7. The Hot Shot

Practicing and playing with the Vipers all week is kind of like being the new kid at school. You find out quick who the cool kids are and you're either accepted or shunned.

On the ice, we're a team and play as such, supporting each other and working to win.

Off the ice, it turns out, the team members of the cool clique are friends of Rick Rod's. They make it all too clear that I shouldn't get comfortable, expecting Rick Rod to return by next season. Some people suggest that I'll be sent back down to the Puckers then.

I know some of the Vipers' players from our scrimmages and hanging out at parties together, so I make a few friends. Flynn Peterson, in particular, seems to take me under his wing and show me the ropes.

We play on the second line where I'm the center and he's a left winger. His path to the pros differed from mine. He played in college for Fairfax University, getting a contract with the Vipers after he graduated.

Tonight is my first game as a Viper. I'll play my ass off and let the chips fall where they may, proving I deserve my spot on the team.

In the second period, Flynn gets the puck and slides it to me for the setup like we practiced at least fifty times this week. But I see a clear shot and go for it. I slap it in hard, and sail it past the goalie like he's nothing. That brings us two to one, so far, against the Denver Aspens.

The crowd roars when the lamp lights up, and that's my first goal of the game and for playing professionally.

"Nice one!" Flynn yells.

I fly by the glass, holding my glove up to the fans, waving and cheering for me. I look up toward some familiar puck bunnies screaming my name. One holds a sign with my number on it and a question: "Can I hold your stick?"

I take the ego stroking and change out lines, hitting the bench. Flynn kids with me, wiping his face with a towel. "I see you brought your fan base with you."

I laugh at first, but when he waves over to his wife and school-age daughter sitting just a few rows up from the bench, a pang of jealousy hits me as if I'd like to trade with him.

They wear his jersey, and their hair up in matching ponytails with ribbons in our team colors of red and blue, with his number painted on their cheeks. The little girl smiles, blowing kisses at her dad.

"Yep. And same with you and your fans. Do they attend every game?" I ask.

"Not on school nights, usually."

"Nice family, man." For several seconds, I let my thoughts drift out of the game to Whitney and Remy and wonder what they're doing tonight. I'd love for her to be in the stands cheering for me, wearing my jersey. Give it another year, and Remy could be in his first pair of hockey skates.

"Hey, we're back in," Flynn slaps my chest with the glove, jumping over the wall. I fly through the gate, hitting the ice, dispelling any other thoughts, tracking the puck with my eyes.

Our right winger, Scott, has the puck in his possession, giving us time to form up. He passes to Flynn, but he doesn't see a play and passes it back.

Whitney… I shake my head. "Focus asshole." I warn myself, just in time, too, because Scott sails the puck to me and the three of us charge forward, moving into position with another play.

I don't see a window for a shot. I pass the puck to Flynn. He passes to Scott, who passes to me again. I miss it, but go after it before an Aspen player can steal it. I send it back out to Flynn right as I'm struck into the boards by a huge player, falling to the ice. Pain takes hold in my thigh, and I ignore it, scrambling upright. Minor aches don't stop me when I'm out here.

Flynn misses a shot but I charge forward, extend my arm for the rebound, and take another crack at it. The puck flies right into the net.

"Fuck yeah!" I pump my gloved fist in the air. Damn, hard fought, but that felt good. My teammates rush me, slapping my helmet.

"That's two," says Flynn.

"Nice debut hot shot!" Scott slaps my shin guard with his stick.

The only thing better would be a woman—like Whitney—screaming my name, wearing my jersey proudly, and watching me play. Then after the game, her legs around my waist, rewarding my cock, fucking so good.

By the time the game is over, I rack up two goals and three assists, more than pleased with my first pro performance. Brad is, as well, congratulating me by text. It only makes me think of Whitney again.

In the locker room, I sail through an interview with Hockey Nation Tonight about the success of my first game with the Vipers, then I shower. The single guys are all discussing a party and I get invited. I should go for a drink or two, just to build my relationships with these guys.

But it's the married men, talking of getting home to their wives and kissing their kids goodnight before bedtime, that I really listen to.

I'm thinking of the calls I made and the research I did this week about paternity tests and potentially setting up a trust fund for Remy. If he's mine.

"Hey, did you hear me? Or maybe you're thinking about a puck bunny or two and a bottle of beer to celebrate your win tonight." Flynn's laughter breaks my concentration. "I said great game. You keep showing up like that and you'll have nothing to worry about staying in the pros."

"Yeah, thanks. But it's not a puck bunny I want. There's a woman and her kid that has me all wound up," I say, opening up to him. He reminds me so much of Duke. Just great guys in hockey who have their heads on straight with families. I feel like I can trust him.

"Single mother?" He arches a brow.

"Yep."

"Be careful. They can be a whole lot of trouble. I'd hate to see you get used or burned."

Maybe, but he's wrong about this one. I might call Whitney Trouble for fun, but she's not out to get me.

"Her baby might be mine," I admit to him.

"No shit? Well, be sure to get a test before you do anything. I know guys who were so convinced the baby was theirs they bypassed a paternity test, only to find out later the woman lied. I'm sure this isn't anything you haven't heard before, but there are women out there who'll go to great lengths to snare a pro player."

"Yeah. I'll be careful." I know first hand a little about that as it happens not only in sports. My billionaire father always accused my mother of trapping him. After they divorced, my older brothers, twins, went to live with him, and I lived with her, and who knows what the truth was between them, both sides vehemently against each other.

But Whitney isn't like that. We were strangers and had one incredible night together. Remy could be mine as a result. Neither of us were playing each other—we didn't even know each other before then.

As I walk out of the locker room, Coach McNamara is in the hall talking with the Vipers' GM, Trent Gilroy. They each shake my hand and tell me what a good game I played.

"Keep up the hard work. I like what I see," the coach adds.

I walk on clouds all the way out to my car, ecstatic my professional hockey career is taking off. Now about my personal life…

I've put off calling Whitney all week, trying to keep my focus on the ice. Now that I have this first game behind me, it's time to man up and find out if I'm a father.