by Maren Moore
Famous last words, if there ever were any.
Two
Hayes
"Sweetheart, don't be like that," I coo, amping up the charm that God has so graciously given me. Usually, I don't have to work this hard, but a woman scorned.…
I duck just as a high heel sails past my head, barely missing, and hits the wall behind me with a loud thud.
"You're an asshole, Hayes!" the blonde from last night cries as she stomps around my penthouse, collecting her discarded scraps of clothing from various surfaces. Well, minus the heel she just tried to impale me with.
"I thought you knew what this was. I'm sorry, I'm not a relationship kinda guy," I mutter, my brow furrowed in confusion. We’d discussed this, in length—or at least I thought we had—before she’d dropped to her knees and made me forget my own name. This is why I rarely hook up outside of "the list". You know, the list that you call and faithfully, they answer. No drama, no attachments, no issues. This is what happens when you stray from the list. But sometimes the list is boring, and I'm a “live life on the edge” kinda guy. My dick is, at least.
Another shoe flies, and she screams in frustration as she snatches the pale pink lace bra from atop the lamp. I crouch down behind the leather chair in the far corner, safe from flying Louboutins, but the chair doesn't do much to block my six-foot-four, hockey-built body from her assault.
She's abandoning the shoes and moving on to my awards that sit on the bookshelf beside her.
Fantastic.
This gives new meaning to taking one for the team. You give a girl great dick, and they become mentally unstable.
One by one, the awards hit the wall behind my head, each one thrown with more oomph than the last, and the last one putting a hole in the drywall.
"Okay, Becca, let's talk about this." I peek from behind the chair to see her eyes drilling holes in my hiding spot.
"It's Beth! Jesus Hayes, you can't even get the name of the woman you sleep with right?!" she cries, chunking a vase this time, which hits the wall and shatters behind me.
I need to get this under control, and fast.
Listen, in my defense, there hadn’t exactly been a lot of talking the night before, and when she decided to suck the soul out of my dick, I kind of lost all rational thought.
"I'm sorry! I was distracted. I can't help that there was a lot less talking than I expected."
"Whatever."
Now partially dressed, she pulls her purse up on her arm, and I take a chance and stand.
"Look, Beth," I pause, emphasizing the correct name, "I'm sorry I got your name wrong. I blame it on the alcohol, okay?" I give her my most charming grin, and she visibly softens before me.
"It's…It's fine. I just thought it would be different. Can I give you my number, you know, so you can call me sometime?" She trails off.
"Sure love, leave it with the doorman on your way out, yeah?" I drop a chaste kiss on her cheek and stroll off to the bathroom for a shower to wash last night off my body.
I hear a frustrated growl and the slam of the front door. Before I can even turn the water on to get in, my phone's ringing. I don't even have to look to know who it is, and I slide the bar to answer without looking.
Another day, another ass chewing.
"Kyle, my man, what's happening?" I grin when I hear my agent’s dejected sigh.
"Did you at least check to make sure she hadn't stolen anything?"
I laugh, even though he's right. “I didn't, but don't worry, she spent most of the morning destroying the penthouse, so there wasn’t much time left to steal anything."
"What?" he exclaims. I hear a car door shut, and he curses under his breath.
I can practically see the vein in his neck bulging as his face goes beet red. I've told him that shit isn't good for his health.
“Eh, she was a little angry that it wasn’t more than a one night kind of thing.”
“Hayes, did you at least have her sign the NDA? It’s literally on your phone and takes two clicks. Two.”
Fuck, I knew I forgot something. At least it wasn’t the condom.
“Uh, I actually did not do that because I was a tad intoxicated.”
“Listen, the league is breathing down my neck. You’ve got to get your shit under control, or you’re going to forfeit the captain spot and find yourself without a team. I can only do so much damage control. This girl will be selling her story at the nearest tabloid in a heartbeat, and you know her version will be ten times worse than what actually happened. You’re already out this year for your shoulder—do you really want to never return to NHL? Because that’s what it fucking seems like. Continue like this and your hockey career is over.”
"Kyle, I'm good. Just letting loose and trying to relax, okay?"
He sighs and doesn't respond. There's a beat of tense silence.
"Look, why don't I head home for a bit? Spend some time with Scott and the fam? I've got Gracie’s birthday party coming up, and I can just stay a few days. Out of the tabloids. Give my shoulder time to heal," I say.
"I'll have Jess book the jet. Stay out of trouble, Hayes. You're on a thin rope that's ready to snap. I’ll handle anything that happens with this girl, but for God’s sake can you not sleep with any more puck bunnies before you leave?"
With that, he hangs up.
There are three things I love about going home to my tiny, barely-a-spot-on-the-map hometown—which, with one stoplight, a Main Street that leads into town, and only one way out, is the definition of the word “small-town”:
1) Sunday mornings with Pops
2) My mama's cooking
3) Seeing my childhood best friend and his family
That's it.
The day I was drafted, I packed my bags and never looked back. There was nothing that Leavenworth could offer, so I took the first opportunity that presented itself. Hockey had always been in the cards, so it wasn't a surprise when the Wolves drafted me. I’m just lucky I’m only in Seattle rather than halfway across the country, where I couldn't see my parents often enough. Especially during the pre-season.
Mama calls every single Sunday without fail. I block that time out for her and wait faithfully for her phone call every week. It doesn’t matter where I am or who I’m with—that time is hers. Call me what you want, but I'm a mama's boy, through and through.
I look up to see Mama’s old, beat-up Ford pulling into the parking spot in front of me. That's one fight I'm never going to win.
The thing is older than I am, and it looks every bit of it. Mama loves that rusted heaper, and even though I could pay cash for a new Tahoe for her, she refuses, insisting that the truck is "perfectly fine and gets her where she needs to go." My dad and I have been on her for years to retire it, but she’s not hearing any of it. And you don’t argue with Mama.
Ma seems to be the only person in the world who truly doesn’t care about the number of things she could have because her son is a pro hockey player. It's the reason a serious relationship is off the table for me. I never know if a woman is with me for what I can offer her or what she can make off of me.
"There's my baby!" she cries the second her foot hits the pavement, the heavily rusted door slamming shut behind her.
"Mama don't start fussing over me already.'' I grin, no conviction behind my words. I love when she fusses, but I can’t say that. Wouldn't dare admit it. I’m not six-foot-four, built like a brick shit house, and the best defender in the country for nothing. I can’t let anyone think I’m soft.
Truth is, I'm soft as fuck for Mama.
She rolls her eyes, pulling me to her. "Oh hush, you're my baby boy. I can fuss all I want, and you're not going to tell me a thing, Hayes."
"Yes ma'am." I give her a hug and let it linger for a moment, thankful that I decided to come home.
"How's your shoulder? Have you been taking it easy? I better not hear you've been on the ice, being rough."
Should have known she wasn't going to last five minutes without bring
ing it up. I'm still...adjusting to the fact that, for the first time in over fifteen years, I’m not going to be playing hockey this season. I've got a tear in my rotator cuff, and the doc says if I take time off, it'll likely heal on its own. But if I don't, the tear will get bigger and require surgery to fix it.
As small of a tear as it is, that motherfucker hurts.
I hate to sit on the sidelines and let my team down, but if I don’t let this shoulder heal, chances are, surgery will be the end of my career.
So, here I am. Wondering what the fuck I'm going to do with the next year of my life.
"Ma, I'm good. I've been icing it. I can still skate, you know. My feet are fine. I just can't play an actual game and take the chance of someone hitting me. Don't worry."
Her eyes still pool with worry, but she smiles and pulls me back to her. "You've been gone too long. Let's get home—I have supper thawing, and your daddy will be excited to see you."
I nod and toss my bag into the bed of the truck with my good shoulder before hopping inside. The door creaks and grinds as it slams shut.
The drive through town is quiet—blissful in a way that can only be achieved in a place like this. It's serene and peaceful—the opposite of Seattle. Here, there are none of the city lights and no cars racing down the freeway to their next destination. It’s exactly what I need after the week I've had.
"I saw you on the cover of one of those magazines, Hayes," Mama chides from the driver's seat.
I groan. "Mama, can we not?" I plead.
"Hayes, I'm just saying you're too old to be out there frolicking with these...women. It's time to settle down, find you a good woman, and give me some grandchildren."
And there it is.
There's nothing this woman wants more than to see me settled down and married off like my brothers and sisters.
Problem is, I've got no desire to settle down and get married or pop kids out.
I'm perfectly fine with how my life is.
"I'm good, Ma. Don't worry about me, okay? You need to worry about you and Dad. He said you went to the doctor this week for a heart scan. Everything go okay?"
She looks out the window, avoiding my eyes. "Everything is fine, Hayes. I would like to have some grandchildren before I die. Your old mama isn't getting any younger."
We ride the rest of the way home in silence, each of us looking out our own window.
Settling down is the last thing on my mind. Getting through the next year is the only part of the future I'm focused on.
Three
Sophia
I hope whoever came up with the smart-ass idea to make giant, life-size unicorns into balloons stubs their big toe on the corner of their bed in the middle of the night...and gets an STD. Okay, a curable STD, but an STD all the same.
As usual, I'm fifteen minutes late to my godchild's birthday party, and now I'm wrestling the unicorn balloon out of the car, furthering my tardiness.
"For God's sake," I cry, yanking on the string and finally pulling the enormous thing free of the door.
Now I'm flustered and my hair is standing up in every direction because of the static from the balloon. And great, now it's sticking to the balloon. I'm trying to get my hair under control when I hear a soft chuckle and look up to see Hayes Davis strolling right past me, clutching a small, perfectly wrapped present with a bright pink bow.
That...asshole.
He saw me struggling with this stupid balloon, in heels, in the middle of a hot summer day, and he laughs and walks right past me like I'm not even here. If that doesn't describe who he is as a person, nothing will.
And Holly wonders why I hate him.
Aside from an ego that's so big I'm not sure how Holly’s house will even begin to contain it, or the fact that he's arrogant and expects everyone to fall at his feet like he's some god or something?
Well, aside from that, it's most definitely the fact that he is so ridiculously good looking my stomach turns even looking at him.
Whatever. I don’t need his help anyway.
I raise my chin higher, snatch the stupid unicorn balloon up, and stomp towards the front door. The party is already well on its way, and it does make me feel marginally better that Mr. Perfect is also late. The sound of children screaming and some princess soundtrack drift to the front yard, so I head through the side gate to the backyard. Just as I step onto the garden path, a shrill scream rings out, throwing me off balance. Before I can catch myself on, well anything, I feel my heel snap beneath my foot, and I'm going down.
I hit the ground, hard.
Really freaking hard.
Ugh.
The mulch from the landscaped path digs into my thighs as my dress hikes up, and my legs somehow end up tangled in the bundle of string attached to the ridiculous number of balloons I'm carrying. From my spot on the ground, I'm eye level with the crotch of the unicorn. Even better.
I glance down at my thrift store Louboutins and see that the spike of the heel is broken in half, and honestly, I don't think this moment can get any worse. I saved for exactly three months to buy these heels, and I feel the hot sting of tears well in my eyes.
"Uh...Sophia?"
The velvet voice comes from behind me. Without looking, I know exactly who it belongs to, and now I regret thinking that this moment couldn't get any worse…because it absolutely just did.
"I'm fine," I huff, tossing the spiked heel to the side and not-so-gracefully rising to my feet. With only one heel, I'm awkwardly uneven.
"Need some help, or...?" he asks from behind me again.
I turn to face him and give him the best scowl I can muster, "Nope."
His eyes, a vivid green I don’t quite remember ever being that bright, do a slow, unashamed perusal of my body, then move back up, locking with mine. He smirks, and I want to kick him in the shin.
How could I forget how insanely irritating he can be without saying a single damn word? I don't wait for his smart-ass answer. Instead, I brush past him back towards the front of the house, hobbling on one heel.
I’m not sure if someone can actually die from embarrassment, but if so, I'd like to at least die in peace—without the hottest, most annoyingly arrogant player in the entire NHL getting front row seats.
Somehow, I make it to the front door and thrust it open, yanking in the bunch of balloons and toeing off my broken heel in the process. Holly's in the kitchen arranging food, and her eyes widen when she sees me stumble through the front door.
"Hoooooly shit, what the hell happened to you?" She grins and rushes over.
Thankfully, the stupid balloons are ripped from my white knuckles, and I can breathe without worrying that they'll trip me or blow away with the damn breeze.
"I just tripped, fell, and somehow broke my new Louboutins in the process. But I got the damn balloons."
She laughs at my exasperation, "Okay, well, glad you made it. Want a mimosa?"
"That would be fantastic, thank you." I follow her into the kitchen. Everything, and I do mean every literal surface, is pink and purple and somehow incorporated into a unicorn theme, and in this moment, I realize how unprepared for motherhood I am.
I am never going to be a Pinterest mom like Holly, and I am sure as shit not going to be the designated balloon girl from here on out. I refuse. I'll keep the cool aunt title and leave all the party planning and supply getting to Hol.
While she makes our mimosas, I glance out the window into the yard, watching as Gracie and her friends jump in the unicorn jump house they rented for the party, laughing and giggling. Scott's behind the grill with my arch nemesis, and most of the other dads are hovering nearby. It's the most domesticated thing I've ever seen—less Hayes, of course.
The guy doesn't have a selfless bone in his body. I'm surprised he doesn't have TMZ peeping over the fence for a photo or a puck bunny hanging off his arm. That's his usual MO, so I'm curious as to why he's here sans bleach blonde with too little clothes.
He definitely has a type—that much i
s apparent.
"Soph?" Holly's voice makes me tear my eyes from Hayes.
"What'd you say? Sorry."
She gives me a knowing look, "So, I see you've seen Hayes."
"Briefly. Still as arrogant and pompous as always."
Before she can answer, the back door flies open, followed by, "Mommmyyyy!!!"
My godchild runs in with tears streaming down her face and collapses into a fit at her mother's feet, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. It's the most dramatic thing I've ever seen. Holly mouths "drama" before scooping Gracie up off the floor, drying the crocodile tears from her cheeks.
"What's wrong, baby?"
"Daddy says we can't open p-presents until after cake." She sags against Holly's chest as she wails.
"Well, sweetie, that's how birthdays go."
Gracie pauses, thinking about what Holly has said and then responds, "Uncle Hayes says it's my birthday, and that means I can do whatever I want."
My eyebrows shoot up.
"Did he?" Holly asks.
"He did, and he even said that it's my birthday and I can cry about it if I want to. Daddy used the ‘shut up’ word though."
"How about you go outside, and Mommy will be there in just a few minutes. Then we’ll go ahead and eat your yummy unicorn cake and open presents, okay?"
A few more tears, some grumbling, and a handful of dramatic wails later, Gracie finally feels okay enough to rejoin her friends outside. The second she's surrounded, the dramatics of her tears are gone, the redness of her cheeks the only sign that it even happened.
"Wow," I breathe, laughing.
"Tell me about it. Every day is a new drama with that one."
She thrusts a mimosa at me, and I accept the glass, taking a hefty sip.
Ninety percent champagne, ten percent orange juice. Just how I like it. And after the fiasco of even getting here, I need the alcohol more than ever. Especially when I’m going to be subjected to being around Hayes for the remainder of the afternoon.