2. Called Up

Nothing like quality family time at a hockey game. I sit in the stands with my teammates and buddies to my right, while to my left, sits our Puckers' team captain, Duke and his wife, Phoebe and their little boy Hunter, almost two. They left baby Duchess with her aunt for the weekend.

They've all become more like family than my own back east.

"Hey, Cowboy, I'm going to need to pump," Phoebe announces, and passes Hunter to Duke, then she reaches for her bag under her seat. "I need to find the family bathroom before I start leaking."

"Sure. I'll come with you," he says, and passes Hunter to me with a wink and grin.

"What the…? Pumping breast milk is a two-person job?" I complain.

"It is now." Duke fastens his eyes on Phoebe's ass as they take the steps. Here in the Las Vegas Gamblers hockey arena, with a sold-out crowd, I have no idea where that could take them, or how long.

"I'm pretty sure your parents planned this so they could have some time alone. Yes, that's right. They'll owe me big time." I explain to Hunter in a goofy voice with a face to match, and he giggles. He's not quite two, thank God, still adorable and no terrible twos yet, as Duke likes to say.

I know nothing about babies. But this little cub right here, I'd protect him as my own if it comes right down to it. Phoebe sometimes arrives early to pick up Duke from our practices, and me and my teammates all get a chance to play uncle, skating with him in our arms, making him squeal with laughter when we speed down the ice.

It's no surprise he doesn't fuss at all about his parents leaving him with me. Time with the guys will do him good. He's the sweetest thing, so I can't be mad about the situation.

"All right, little dude. Let me teach you a thing or two about hockey." I sit him in my lap and jiggle him up and down on my knee.

"Hey, Hunter, how's it going?" Storm holds out his fist and the baby bumps it. So, yeah, the kid's kinda cute. I honestly never put much thought into settling down and having kids of my own with someone until Duke and Phoebe moved fast in that direction.

Not that I'm ready for that step. Hell, I don't even have a girlfriend. I've fucked around for several years, and made sure to wrap my dick good. But there was that one night in Montana…

It's been almost two years and I haven't forgotten every second of the hottest night with a woman ever in my life. Damn, thinking about her, if I don't stop, I'll be hard in a minute.

Hunter points to the ice and babbles a bunch of words, some coherent, some not, and I don't speak baby. But I interpret well. "That's right. The L.A.Vipers are kicking the Vegas Gamblers' asses tonight."

We're all here in Las Vegas, watching the game between the top two teams in the national league, vying for the playoff position. Hockey at its finest. We play for the Puckers, an affiliate team feeding players into the Vipers as needed, so we earned these coveted seats tonight.

Our team played here earlier today in a semi-pro matchup with the Henderson Hawks. A win for us, of course. We're that good this year, at least I am. I ended with a hat trick in the game, and I'm pretty damn pleased with myself. Maybe Duke is right—the conditioning and team building he put us through the past two summers on his family ranch in Montana does the team good.

"I'm pretty sure you shouldn't say asses in front of the kid," Ex-man scolds, but chortles, sitting next to Storm. To his right are two more of our teammates from the Puckers, Saint and Big D. We're all shit at coming up with nicknames on the team, but the puck bunnies know them and use them.

Speaking of, there's a few I recognize from hockey parties in L.A. sitting across the aisle from us. They wave and show off their white teeth framed by hot pink lipstick and go "Aww," and "Ooh," pointing at me and the kid in my lap.

"Look at that," Ex-man exclaims. "The baby is a chick magnet."

I nod their way. "How you two doin'?" I call over, just for fun. This could easily land me in bed with both of them tonight, but the cold reality is I haven't been able to get it up with random women since that night in Montana. I never let on to Duke or my teammates about the sad state of my sex life.

My playboy image remains intact, given I'm always flirting, taking chicks out to parties, letting them take photos of me for their social profiles, but that's it. My nights always end up at home alone with my hand, driving myself crazy about a woman I'll probably never see again.

Pathetic, really. I need to get over her. I'm in my prime, a twenty-something hockey god, ripped muscles, handsome, if I say so myself. Yeah, I play semi-pro hockey, but I could get called up to the pros anytime.

Thanks to Duke's incessant nagging about switching agents, I finally agreed. Brad Dawes represents me now, and he seems confident I could be the next hottest thing in hockey, along with representing some key brand names in sponsorship deals, and says I should have had him as an agent from the start.

"All right, so the number one thing you need to know about hockey, Hunter, is to take care of your stick. Both of them," I start.

"Jeez, dude, don't talk to him about his stick. He's just a baby," another scolding comes from Ex-man.

"Hey, whose lap is he on? Mine, so shut the F up, because he'll get my rules." I snap back, but it's all in fun.

"Well, if he continues to be a chick magnet, then I'll take him."

"Nope, I was assigned as babysitter the second Duke handed him off," I retort.

Ex-man throws his hands up in surrender.

"That's right, I'm the man, Hunter. High-five." I hold my hand up and he high fives me, then he reaches for the brim of my hat. I put it on him backwards, and the chicks across the aisle purr more at us.

I capitalize on the moment, taking out my phone for a few selfies with Hunter. One of them makes it on my social media profile, where I caption it, "Me and the little dude." Hunter reaches for my phone and I let him play with it.

"Here you go. Another thing you need to know about hockey, never trust a puck bunny. Carry your own condoms. And you might want to think twice about meeting them behind the Zamboni after a game." Caught once behind one fucking with a puck bunny a few years ago by a coach is an experience I'll never forget.

Suddenly, Storm and the guys jump to their feet cheering a fight on the ice, snapping my attention back to the game. The crowd goes crazy, and the little guy in my lap screams and drops my phone. By the time I retrieve it and stand with him to get a better view, the fight ramps up full throttle.

The center of the Vipers, Rick Rod—a cocky mother fucker with an asshole name who I can't stand, especially when our team has to scrimmage in practice with them sometimes—loses his helmet.

"His jersey's over his head. He's done," calls Big D. As the primary fighter on the Puckers, he should know. The Gamblers' player rips the jersey off and absolutely pummels Rick in the face with one hit after the other, then finishes him with an uppercut no one saw coming.

Rick falls back, knocked out, and lands on the ice, the back of his head slamming hard. He doesn't move. A player's worst nightmare. You can hear the crowd grow quiet, no matter which team they're rooting for.

"Can someone say concussion protocol? That looks like a grade three one to me," Storm says. As who I consider the nerd among us, always with a book in hand when he's not holding a hockey stick, I'm certain he's right.

"Don't worry, buddy. He'll be fine." I hug Hunter closer. "Another rule about the game: sometimes we take hard hits, but we give ‘em just as hard back." I sit down again, and several minutes later, we watch as medics carry Rick off the ice on a stretcher. I may dislike the guy, but I send a little prayer up for him to the ultimate hockey God in Heaven, anyway.

After the game is over, the guys and I share a car ride back to the hotel, still talking trash about the games today. My phone lights up, between a message, a voice mail, and an email. I figure it's some puck bunnies calling to find out where we'll be partying tonight.

One look at the notifications, though, and I see all three are from Brad with the same message:

Get ready. You've been called up to the Vipers.