Page 1 of My Virgin Puck

- CHAPTER ONE -

Mason

Palming the door shut, it slams with a deep thud. My boots crunch on the snow underfoot, the bone-chilling wind making me shiver the second I stepped out of my truck.

“Mason, buddy!” Jamie Fisher, one of the younger guys on the team appears from behind his red Porsche. “Where were you on Saturday, man? You missed out.”

I hold my stride, eyeing Jamie as he rushes to walk along beside me.

“Oh really?” I’m used to hearing about the weekend’s antics first thing on a Monday morning. It’s always the same shit, though. “Let me guess… You guys hung out at The Bloody Viking all night, playing eight ball and drinking from those ridiculous horn-shaped flasks…”

Jamie grins, “Yeah, man! A fucking blast, as usual.”

Don’t get me wrong, I think my teammates are some of the best guys I’ve ever met. There’s a reason I’ve settled in Vancouver, and it’s not because of this fucking wind that’s sending my carefully styled hair into a windswept mess.

I’m just not one of those guys.

I don’t go out to get word-blubbering drunk at every given chance. I don’t pick up girls or use my stardom and fame to get me what I want.

I’m a true professional. I take my career seriously. Hockey is my number one. I hold myself to a strict diet and cut out anything that might interfere with my game. Alcohol and late nights included. I wake up at 5am every morning to jog the dark, cold streets for an hour, then it’s into the kitchen, cooking breakfast and a batch or two or my latest creation before heading off for training.

I love cooking. It’s my escape.

If I had to give hockey up tomorrow, I’d be banging on the door at the finest restaurant in Vancouver, begging for a job as a chef.

Luckily for me, my career is peaking in Vancouver.

I’ve travelled around, going from team to team across the league. I starred in Dallas; I was the hero of the play-off streak two years ago. Then New York came calling. After that, Chicago, where I picked up my first All-Star Team award.

I was in demand.

And then, my dream was realised.

Vancouver Vikings wanted me.

Vancouver Vikings.

I couldn’t believe it. As I walk across the parking lot, with Jamie Fisher chatting in my earhole about some crazy fan who’s deeply in love with him, I still consider myself lucky to be here.

I’m thirty-three. By no means old, but by the average age of a professional hockey player in the NHL, I’m approaching the end of my career - and fucking fast.

“And so, she dragged me behind the bar, laid me on the floor and drank fucking tequila from my belly button!” Jamie’s eyes pop, his mouth gaping. “Dude! My fucking belly button!”

I reach out and grab the door at the Player’s Entrance to Viking Arena. “Whoa… Sounds wild, bro.”

I think the batch of blueberry lava cakes I made on Saturday night are wilder than drinking from some sweaty dude’s bellybutton, but hey, each to their own.

“Why don’t you come out with us anymore, man?” Jamie pins me as I step inside the building. “If I remember correctly, you can down a Viking Horn in under ten seconds.” Jamie pulls me by the shoulders, his eyes insanely wide. “Mason. Bro. That’s on the levels of the late-great Hector Bells. That’s… Incredible.”

My brow cocks. “Hector Bells? Who the fuck is Hector Bells?”

Jamie throws his arms in the air. He twists and turns, huffing like a teenager who’s been asked to clean their room. “Mason. You’re coming out with us. You need educating and judging by the way you look…”

He looks me up and down, studying every inch of my body.

He’s got nothing on me. He can look all he wants – I’m immaculate.

My Vikings tracksuit looks stunning - as it should - I spent ten minutes ironing out all the creases. My hair is on point after a fresh clip at the barbers first thing on Sunday, and although my beard is getting longer, I keep it well tamed.

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