Chapter 2

2

Faust

I sit at a table draped in sponsorship banners with sweat gently dripping from my hair, down my face and to the table.

"Faust, three game shutout streak. How does it feel?"

"I'm just happy for the wins," I say. "Nothing else matters. And these shutouts don't mean a thing without the guys scoring goals on the other end of the ice."

"What goes through your mind now? Are you thinking about this streak?"

"I'm thinking about stopping pucks."

That gets a chuckle. I did not intend to get a chuckle.

I just want to get this over with.

"How far do you think you can go with this?"

"I don't know. Again, I'm not thinking about it at all. You guys are the ones tracking it. Not me."

"More than just guys here," calls out a female reporter. "Technically your streak was broken last game up in Buffalo. The refs got the no-goal call wrong. How does that make you feel?"

I look at the female reporter and feel my lip curling.

I know the scowl on my face and the attitude on her face will become the headline story.

She's feisty enough to stand up to big, mean hockey players.

And the way I'm looking at her means I'm demeaning to all women.

Typical bullshit clickbait stuff.

"Did they put a goal up on the scoreboard that I don't know about?" I ask.

"No. But the league did issue a statement that said-"

"Good for the league. Game ended two to nothing. We won."

"So you're okay playing on a fake streak?"

The tension in the room jumped ten times over.

I lift my left eyebrow. "If the goal counted in Buffalo we still would have won."

"You don't know that," the female reporter says. "Game was only one to nothing. They pulled their goalie. Your team scored an empty net goal. Wouldn't have happened if the game was properly called as a one-one score."

"And if we go back in time and my mother tells my father to put on a condom, I'm not sitting here, am I?"

My voice is cold, mean, dry.

Everyone in the room laughs, including the female reporter.

I think I've made my point. She sure as fuck has made hers.

I stand up.

I've had enough chitchat for one night.

"Faust! What about the rumors over your contract? Is there an extension in sight?"

"Faust, do you think you'll be part of this team next season?"

"Will you hold the team hostage for more money?"

I let the questions hit and fade as I exit the room and hurry back to the locker room.

I kick over a chair and shake my head.

Rhett turns his head, looks at me and nods. "Chair piss you off?"

"Everything pisses me off," I say.

"No shit there, man," Dax calls out from somewhere in the locker room.

He appears a few seconds later with a towel wrapped around his body.

Not that I care to look or comment on it, but his right nipple is almost purple looking with…

"Are those teeth marks on your tit?" Rhett asks Dax.

"Whoa, man, I don't have tits. I have pecs. There's a difference. And, yes, I may have encountered a very frisky woman."

"Frisky or hungry?" Rhett asks.

I don't have time for this stupid banter. Comparing their sex lives and who can find someone to ride their dicks and bite their nipples. And that's not me judging them either. I don't judge anyone for what they enjoy between the sheets.

Just keep it to yourself.

Or at least keep it from me.

I work different than the rest of these guys.

You want to come home with me, there's a process. I have to keep my interests protected at all times and at all costs. Sorry if foreplay for you doesn't include signing a sex contract .

That's what Dax calls it.

A sex contract.

In reality, what I do is make sure everything is not just consensual but everyone knows where things stand, end, and that there's no bullshit after the fact.

There will be no afterwards sitting with a cup of coffee, wearing my t-shirt, feeling all flustered and blushing, wondering if this is the moment where things change in your life.

No. Not with me.

I don't do love. I don't do any talk about the future.

I play goalie. And I fuck.

That's it.

The more simple I make and keep my life, the better.

And I make sure nothing and nobody ever gets in the way of that.

I'm one of the few guys that doesn't do autographs and pictures.

Sorry if that makes me a total asshole in your book, but it's just not something that appeals to me.

I just played a hockey game, I'm showered and I want to go home.

Guys like Dax are meant for the fans.

Guys like Colver too. He's big and mean but he has a soft spot for the young ones when they're calling his name.

Everyone knows the goalie on a hockey team is the most serious guy. He's the guy that has to focus on every little detail and cannot face any distractions.

So that means for me I toss in my earbuds, listen to music, and walk to my big, expensive SUV.

It's even more odd for me because I fully expect fans to hate me for the way I act.

Someone wrote an article calling me the angry goalie and it kind of just stuck. That reporter tried to dig into my life and reached a point where I had to have my lawyers get involved, which I hated to do.

My life is not an open book for anyone.

As mentioned - I'm here to play goalie. That's it.

Once I'm in my lumbering and obnoxiously huge SUV, I take out my earbuds and let my phone connect to the speakers. The dash screen lights up and offers me directions on how to get home. I only choose yes because the navigation will then run traffic reports to make sure I don't get stuck somewhere.

I know most of the guys will want to go out and have a drink. Hit a strip club. Enjoy themselves.

My enjoyment waits at my apartment.

I have someone arriving… right about now …

Which is perfect.

She'll be at my door.

The paperwork has been signed and handed off to the necessary legal parties.

Which means it'll just be me, her, some expensive drinks and a night of pleasure at my command.

Her one request is to get fucked against the living room windows that overlook the city. In written detail she wrote she wants to have her tits pressed against the glass with me behind her, fucking her.

I'll be honest - a lot of women want that fantasy.

I see no problem with it.

Where I live nobody can see that far up.

No risk of someone glancing up and seeing a woman getting fucked by the star goalie from the New York Frost.

Actually, I may have to amend the agreement…

I might just want to get my dick sucked for a couple hours and then rest.

I'm in complete control of the night.

Just because someone wants something, doesn't mean they get it.

I arrive at my building and take the elevators to the second to top floor.

My apartment is at the far end of the hallway.

My phone vibrates and it's a text telling me my date is running about ten minutes late due to traffic.

Before I can respond I'm close to my door and I see a note stuck to it.

That's odd. Very odd.

If someone from management or maintenance needed me, they'd call or email. They would not leave a note on the door.

Packages weren't allowed to be delivered directly to the door either. Not that I'm expecting anything.

This is a folded up piece of paper with my name handwritten on it.

For Faust

I tear the paper off the door and open it.

I know it's been a long time but we need to talk.

That's it? One sentence?

My eyes move down to the name of who wrote the note.

I drop the note and curl my lip high in the air.

My night just got fucking ruined.