Page 3 of Puck Me Twice

I’ve learned a lot in the last eight years since we broke up. I’m a whole new person.

One thing’s for sure: I am never dating a hockey player again.

two

. . .

Sven

I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.

Glaring at my idiot teammates, I lift my beer to my lips and take a sip. How much longer until this excruciating torture is over?

We’re on day three of a seven-day road trip. The Western Canada swing is always my least favorite because it lasts forever. There’s no such thing as a “quick” jaunt to Edmonton—when the league sends us to western Alberta, we’re here for several games at a time.

Being on the road is challenging enough because it sets my routines off-kilter. Being on the road for what feels like forever is worse.

I don’t mind sleeping in hotels. I don’t mind the late-night flights to new cities. I don’t mind being surrounded by my teammates.

It’s everything else.

Breakfast, lunch, pre-game dinner, and post-game meal with the team. Going out to the bar after the game. Outside of junior hockey, when that sort of team morale bullshit was mandatory, I haven’t willingly participated in any of the team get-togethers or parties.

Maybe I’m antisocial. Maybe I’m a dick.

Or it could be that I just don’t want to socialize with these numbskulls. I have to spend enough time with them on the ice and in the practice facility.

I like being on my own. By choice, I’m a loner. I thrive being alone.

So getting dragged out to the bar for the third time on day three of what feels like infinity? Kill — me — now.

Aidan MacGregor, the center on my line, gives me a side-eye.

“You could at least pretend like you want to be here,” he mutters, lifting his beer.

“Why?” I’m not trying to be snarky. I’m genuinely asking.

MacGregor sighs. He’s one of the few people on the team who knows that I’m autistic. It’s not that I hide it; I just don’t talk about it with the other dudes. I don’t talk to the other guys at all if I can avoid it.

I keep my head down, take my reps, skate my hardest, and score the fucking goals. That’s what I do. They’re paying me six million dollars a year to put points on the scoreboard, not to smile for billboards.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the odd one out. While I don’t mind the occasional drink, I don’t like bars, and I outright refuse to go clubbing. A quiet night on the couch playing video games with Rupert or tinkering in the kitchen is enough for me.

Being on my own is relaxing. Spending time with a few close friends—I can tolerate that.

An extended amount of time with people who exhaust me, doing activities that exhaust me, with no chance of recalibration at the end of the day? That sounds like a stupendously stupid idea.

Too bad it’s, well, my job.

Okay, so, technically, my job is to play hockey. But there are a million requirements that go along with the contract to play in the national hockey league, and while there are several I dislike, I’d rather play hockey than not play hockey, so I go along with it.

The rest of the guys are drinking and talking, having a good time. The single guys are chatting up women. Some of the married guys are, too. I don’t understand that. It’s against the rules. Why would you want to throw away your life for one night of meaningless sex?

Beside me, MacGregor is on his phone, texting relentlessly. He keeps tilting the screen away like he’s afraid I’m trying to sneak a peek. I’m not. I don’t give two shits who he’s texting. He could be talking to the team owner’s wife and I wouldn’t care. It’s none of my goddamn business.

Jenkins sits across the table, looking glum. The only reason he’s allowed to drink is because we’re in Canada — he’s not 21 yet. His girlfriend is the single most annoying person on the planet. For some reason, he can’t see that. Or maybe he does and he’s choosing to ignore it. I don’t know.

Next to him is Lewis. Goalies are fucking weird, and he’s even weirder than most. Normally he’s pretty chatty. Tonight, he’s mellow, and that’s even more unusual.