Page 4 of Grudge Puck
“Seeing who wants to meet up after the game tonight,” Vinny answered.
For us young millionaire bachelors? Life as an athlete on the road is very, very kind. There's never a shortage of girls who want to meet us after a game, no matter what city we're in.
“Jesus. She's a smoke-show,” I mumbled, commenting on one of the scantily-clad babes that Vinny cycled past. “Now why the hell did you go past her?”
“She looks too high maintenance.”
I scoffed. “You're not trying to marry a girl you met offMeatMarket,are you?”
Hunter tried to explain on Vinny's behalf. “Vinny likes to find the right girl and craft her a personal message.”
“Oh, I know, I've seen how he works.” I rolled my eyes. “I prefer the scattershot approach.”
Hunter chuckled. “I know you do, Beau.”
“Don't lie, you miss the single life. Don't you, captain?” I jabbed Hunter, needling my elbow into his ribs until he swatted me away. “You can admit it. You know the things that we say in this room are sacred. Ain't that right, boys?”
Everyone else in the room grunted in agreement.
But Hunter just rolled his eyes at me and laughed.
“Someday, Beau, you're going to meet a girl who's gonna grab you by the balls and make youwantto settle down.” Hunter nodded at me with this awful grin, as if he were passing down some kind of sage wisdom that only he and the other married guys could understand.
And I tried not to choke on all that sap. I'd never seen a guy so disgustingly and happily married. Yeah, he's got a great wife—her name's Honor—a real cute kid, and a perfect place up in the mountains in Boulder. A really picturesque life.
If, you know, that's the kind of life you want. A wife you have to be loyal to, when all these hot babes all over the country aredyingto fuck your brains out. A kid that needs constant attention. And a home that needs taking care of.
It's certainly not the lifeIwant.
I held up an invisible whip and snapped it at Hunter—the universal symbol for pussy-whipped. “Whippah! Whippah!”
Hunter took his whip-lashings with a good-natured smile. “Ah, Beau. I'm so glad you're on our team now.”
Hunter wasn't being sarcastic. What he meant by that comment was that he's glad he doesn't have to face me on the ice as rivals anymore. Players and fans always say I'm the type of player you absolutely hate to play against, but would love to have on your team.
That's because I'll do anything to help our team win. I'll hit, I'll fight, I'll score a garbage goal. I don't care how dirty a play is. I'll cheap-shot a guy if I have to. I don't care how 'wrong' it is to hit a guy behind the play when the ref isn't looking, or ram him face-first into the boards. I don't care how my behavior flies in the face of the code and traditions of hockey or any of that boring-ass moral bullshit.
I play to win. It's really that simple.
And if you're wearing the same jersey as me, you'll never be happier that I'm fighting on your side.
If you're wearing the other team's jersey? Buckle up, buttercup, because you're in for a rough ride. And you're gonna hate every second of it. Better get used to it.
Vinny swiped right past a girl in a tube-top, who had conveniently taken the shot with the camera heldrightover her breasts.
“Holy shit—her—wait!” I grabbed Vinny's wrist and tried to make him scroll back.
Vinny wrestled his arm free and knocked my hand away. “You've got your ownphone, dick-head! Use it!”
I grumbled. “Fine. I'll show you how it's done.” I pulled out my own phone and loaded up MeatMarket. “Because getting laid isn't fucking rocket science, Vinny. You don't have to write these girls a goddamn poem. Theywantto fuck us just so they can brag about it to their friends. Not a single one of these girls want to get swept off their feet.”
If a girl caught my eye, I put a check by her profile. Once I rounded up a few dozen girls, I sent them the same message:
“6'3 millionaire pro athlete in town for two nights only. I'm hot and I do NOT want anything serious. Wanna meet tonight?”
That message, along with my profile pic—which is my shirtless, flexed, and shredded upper-body—does the trick.
“That easy, Vinny, that easy,” I chuckled. I closed MeatMarket, put it out of my mind, and took a look at Facebook instead.
