Killian

"You don't strike me as the begging sort."

Killian

We'd hit the road for Alabama at four am, and it was a long trip. The sun wasn't up yet and the bus was quiet, but I still wasn't able to fall sleep in my small bunk. I could hear a few guys talking quietly up near the front of the bus, but I wasn't feeling social, so I stayed in bed.

I scrolled through messages on my phone. I'd gotten several last night from Tara, a woman I'd met on a road trip to Louisiana. We'd hooked up one time and now she texted me constantly. Her boob shots and messages about how bad she wanted to suck me off weren't doing anything for me. I deleted all of the messages after skimming the first one.

A sense of restlessness had been with me since the year I graduated college, but it had gotten worse lately. The things that had amused and entertained me for the four years I'd been with the Flyers didn't interest me anymore. I'd begun to re-think my decision to blow off my chance at the big leagues. I'd made that choice right before I'd joined the Fenway Flyers, and now I wondered if I'd made the right decision.

Women like Sidney weren't interested in minor league hockey players. I made shit money and traveled all the time. None of that had mattered to me before. But seeing Lance Holt looking so smug with his hands all over Sidney in those photos was nagging at me.

I didn't even have to look him up – I knew he was rich and successful just by looking at his photo. And he was what rich, successful women like Sidney Stahl wanted in a man. I had no doubt that I could seduce her, but I knew it would only be physical. And she'd probably regret it afterwards.

But I only wanted a physical relationship, so I couldn't figure out why I'd turned into a whiny bitch all of a sudden. For most of the trip, I spent my time thinking about the mistakes I'd made in my career. By the time we reached Alabama all the guys knew I was in a mood. I was usually moody on game days, so they didn't think anything was different and they just left me alone. I didn't talk to anyone all afternoon. My playlist ran through my earphones and I spent the trip getting into game mode.

By ice time, I'd shaken off my funk. We were playing the Oilers, a team we had a longstanding rivalry with. I wanted to come out fast and strong. Scoring early was important against this team.

Once the formalities were over and the anthem was sung I got ready for the opening puck drop. I had to face off against Adam Brotz, an asshole I wanted to fight with every time we played his team. The ref stood between us, holding the puck in the air, looking at the announcer's box for the okay to drop it.

"Heard the Ice Queen bought your team," Brotz said to me. "She must have a thing for losers."

"Go fuck yourself."

Brotz laughed. "She's fuckin' hot, man. I'd like to melt the ice between her legs."

I shoved his shoulder and he slid backwards, losing his balance.

"Have some fuckin' class, asshole," I said as his back hit the ice.

He scrambled up and barreled into me, grabbing a fistful of my sweater. It was on then, and the puck hadn't even dropped. The crowd roared to life as Brotz and I traded blows.

"Come on, man," Liam said from beside me. "Get the puck on the ice."

One of Brotz's guys had a hold on his shoulder and we both glared at each other, silently agreeing to delay this altercation for a few seconds.

When the puck finally dropped, he hooked it and shoved into me. We threw down our gloves at the same time and traded a few more hits. By the time I got to my penalty box, I was breathing hard and tasted blood. I slumped onto the bench, drowning out the comments from the Oilers fans seated in the row behind my box.