Page 65 of Body Check

As a professional hockey player, I’m used to the limelight, the puck bunnies, the hardcore fans who will drop anything and everything when they see me walk out of the tunnel and onto the ice. In the hockey world, I’m a god among men.

But let it be said—I’m no Tom Brady, no LeBron James, no whoever-the-fuck is playing golf and ripping up the scoreboards these days.

Simply put, even after all these years in the NHL, I’ve always maintained some level of anonymity when I take to the streets.

Not anymore.

Fuckin’Getting Pucked.

As I bulldoze my way toward Mass General, its blue hospital signs beckoning me like a beacon of hope, there’s no less than ten people who stop and ask me for an autograph.

And not a one of them is mentioning a damn thing about my stick play—at least, not the stick play that’s routinely talked about by analysts on ESPN or Sports 24/7.

“Oh, my God, Jackson! Jackson, you’re so hot. Isn’t he hot, Sammy? Jackson, I’ve seen you on TV!”

“Hi! Holy crap, you’re big. I didn’t realize how big you are from TV, but you’re just . . . please tell me you’re that big in other places?! Like in your pants?”

Put your head down and just keep trucking.

Readjusting my sunglasses over the crooked bridge of my nose, I skim my gaze over the various entrances into Boston’s largest hospital, hastily deliberating on the best course of entry.

“Mr. Carter, the ladies of America want to know . . . are you single?”

The last comment comes at me from a dude decked out in all black, a microphone being shoved in my direction, and a camera crew tailing him like a pack of lemmings. Unlike the women, this guy isn’t here with a starry-eyed expression. Cold, calculated blue eyes blink back at me while he waits for my answer as though I’m standing on the red carpet and answering about what threads I’m wearing and what designer stitched them together.

“Mr. Carter,” he says again, this time a little louder, “are you single?”

I say the first thing that comes to mind: “Who the fuck are you?”

Admittedly, it’s not the most poised response, and it’s a good thing I never hired another publicist after my last left to be a full-time mom because I can only imagine good ol’ Miranda having a goddamn heart attack at my eloquence.

“I’m with TMZ and—”

I let the hospital door swing shut behind me, cutting him off.

“Fuckin’ TMZ.” I scrub my palm over my face.Christ.

Pulling the shades from my face, I tuck them over the neck of my white T-shirt and pull out my phone. Bringing up the Safe Space thread, I text the guys as I head for the wing where my appointment is.

Me: Almost got mauled by TMZ just now.

Hunt: Harvey was there?

Me: Who the hell is Harvey?

Hunt: Levin. Harvey Levin. Dude’s in charge of the site/show/celebrity soul stealer.

Beaumont: Fuck TMZ. Do you know how many times they showed my bare ass a few years back? On TV, on their website, on fucking Twitter. My ass had more hits than a Kardashian Instagram post.

Cain: Mistake on their part. No one wants to see all the hair on those sweet cheeks of yours, Sin.

Cain: Also, should I be asking which Kardashian you follow on IG? Or do you just want to take that one to the grave?

Me: Please tell me you did not just tell Beaumont he’s got sweet cheeks.

Beaumont: First of all, sir, my ass is smooth. No hair.

Beaumont: Second, I have the best ass out of all you assholes. Setting the record straight, right here, right now.

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