“The kind of bullshit that’s gonna get you out of this weird slump,” he replies, ticking his head.
“But I—”
“Just hear me out, ‘kay? I think I know a way we can get you back into the public’s good graces.”
“What? What plan could you possibly have that’ll get everyone to like me again?” I harrumph, hitting him with a stilted glare.
“Donate half a million dollars to charity?” Gage suggests.
Fulton’s eyes light up. “Adopt a shelter full of dogs?”
Kit rubs his hands together maniacally. “Auction off your body for a wild night with the Reapers’ very own stallion?”
“You could get a girlfriend,” Bristol offers.
“You want me to get a girlfriend?” I exclaim, taking in the ten unblinking eyes around the room.
A girlfriend? That’s the stupidest idea anyone’s come up with, and Kit once proposed that I fake my own death to get away from a stage-five clinger.
I’d rather be strapped to a gurney and thrown into the mouth of an active volcano than flaunt my love life again for the whole world to see.
Been there, done that, and it ended with me getting my heart publicly shattered.
Bristol thrusts his phone in my face, showing me a photo of some NHL player with his wife and kids, and under it is a plethora of supportive comments and heart emojis. “Just think about it, H. When you’re in a relationship, you’re automatically more likeable. And a girlfriend could help keep you out of trouble. Plus, being committed shows people that you’re caring and you’re not just some rabid dog looking to sniff every fire hydrant and mark it as his own.”
“If your next talk consists of you convincing me to be a dad, I’ll punch you in the taint,” I growl, the beginnings of a migraine buzzing around my skull like an angry hive.
I’m not interested in being with some girl for the sake of the cameras. My one and only relationship was a complete trainwreck. It’s clear now that serious relationships and I don’t click. I’m usually a commitment-phobe, and the first person I changed for just so happened to end up breaking my heart. I’m not going through that again.
“Yeah, H. You could benefit from getting into a relationship. It’s nice to have someone to look after you, to talk to, to fuck on occasion—or, you know, whenever you want,” Kit chimes in, inspecting his cup of tea like the goddamn thing’s been poisoned.
“I don’t need help in the sex department,” I grumble.
If only they knew what I did last night.
When I was in college, I used to go out every night and collect redheads, brunettes, and blonds like Pokémon. If she had a short enough skirt, I’d chase after her. That’s all it took. But then I got serious with Macy, and I never thought about other girls.
“You know, sex can help you get your mojo back,” Gage adds, waggling his eyebrows.
“Yeah, I was in a rut for a long time and then got some of the best head of my life,” Kit says, his lips quirking into a devilish smirk. “This girl’s tongue was crazy. Like it was so long it could—”
“Alright! I think Hayes gets it,” Bristol intervenes, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “There could be a lot of benefits to entering a new relationship is all I’m saying. Unless there’s another way you’d like to play America’s golden boy? Maybe donate a liver to someone in need?”
I don’t like the idea, but maybe they’re right. Come on, Hayes. Be realistic. Would you rather have your NHL career be over in the snap of a finger, or would you rather stick it out for a few months with some girl? Plus, a fake relationship will distract me from the colossal mistake I made with Sienna—here’s to hoping it’ll never see the light of day—and it’ll take attention away from some of my less-than-stellar behavior recently.
Now all I have to do is run it by my agent and Coach, and then I can get my life back on track again. I took an acting class in college. How hard could this be?
DON’T SCREW THE POOCH
HAYES
Apparently, harder than I thought. It’s dawned on me that I have no idea how to be a good fake boyfriend. I mean, if you asked Macy, she’d probably tell you that I was the worst boyfriend in the entire world. I don’t know how I’m going to make this “relationship” seem real to the fans. I don’t even know what girl would be crazy enough to go along with this plan. I’m banking my reputation on the potential chemistry I might have with some stranger. And sure, my reputation basically has the value equivalent of a used condom on the grimy tiles of a gas station bathroom, but I need to believe there can be some way to turn my image around.
I’ve been too nervous to call Ethan Blythe, my agent, because I know all too well the verbal beatdown he’s going to unleash on me. Do I tell him about sleeping with Sienna? Do I add fuel to the already ceiling-high flames?
I’ve spent the entire morning locked away in my room, looking at media coverage of other NHL players and their significant others. I was miserable when I was with Macy. I don’t want to give someone else the same power she had over me for the majority of our relationship. I like my strings unattached, loose, with no chance of them ever being tied into an impossible sailor’s knot.
The sound of a knock peals from the other side of my door, and it nearly makes me throw my phone.
“Yeah? What?”
“You good in there? Or should I put on a gas mask before I have my nose hairs singed off by the stink?”
Thank God. It’s only Bristol. I don’t think I could endure Kit’s cynicism or Fulton’s idiocy this morning.
I glance around my room at the piles of dirty clothes and day-old dishes that I haven’t had the energy to clean, then I give myself a quick sniff test and actually recoil.
“I’m good. No need to come in or check up on me. Just…uh…getting ready for practice,” I shout at him, realizing that I probably should start getting my bag together. If I can find it in this toxic wasteland.
There’s a long pause. Bristol has an expert bullshit detector, and right now, it’s going off and alerting everyone in a ten-mile radius.
“You know, H, we can always come up with another plan if you’re uncomfortable with the idea of a fake relationship,” he says.
“It’s fine, Bri. It’ll work. I’m just a little off my game.”
Even though I can’t see his face, I know skepticism is projecting off him like the Bat Signal.
A glob of nerves collides in my throat, and I just barely manage to choke them down before Bristol acquiesces and continues off down the hall. Crisis averted.
I change into a fresh shirt and a baggy pair of shorts, slather on some deodorant, and run a comb through my bedhead. I would’ve taken a shower, but I’m cutting it close on time. And judging by the lack of incessant yelling coming from downstairs, the guys must’ve already left. Gathering up my hockey bag, I contemplate if I should eat before heading to the rink.
As if to answer, my stomach rumbles, begging for sustenance. I guess waiting isn’t an option.
I clamber down the stairs and head into the kitchen to make myself a bowl of cereal. We only have Shredded Wheat since Kit’s on a health kick, but it’s better than nothing. I glumly look down at the tiny, pillow-shaped biscuits trying to drown themselves in overpriced oat milk.