Beard or not, I’m easily hotter than you.”

“No way.”

“Admit it.”

Bilson laughs. It’s deep and husky, the kind of confident laugh that makes it obvious he’s not threatened by me. “You’re hot, but you’ve got nothing on me, Rook. I’ll play your stupid game—maybe it’ll shut you up for good.”

“I doubt that.” I unclip my seat belt so I can jump out. “I’m pretty fucking annoying when I win.”

Then I hightail it inside to make sure I beat him to the bar. This game is stupid—and okay, juvenile, I can admit it—but it’s fun to rile my teammates up. Stoll and Bilson are two of the most experienced players, and I don’t want them to see me as a rookie forever. I want to meet them on their level and leave them with no doubt I can go toe to toe with them on and off the ice.

I have no idea what Bilson drinks, but I grab two beers and make my way to the table our teammates have overtaken. It’s two days until our first preseason game, and we’re sure as hell going to make the most of it because this season will be brutal. I refuse to think too deeply about it, but with Bilson filling in our weak side and a goalie who’s not injured stepping up, well … I knock on my head.

Will. Not. Think. About. It.

I’m only as good as my next game, and that’s as far forward as I’m going to look.

I press into the space between Bilson and Jorgensen and hand over the beer.

Bilson takes it with a smile. “You old enough to be buying drinks?”

“It’s either that or I pissed in a bottle to mess with you. How do you like your chances?”

“You know what, I think tonight is my lucky night.” He takes a long swig. “And that hottie over there is making eyes at me.”

I watch Bilson as he leaves the table and heads toward a leggy brunette. I’m such a nice guy I’ll even let him have a head start.

“Think that’ll be the new Mrs. Bilson?” Jorgensen sniggers.

“Nah, she’s not blonde,” Finch throws back. “Can’t wife her if she’s not blonde.”

“We are a rare breed.” I flick my hair, narrowly avoiding Finch’s backhand.

“Put the flow away. Nobody here wants to lock down your ugly ass.”

“Lucky for me the bar is full of pretty ladies. Future Mrs. Olsen, here I come!”

Bilson’s moved on to his next target, and it isn’t clear if he struck out with the first or if he’s better than I gave him credit for, but that’s the head start over. In the competition of rookie versus veteran, this round is going to the rookie. I might be able to save all the pucks he sends my way in training, but when it comes to anything else on the ice, he has me beat by a country mile.

He can have the ice … for now. The bar is mine.

The first woman I approach is gorgeous. She’s really sweet, the type of woman my parents are begging me to bring home, and while we chat for a while and I get her number, there’s no doubt in my mind that I won’t use it. I’m not looking to settle down, though it’s in the cards in the future, and there’s no way she’d be into the kinda shit I am.

Bilson appears on my way to the bathroom, and he leans in as he passes me. “Three, motherfucker.”

“There’s no way.”

“Keep underestimating me. You’re making it too easy.” He blows me a kiss and disappears into the crowd again.

I double up my efforts because I refuse to lose. I meant it when I said I was a cocky winner, and I’m not a great loser either. That’s one of the bad things I learned from my frat brothers. We were all competitive to a fault—sports will do that to you—and the only time you accept a place other than first is never.

I get to three numbers and push harder. The fourth one is a struggle, but then lady number five walks over and slips a piece of paper into my pocket. I strike out as often as I score, but once I hit six, I let up.

Bilson’s back with the team, and while it’s tempting to keep going and really drive home how much better than him I am, I decide to call it a night. I already know which one I’m calling because she confirmed that she does, in fact, eat ass.

I drag a stool over beside Bilson and drop down onto it.

“Damn, it’s a good night to be a winner.”

He takes a long drink. “How many did you get?”

“Six.”

I watch him slowly set his drink down.

“What’s wrong?” I taunt. “Are you embarrassed I won, or is Alzheimer’s kicking in?”

Bilson picks up his phone and is about to unlock it when he changes his mind. “Five.”

I crow I’m so happy. “Five? Only five?”

“What’s only five?” Stoll asks.

“Bilson’s game.” I break out into a dance, ending on the sprinkler that I pretend to spray all over Bilson. “Now, if y’all will excuse me, I’m gonna head off and claim my prize.”

“Bilson didn’t get five.”

I gasp. “Liar! You only got one, didn’t you?”

Jorgensen shakes his head. “He told us eight right before.”

Eight?

Fucking eight?

Bilson shrugs. “Guess we’ll never know.”

I stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s screwing with me. “Prove it. Show me the numbers.”

“Nope.”

“You have to. It was a bet.”

He slowly takes another sip of his drink. “You know what? I don’t think I will. You’re just going to stew on it now, aren’t you?”

“Stew? Me? Never. I won fair and square.”

“Whatever you say, Olsen.”

“Don’t be an asshole. Show me.”

“Nope.”

Yeah, he’s not getting out of it that easily. I go for his phone, but Bilson snatches it up before I get a hold on it. We wrestle over it for a second until I throw my weight against him—forgetting we’re both on stools. I go toppling over, dragging him down with me, but no amount of bruised elbows and jarred hips are going to stop me from getting my answer.

The second I tug it out of his grip though, Bilson slaps it across the floor.

He tries to scramble after it, but I grab his ankle, fighting against him as I pull my way up his body until my legs are locked around his thighs, and my arm closes tight over his neck.

I snatch the phone up and hold it to his face.

“Say cheese.”

Bilson grunts instead.

Close enough, the phone unlocks, and the second it does, I throw myself off him and run. I’m hollering and laughing as I tear through the crowd, madly trying to thumb through Bilson’s notes app, where there’s a new note for each number. I can feel him behind me. Gaining on me. Hunting me down like I’m opposition on the ice.

It just makes me run harder. Even when I count nine and could easily stop and admit defeat, I shove through the front doors. The bright streetlights lead my way through the people on the street, but before I’ve gotten a couple of steps, Bilson skids to a stop in front of me.

“Nine?” I act disgusted as I toss his phone back to him.

The asshole catches it with a smirk. “What can I say? Experience counts.”

We’re both panting lightly, and as much as I’d love to hold it against him, I can’t. There’s one thing still on my mind though. “Why’d you lie?”

“What?”

“You said five.”

“Eh. I say a lot of things.”

“Like lies?”

Bilson drags a hand over his face. “It doesn’t matter because I’m not going to call any of them anyway. I wasn’t lying when I said I’m on a celibacy kick. This is my fresh start.”

“Your fresh start from what?”

He groans. “All my exes.”

“You could stop marrying people, you know?”

“Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? Stop marrying people—it’s much easier than diving under a table every time I see them. Silly me!”

I stare at him. “I’m scared you’re serious.”

“Coming from the guy who talks to rocks.”

“What? You don’t talk to your pets?”

Bilson’s face drops, and he looks miserable. “I don’t have pets. Anymore.”

“Oooh, did it die? See, I never have to worry about that with Stone or Seddy. They’re my pals for life.”

“He didn’t die. My ex-wife kept him.” Bilson expression sobers. “I miss his little face.”

“That sucks, CB.”

“I know.”

“She won’t give him back?”

Bilson does this adorable thing where he scrunches up his nose. “She said I work too much. Not like she can talk.” He turns to steer me back inside. “Anyway, new start. New team. And new beer. Let me buy one for the winner.”

I glance up at him in surprise. “Seriously?”

The smile he gives me is genuine. “Seriously.” Then he has to add, “Doesn’t matter what the team thinks. We know the truth.”

Comments

0 Comments
Best Newest

Contents
Settings
  • T
  • T
  • T
  • T
Font

Welcome to FullEpub

Create or log into your account to access terrific novels and protect your data

Don’t Have an account?
Click above to create an account.

lf you continue, you are agreeing to the
Terms Of Use and Privacy Policy.