Page 18 of Punchline
Jerks.
Well, fine. No more procrastinating.
I left my housemates to debate the abilities of the players on both sides of the game we watched, not to mention clown on the commentators. Usually I joined in, especially that last part; the commentators were such tools, and they said such ridiculous crap to justify taking up space on the soundstage. Like, oh, wow, the backcheck was lacking on a team that had allowed nine unanswered goals in two periods? Who could have guessed? Or, shocking, theteam that only had six shots on goal going into the third period needed to remember how to play offense? My God, Ineverwould have piecedthattogether. And whaaat? You’re telling me that if Boston wants to score, they need to get the puck into the offensive zone?Shocking.
I wasn’t in the mood to heckle them tonight, though. I was still stupidly bummed over Jake’s text, and maybe it wasn’t the healthiest thing in the world, but I needed to throw myself into the dating/hookup scene. I’d been alone since I’d come to Vegas during the off season. I hadn’t had much of a social life outside of hockey in Dallas during the three seasons I’d played there, but I’d had a boyfriend for most of it. I’d broken up with him about four months before I was traded, kind of half-assed the hookup scene for a little while, and then come here.
I still wasn’t sure why Vegas overwhelmed me so much. It wasn’t all the lights and casinos and shit; that was all the on the Strip. The rest of the city was more or less a normal city. It was just… big. Busy. Not what I was used to.
Or maybe I’d just been too focused on what my new head coach had said at training camp: “Keep it up, kid, and you’ll be called up to the Aces in no time.”
And that was the dream, wasn’t it? A lot of the guys in the PHL had more or less decided that was as far as they were going, and they were fine with that. Marek had practically been disowned by his hockey legend father when he’d decided this was all he wanted.
Me? I wanted to get to the top. I was coming into my prime, and Icravedthat call-up. That was one of the reasons I’d realized I needed to learn to fight—because I had to be able to both play and fight with the best of the best. Which was whyI’d…
Hired Jake.
The man I was being stupid and mopey about tonight.
What the fuck, Ethan?
With a few colorful curses—hockey had given me a gloriously colorful vocabulary—I dropped onto my bed, phone in hand. Time to de-mope myself. Maybe chat with someone. Maybe even get laid. Stranger things had happened.
I put in a few basic parameters, pretended my heart wasn’t slamming into my ribs, and hit Search.
Being in a city like this, I wasn’t surprised to get atonof hits. A lot of them were probably guys passing through on vacations or for bachelor parties or whatever. The last time I’d checked, I’d found two—two!—men who came right out and said they were looking for male hookups while they were here fortheir own bachelor parties. I wasn’t one to judge, but…bruh.
And as I scrolled tonight…
Oh, hey, what a shock:
Only in town for the week. Looking to get dicked down one last time before the old lady locks me down for good. Must be discreet. First names only.
“What a douche,” I muttered, and swiped left. I wasn’t bisexual, but guys like that drove me nuts because they were part of the reason everyone thought “bisexual” was code for “cheater.” My ex had been as bi as the day was long, and though I could say a lot about him, he was rigidly monogamous and honest to a fault.
Ugh. People sucked.
After that guy, there were a few thinly-veiled escorts, obvious bot or scammer accounts, men who still wanted cock even after their old ladieshadlocked them down, cheaters, scumbags—the usual. There was even the token blowhard who made sure everyone knew who he voted forand why, and probably wondered why none of us would touch him with someoneelse’sdick.
There were some good-looking and decent-sounding guys, too. I just kept zeroing in on the kokots, as Marek would call them. I still didn’t know if that meant dickhead or asshole or what, only that it was one of his insults of choice when he was really annoyed with someone. And I wasn’t sure why I kept fixating on those fuckers tonight instead of looking for someone I liked.
Yeah, right. I knew why. I just didn’t want to think about it because?—
Wait.
Waaait, wait, wait.
Was that…
I shook myself and scrolled back to the profile photo that had flown by. I brought the phone closer to my face and squinted.
Nah, it wasn’t… I mean, there were a lot of guys in this town who were ripped. Stage performers (of the Cirque du Soleilorpole-dancing varieties). Escorts. Gym rats.
MMA fighters.
I tapped the profile and went to his photos.
And when I saw the third photo, I dropped my phone on my chest. I scrambled to pick it up, terrified I’d accidentally swiped while I’d been fumbling for it. I hadn’t, though. It still showed the photo.
