Victor (Chicago Blaze 3)

The place we meet up at looks like a warehouse, with high ceilings and sheet metal walls. It’s got a rustic vibe, with long tables made from recycled wood from old bowling lanes. There’s a crowd, and I get lots of handshakes and congratulations from the Chicago fans here.

Easy knows I don’t want to drink, so he sets a glass of ice water in front of me as a server delivers a tray of shots to our table. I’ve been eating and sleeping well and abstaining from alcohol, and I’m not making any changes to the new routine. It’s working well.

“To Vic,” he says, raising his glass into the air.

Everyone drinks to me. I sip my water and look for a menu.

Jonah claps me on the shoulder and says, “So fucking a goat before games is working for you, yeah? Keep that shit up, Lane.”

There are cackles and comments, and I raise my middle finger to them all. I’m verging on hangry, and this place seems to mostly serve appetizers.

“Hey, Victor, I’m Angie.”

I look up from the menu to see a curvy blond woman holding her hand out in introduction.

“Hey, nice to meet you,” I say.

“You too.” She smiles and flips her long hair so it’s all down her back, her ample breasts on full display in a low-cut top.

A waitress comes to get our orders, and I get a burger and some grilled chicken. I’ll stay here as long as it takes to get my food and eat, but then I’m out. I’m tired.

“So where are you from?” Angie asks me.

“Originally from Vancouver.”

“Oh, nice. I think I knew that.” She giggles. “I’m a California girl. My dad’s originally from Chicago, though, and he’s a huge Blaze fan. I work at his company, so trips like this are a work perk.”

“That’s great.”

Across the table from me, Knox is grinning at a woman who’s pretty much in his lap. Looks like he found the pussy he was searching for. I used to do the same after a win—fucking is a great outlet for pent-up energy.

And the way Angie’s brushing her fingertips over my thigh, I think I could easily get her into bed. Would it mess with my mojo? My dick, straining against my pants right now, says it would not. And it has been more than a month since I got laid.

“So what do you do at your dad’s company?” I ask Angie.

“I work in accounts receivable, processing invoices. Since us kids will inherit the company one day, Dad makes us all work there to learn about it.” She rolls her eyes, then immediately switches to a coy smile. “You played amazing out there tonight. It was really hot.”

“Thanks.”

She puts a hand on my shoulder and edges closer to me, speaking in a low tone. “I don’t know anything about hockey, really. I just know you put the little puck in the net. And that it takes a really big stick.”

Hell. I suddenly wish I was drinking tonight. The only way I could fuck this woman while sober is if she quit talking for the duration of the night.

I generally like puck bunnies. They’re so easy to get into bed, and they rarely have expectations of anything after. But tonight…I’m not feeling it.

There’s nothing authentic about fucking a groupie. And I don’t know when authenticity started mattering to me, but…it does. I could take Angie to a hotel and fuck for a few hours, but I’d rather eat dinner, jerk off and go to bed.

I must be getting old or something.

“Hey, it was really nice meeting you, Angie,” I say. “Appreciate you coming all this way to go to the game. I need to go return a call.”

I take out my phone and hold it up, trying to back up my bluff. Angie’s expression falls with disappointment.

For the thirty seconds it takes me to walk outside, I feel a little bad. But she’ll find someone else. Puck bunnies aren’t usually picky.

I look at my phone, continuing with the charade in case Angie’s watching. The message on the screen makes my heart pound harder for a few beats.

You didn’t send the 15k, so now it’s 20k. You have until midnight to Venmo it to me or this hits the Internet tomorrow.

The photo on the screen after the message makes my stomach churn so bad I think I might throw up. I exhale hard, then quickly swipe to erase the message and photo.

Fuck. I was stupid for avoiding this. For thinking he’d go away. He’ll never go away.

The high I was riding over my comeback comes crashing to the ground. No matter how it looks to the outside world, I’m not strong. I don’t have it all. What does it matter if I make millions when I’m a hostage, forced to send money to someone I’d like to kill with my bare hands?