From Wink to Kink: The San Francisco Aftershocks, a Hockey Romance

I’m supposed to be resisting Tyler Brooks’s hot-hockey-guy charms. Not falling into bed with him.

Look, I gotta make a living like everybody else, and when I catch Tyler Brooks looking around a party for a prettier girl to talk to than me, I’m ready to take him down and make some money doing it. It’s only later that I realize I don’t have the full story on him, and I was jumping to conclusions faster than his goal-making slapshot.

My bad.

So while I set out to infiltrate his world and write the ultimate self-help playbook on how to resist him and his type, the sparks start to fly. His smoldering glances and stick-handling skills become more than just fodder for my wanna-be self-help guru career. Ice-melting kisses blur the lines between a power play and something real, and as our game intensifies, so does the tension.

All while my deadline looms closer.

Should I stick to my game plan—resist the heart-stealing rogue—and deliver the ultimate exposé, or accept that life and love, like hockey, are best played with your heart on the line?

TYLER

There she is.
Only, ‘she’ is the last ‘she’ on earth I want to see at this moment. Or, probably, ever.
My gut churns, which is beyond lame because I probably have one-hundred fifty pounds and at least twelve inches on this woman. I could seriously pick her up with one hand, yet seeing her here tonight makes my dick shrivel, and my libido, previously quite healthy, dry up like spilled water in the desert.
Does the way this woman keeps showing up wherever I go qualify her as the dreaded s-word?
Stalker.
That might be a shitty thing to call a person, but when someone you used to date keeps showing up in your life, what the hell else is it?
I look at my buddies Rake and Jonas for support, but they’re busy talking through Rake’s last-season injury, and how it will or won’t impact his upcoming season.
Not that they’d give a shit about my little problem, anyway. They always tell me to be more selective about who I date. Easy for them to say. They found their soulmates—their term, not mine. 
It sucks when a relationship gets to this point. Not that it happens often. But when it does, it’s ugly, messy, and in my case, has the potential to be very public. 
I grab an overcooked shrimp off the tray of a passing server and chase it with my third Singha beer. The catered food at this place is always a crapshoot, but at least they can’t mess up the beer.
I look around the old-school San Francisco restaurant, likely decorated ages ago with some well-meaning person’s interpretation of Southeast Asian chic. Large, lazy fans flap from the ceiling, interspersed with random red and gold lanterns. The requisite faux balcony high up on one wall screams ‘colonial’ feel, and fraying rattan chairs and wilted potted plants make up the rest of the scene. The San Francisco Aftershocks holds a couple low-brow events here each year, reportedly because the owner of the restaurant knows the owner of the team and thinks they’re great friends, or something like that. We don’t ask questions. We just show up.
This particular team event is behind the bar in an area cordoned off for privacy, which is really just attracting more attention than anything else. And in spite of the ceiling fans, the air is filled with the testosterone of a team of fired-up pro hockey players and the lethal combo you get when you add alcohol to the mix. 
Seriously. Our PR rep, the diminutive Vince Vincent, is running around like a frantic babysitter, trying to make sure no one does anything stupid. We’re to save any and all of our bone-headed aggression for the ice.
Which is fair.
It feels good to be back with the guys. Sure, I see Rake and Jonas on the regular, but the rest of the team pretty much scatters in the off season. People have lives to live, children to raise, vacations to take, and family to visit. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I kind of miss them when we’re all blown to different corners of the earth.
These guys, they’re all right. There isn’t a single one of them I could say a bad thing about. It’s really the best part of being on a team, the “family” part of it. Not that I would say a wuss thing like that to any of the guys.
So my potential stalker, Daphne, and I went our separate ways a few weeks ago. At the time, it seemed like she took the news well. It was amicable and friendly, funny even, at least I thought so by her shoulder shrugs and giggles.
I never said I was much for reading women.
She was a nice enough person, and to be honest, I had no major complaints. It’s just that we didn’t have anything in common, and with the opening of hockey season looming, I knew I’d have little to no time to devote to a relationship I wasn’t really into anyway. I explained this to her in more diplomatic terms, of course, and she agreed. Hell, I thought we were on the same page, and that she was sick of my half-assing it when it came to hanging out.
There are some things you just can’t fake.
Besides, she had all sorts of complaints about me. She didn’t like my shoes. She thought it was weird that my favorite ice cream was vanilla. And it really drove her up the wall that I didn’t use emojis in our text messages.
I had trouble ‘expressing myself,’ she told me.
Seems to me I did her a favor by calling it quits.
Right?
But this moment, at our Back to the Season team party, dressed to resemble someone headed for the stripper pole—no offense to strippers—does not bode well for me. Plain and simple, it’s not cool that she just shows up here like she was invited or something.
Speaking of which, how does she even know about this shindig?
Lots of people get invited to stuff like this, not just team members and their partners. We have coaches, managers, back-office folks, the owners, friends of friends—but not someone who used to date a team member.
That’s pretty fucking far from ordinary. 
And now she’s looking at me. With a big smile. Heading my way. The nosedive my evening took when I spotted her is now headed for a crash landing.
This is not good. I don’t need any drama, nor does the rest of the team. I could make a break for it. Turn and leave.
But that’s exactly the kind of spectacle the PR guy is trying to head off tonight. 
I heard something like this happen to a guy on another team. He broke it off with a woman, and yet she kept coming around all the time like they were still together. I know this can happen to anyone, attracting a borderline stalker, but this woman made trouble for the guy and his whole team. Daphne’s not like that, I’m certain of it, but then what the hell is she doing here?
I throw her a little smile and wave. With a glance to the side, I see my buddies and wingmen Rake and Jonas watching with great interest. They’ll be having a field day with this at my expense later, no doubt.
“Oooh, would you look at that,” Rake says only loudly enough for the three of us to hear.
“What’s your play, buddy?” Jonas adds.
I am normally a quick thinker. Fast on my feet. It’s what I’m known for. And yet, at this moment, my white-soled athleisure sneakers are stuck to the floor like someone glued me there. I couldn’t make a break for it if I wanted to.
How is it I’m so freaked out by a one-hundred-ten pound curly-haired brunette?
And that’s when I realize she’s not heading my way. Just my general direction. Nor is she smiling at me. Just my general direction.
No, she’s smiling at the guy next to me, Chuck, our newest player, and all-round nice guy.
He waves at her over the crowd, then dives into the throng to meet her halfway.
And plants a big kiss on her lips.
Okay.
I get it now.
She’s with Chuck, and I’m an asshole.
Does he know I dated her? Probably not, that’s how new he is. And if he did, he probably wouldn’t be too happy knowing that when things didn’t work out with me, she glommed on to him, the new guy in town who doesn’t know a soul except for his teammates. 
I’m not gonna be the one to tell him.
A sharp elbow to the ribs jolts me out of my thoughts. “Dude, look who Daphne’s with now.”
Like I’m fucking blind or something. 
“I’ll be damned,” Rake continues. “Can’t say I blame her, though. I mean, Chuck’s a serious trade-up after your sorry ass.”
I side-eye Rake and throw a scowl at Jonas, who I have no doubt is equally enjoying what could become an uncomfortable situation if all parties don’t behave like the grown-ups we supposedly are.
Jonas tilts his head and rubs his overgrown beard. “She’s probably thrilled to be with a man who can actually get a hard-on.”
Yup. These are my best friends. 
“Thanks. You’re right on all accounts, as always. And may Chuck have much success with her. They have all my blessings.” 
With dramatic flourish, Daphne throws her arms around Chuck’s neck like she hasn’t seen him in years. She squeezes her eyes shut after making sure we’re watching and doesn’t let go, not even when Chuck does, his arms hanging by his sides like he’s waiting to be released.
I turn my back on the spectacle, and try to block Rake’s and Jonas’s view, because they are staring and pointing with no attempt at discretion. 
Exactly what I wish they wouldn’t do, which is exactly why they are doing it.
They’re making a bigger deal out of this than even Daphne, who I am sure loves rubbing my face in the fact that she landed a new San Francisco Aftershocks player five minutes after I gave her the heave-ho. So, I dance from foot to foot, moving in the guys’ way so they can’t see past me.
We call them ‘Puck Bunnies.’ Well, I don’t use the term, it’s rude and sexist, but some other guys on the team do when they refer to the women who bounce from player to player, hoping something sticks with one of them. It happens in every pro sports team, kind of like the groupies who follow around a rock band. Aside from the free tickets, I’ve never understood the attraction. We all may play a mean hockey game, but other than that, we’re just normal, boring guys.
Rake and Jonas eventually lose interest in the Chuck-Daphne spectacle, and get back to discussing Rake’s knee injury from last season, and how the sports press is looking for something, anything to indicate ‘he’s just not coming back from that nasty ACL tear, and isn’t it a shame.’
We all have our supporters and detractors. It comes with the territory.
I’m not planning on staying long at tonight’s gathering, and in fact, hope I can sneak out unnoticed after a respectable amount of time. I was something of a lazy fuck in the off season, and only just got back to my heavy-duty weight workout. Today I am paying the price like the idiot I am and am sore to the ends of my fingernails, it feels like. I’ve been sucking down ibuprofen all day and want nothing more than a little soak in my hot tub and to relax in front of the TV with my feet up, switching between sports shows, maybe throwing in a little porn before calling it a night.
But that’s going to have to wait, because the owner hasn’t taken the mic yet to kick off his welcome speech. In fact, it looks like he’s only just now arriving. The front doors of the restaurant have opened wide and the crowd has parted to let someone through. He’s a short guy, the owner, so I can only see the top of his bald head, but there’s no doubt it’s him. And if he follows his usual practice, he’ll make the rounds, say hello to everyone, then take center stage. This all means I’m here for at least another hour.
I snatch a skewer of satay from the tray of a passing server. It looks more promising than the shrimp.
“Hey, anybody want another beer?” I ask, downing the last of my Singha.
Rake and Jonas, now discussing the knee injury of a player on an opposing team, nod and show me their bottles.
Right. One Singha, one Stella, and one IPA.
I edge my way up to the bar, saying hi to folks I haven’t seen in a while with plenty of fist bumps and back slaps, and just before I can wave the bartender over, I run smack into Daphne.
Or was it she who ran into me?
“Hey Daph,” I say.
Then Chuck, who I also didn’t see coming, appears at my elbow. “You guys know each other?” he asks, looking between the two of us with a confused expression. 
She looks up at me, eyes wide, waiting to see how I’m going to handle the situation.
“Oh, yeah, we do. Hey, anyone need a drink?” I ask, waving frantically for the bartender.
“I’ll have another martini, Ty,” Daphne says in her heavy Eastern European accent.
Now Chuck is really confused by our familiarity, but I lean over the bar and start ordering drinks before he can ask me anything else.
I hand Chuck Daphne’s martini. “Dude, your beard is looking great. You’re gonna fit in just fine,” I call to him, inching back through the crowd with the three beers I set out to get.
He runs his hand over his early-stage facial hair, having bought into the team tradition of growing beards for the season. 
“Shit, Chuck knows that Daph and I know each other,” I say when I reach Rake and Jonas.
Rake frowns. “What’s the big deal? Just tell him you dated her. He’ll eventually find out and it’s better for him to hear it from you.”
I’m not one for difficult conversations, even though Daphne gave me a book with that exact title.
“I don’t know. I guess. It’s awkward, man. Why do people do this?” 
Jonas looks at his phone like he does about a hundred times a day. He has two little ones at home and even when he’s not with them, he follows their schedule with regular check-ins with the nanny. “They do this, Ty, because people love hockey and women love hockey players.” He tosses his head back and laughs at his joke.
I scoff. “They don’t all love us. I can assure you of that.”
“Look, Ty, don’t be so sore Daphne’s made off with another player. Hell, maybe something’ll come of it, at least outside the bedroom. They could turn into a real couple, unlike what you were able to accomplish,” he adds.
“Whatever,” I grouse, looking around for the team owner. Dammit, he still hasn’t even gotten close to the podium to give his speech. I’ll never get out of here at a decent hour. “And by the way, I’m not sore.”
“Nor should you be. Look, it never would have lasted, even if you were into her.” 
“Yeah, Ty,” Rake says. “When was the last time you dated anyone for any length of time? It’s just not your thing. Be happy for the woman. She moved on and found a new guy. You never would have stuck with her. You never stick with anyone.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, I don’t stick with anyone?” 
Jonas and Rake look at each other as the team owner taps the mic for everyone’s attention.
Thank fucking God.
“Ty, when was the last time you dated a woman for longer than a month or two?” Rake whispers.
“Oh my God, I’ve dated several women for longer than that.”
I run the names of the women I’ve dated over the last couple years through my mind like a grocery list. A long one.
He may have a point.
“I don’t see what the big deal is.”
Rake lowers his voice further since the crowd is quieting. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just that you can’t date anyone longer than a few weeks. It’s your fatal flaw.” He looks away, like the discussion is over.
“That’s BS,” I say. 
Jonas raises his eyebrows at me. “Shall we make a bet then? A bet that you can’t date a woman for ninety days?” 
God, he knows how to get my goat. That’s what happens when you’re friends with someone for years.
I roll my eyes. “Not necessary. I can date a woman for that long, no problem.”
He shrugs, a challenging gleam in his eye. “Okay. Yeah sure. Whatever you say, Ty.”
The team owner starts his speech, welcoming everyone and expressing his certainty about the strong season ahead of us. That familiar rush, that anything is possible on the ice, comes flooding back to me and I feel a fire surge through my veins.
I’m excited for the season. I’m ready.
I want to get on that fucking ice.
Even though the guys’ comment hit me like some kind of slapshot to the chest.
* * *