3. Weston

Her panties are burning a hole in my pocket.

I don’t know why I picked them up, to be honest. Princess Polyester must’ve missed them in her hurry to get her shit out of the hall, so when I step out of my condo later that night to go meet the rest of the team out at The Black Cat, our usual watering hole, there they are, right outside my door.

A pair of simple cotton panties with little cherries printed all over the butt.

I’m stooped over to grab them before I even realize what I’m doing. And once I have them in my hand, it feels weird to put them back down and pretend I never picked them up in the first place.

I’ll just throw them in the trash on my way out, I tell myself. Save George the trouble of cleaning up after the new girl. So I tuck them into my pocket and take the elevator down.

But when I pass the trash can in the lobby on the way to my car, I keep right on walking.

I’ll throw them away at the bar. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I just don’t want the concierge giving me weird side-eye, that’s all.

I get to my row of premium parking spots and find my preferred ride for the evening. The roar of my Aston Martin cuts through my off-kilter thoughts and puts a smile on my face.

Princess P called me a douche, but she doesn’t know where I come from. What I’ve come through. I earned every fucking bit of what I have. My home, my car, my career—everything came the hard way, through blood and sweat and hours upon hours on the ice.

So if I want to enjoy the shit I’ve earned? Sue me. She can deal with it.

I back the car out in reverse, then rip out of the garage. I’m doing eighty miles an hour before I even hit the street.

The Black Cat is fifteen minutes away, according to my GPS. I make it there in seven, swerving at high speed through traffic.

My teammates have the primo booth in the back already locked down. I count a half-dozen buckets of champagne on ice, along with two bottles of tequila.

“Good to see you gentlemen are still on your first round,” I joke as I join them.

“If you thought we’d wait for your perpetually late ass, then I must’ve clocked you too hard in practice today,” cackles Amar Kazinski, our starting left wing.

“The day you actually land a clean hit on me is the day I hang up my skates for good, Special K,” I fire back at him.

Decker Price, our captain and the best damn enforcer in the National Hockey League, slaps me on the back. “Good to see you, Westie. You skated well today.”

“Don’t act so surprised. I always skate well.” I wink and pour myself a shot of tequila from the nearest bottle. “You want one?” I ask him.

He holds up a hand to stop me. “No, sir. I’m babysitting this one beer until ten on the dot, and then my old ass is outta here.”

“Oh, c’mon,” jeers Orion Beckstrom, a second-year defender with a serious chip on his shoulder. “I know you’re a grandpa and everything, but surely your bedtime isn’t that early.”

Captain Decker just chuckles. “You try having twin baby boys and see if you feel like partying until the wee hours. Changing diapers with a hangover is the stuff of nightmares.”

Orion and I shudder in unison. “Pass,” I say firmly.

“Hard pass,” Orion agrees. “The hardest of passes.”

Having kids is on my to-do list, sure—right after getting a colonoscopy and slamming my dick in a car door. In other words, no fucking thank you. A wife, a family? That’s the real stuff of nightmares.

I’ve been down that road. Well, a few steps down it, at least, albeit not all the way. But that’s as far as I ever want to go. I have no desire to try for Round 2.

“Oh, shit!” crows Jonah Martingale, my center and partner-in-crime on the ice. “Check it out, boys!”

We all look over as one to see him pointing at the nearest flatscreen TV. Sports news is on, with a brEAKING NEWS alert scrolling across the bottom. I key in just as the anchor starts to pitch the story.

“… Seattle Wave hockey star Beckett ‘The Badger’ Daniels was arrested at 3:14 AM this morning on charges of reckless speeding and driving under the influence. Reports indicate that he was found in the company of three women in various states of undress…”

“What a fuckin’ legend,” Orion says with a dreamy grin. “I love that dude.”

“I’m just glad he plays in the other division so we only have to see him a couple times a season,” Jonah sighs. “Every time we play Seattle, I wake up black and blue from head to toe. Beck hits like a motherfucker.”

All I can think is, Beck’s doing it right. No baby mamas, no kids, no wives. Nobody staying longer than one night only. We’ve been out a few times together after All-Star games to hit the clubs and shit, and he’s a good time. He and I see eye-to-eye on that kind of thing.

“Speaking of hitting like a motherfucker,” Decker chimes in, “I’m about to hit my bed like a motherfucker.”

Jonah, Amar, and Orion throw a chorus of boos and balled-up cocktail napkins at him. “Some fearless leader you are,” I snort. “Bailing on the team just when the night’s getting started.”

He grins that wry old man grin of his as he gets to his feet, scratches his scruff, and yawns. “Ain’t nothin’ in my contract that says I have to get loaded and act like a clown with you shitheads. I’ll see you idiots at morning skate, bright and early. And if any single one of you looks hungover, I’m making you do sprints with me ‘til you yak. So drink up—we’ll see who’s laughing tomorrow.”

We all offer him a parting middle finger as he saunters away.

“Guess that leaves the four of us,” Orion says mournfully. “How ever shall we drink all this booze?”

“The only way we can,” replies Amar. “One shot at a time.”