COHEN

“Hey, good lookin’,” Erica greets me. “How’d it go?”

“Mind if I drive?” I ask, even though she’s already pulled onto the main street. Still, she’s moving like a turtle, and I suddenly need to get far away from that YMCA.

“Oooh, you want to take me for a ride?” Erica purrs, then giggles. “The car, I mean.”

“Sure,” I say, but only because it’ll get her to agree faster. “Let’s pull into the Starbucks up here.”

“Oh, I love coffee. Spontaneous coffee date? Your treat?”

I give a shake of my head as she parks. “I’ve gotta get somewhere, sorry.”

“Aw bummer! I was hoping we could spend some time together.”

I look across the seat at Erica and raise my eyebrow. At least, I think it’s Erica. It might be Erin, but I can’t say for sure—it was dark last night, and the bar was loud when we met. She only told me her name once, and I’d feel like a tool asking for her to repeat it after all this time.

Last night had started out innocently enough. After the bar, a group of my buddies ended up at an apartment with a group of girls—friends of friends. Turns out the apartment belonged to Erica. Erin? Whatever.

The group of us played a round of Cards Against Humanity until five in the morning and, instead of trying to drive home at that hour, I found myself asking to stay on her couch.

Erin-slash-Erica had readily agreed, inviting me straight into her bed. Judging by the fact that she’d had her hand on my knee and her ass halfway on my leg the entire night, I had a good idea what she had in mind. Even so, I’d turned her down.

I’ve been there, done that, earned the puck bunny t-shirt. I love women, don’t get me wrong, but this one is a bonafide Stage-Ten clinger, and I just do not have the time, patience, or energy for someone like her at this point in my life.

A few years back... maybe. I might’ve taken her up on her offer for a single night of fun, but I’m too old to deal with the aftermath of it, now. Does that mean I’m finally becoming an adult? I sure as hell hope not. I’m not a fan of responsibility.

I glance over toward Erica who’s inching her fingers up my thigh even before we’ve left the Starbucks parking lot. I’ve changed over to the driver’s seat after handing over her nonfat skinny latte, and I realize that maybe... becoming an adult isn’t so bad. If I’d have slept with her last night, I’d feel guilty and annoyed. Right now, I’m just annoyed. I feel like I deserve a fucking pat on the back.

But she did drive me to my first day of volunteer work, so I should probably take a chill pill and throw her a bone. So, I flash her a smile which earns me a tittering giggle in return.

If only I’d woken up early enough to make the mile trek back to my place, I wouldn’t be in this position. However, because I’d slept through five of my alarms, I’d had to choose between showing up on time or driving my own car, and I’d chosen the former.

“Bad day, huh?” she asks. “I sense a cranky panda over here.”

She shifts toward me, her full lips forming a pout that should’ve made my pants just a little too tight. Right now, though, there’s nothing happening down there. I think even my penis is annoyed.

“Day was fine,” I mumble.

“Let me give you a little kiss to make things better.”

I dodge her lips which, now that I’m seeing more clearly in the light of day, look like they’ve been enhanced by a jug of helium. My eyes wander down to her chest, and sure enough, my suspicions are confirmed. That woman could back float with only the help of the balloons strapped in by her shirt.

That is, if the swatch of fabric over her body could be called a shirt. There’s a ‘v’ in the neckline that dips so low I can probably see her belly button if I look hard enough. I’m simply not interested.

For a moment, I wonder if it’s because my mind is busy imagining the curves—the real, homegrown variety—underneath Annie Plymouth’s ruffled bathing suit. There’s nothing fake about her, that’s for sure. She can’t even pretend to enjoy my company.

“Babe, I’m talking to you.” Erin/Erica frowns deeper. “Bad morning or what? Why don’t you drive us to my place and I’ll distract you for the next hour. Then I’ve gotta get to work, okay?”

I don’t respond, instead using the moment to calculate the time it’ll take me to get to my car. Fifteen minutes if I fly. Cranking the vehicle onto the highway, I press my foot to the floor and ease the car as fast as I can legally go onto the on ramp.

Then, I come to a screeching halt.

Thanks to a stalled out car, the drive to Uptown takes forty-five minutes. During this time, I find out that Erica’s real name is not Erin, but Jill. Who would’ve thought?

She finally tires of talking about her cosmetology class and tries again to sneak her manicured fingers down my pants. Against all logical thought, I find myself moving those fingers back onto her lap with the excuse of needing to focus on the road.

Jill frowns, then looks in the mirror to check her makeup. She stops frowning immediately, mutters about wrinkles on her skin, and then settles into a vacant glare that has me wondering if I should buy her a Big Mac. She looks hungry. And she’s skinny.

“Hamburger?” I mouth as we pass a fast food place. “Shake?”

She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “Gross.”

“Great.” Less time that we have to spend together.

When I arrive at my house, Jill looks around, confused. “This isn’t my house.”

“Yeah, sorry. I really have to get going.” Ironically, we missed the turn for her house about ten blocks back and she never even noticed. “I’m not feeling great.”

“Aww, poor baby. Come home and let mama cook you some soup.”

I look at her. “You cook?”

“No, asshole, we can order it from the Japanese place across the street.”

“Sorry, Jill. Maybe another time.”

“My name’s Julie.”

“Oh. Shit.”

I should apologize, but I’m finding it difficult to do so. After all, the only reason she wants to ‘cook’ for me is because of my name. She basically told me so last night after quizzing me about Los Angeles, celebrities, and other random crap that is not part of a hockey player’s lifestyle. Her vision is far more glamorous than the real deal.

After all, if I’d been an accountant, she wouldn’t have given me a backwards glance. I know this. I’m not a damn Armani model; I’m a hockey player. I’ve got a busted nose, scars, tattoos—I’m not what women would call pretty. Stand Matthew McConoughey next to me and people would think I’m a bum.

“Get out of my car,” Julia says with a wobble in her voice. “You know, I thought we had something special.”

“What gave you that idea?”

“I drove you to volunteer.”

“I’m sorry, here is some gas money.” I pull out a twenty and hand it over. “I appreciate the ride. Thank you.”

“I’m not a whore!”

“I didn’t say that!” I throw my hand up in exasperation as she tosses the money back at me, then lands a punch to my shoulder. It feels moderately like a blind bumblebee has crashed into my arm. “I’m sorry, I’m just not interested right now.”

“Are you emotionally unavailable?” She sniffs.

“Yes,” I say, seeing a loophole and grasping onto it for dear life. “I just got out of a horrible relationship, and my—uh... heart is still healing.”

“Oh, you poor thing.” Julia sandwiches me between her set of balloons and squeezes hard. “Call me once you’re feeling better, okay, honey?”

“Sure thing.”

This time, she pockets the gas money and gives me a finger wave as she buckles herself into the driver’s seat. Before she pulls away from the curb, she takes one last look out the window. “So, should I call you tonight?”

“I don’t think so,” I tell her, thinking that suddenly, it all feels exhausting. Julia, the bunnies, the stupid pranks—all of it. “Maybe a different time.”

“Okay, honey. Feel better.” Satiated with the response, she whips away from the curb nearly crunching my toes in the process.

I hoof it to the entrance of the upscale condo building. I have a nice place in Uptown, a two bedroom penthouse above the city. It’s more of a crash pad than a home, since I spend so much of my time traveling. It’s close enough to the nightlife to give me a place to rest up while in town, and it’s not far from the airport or the rink.

The whole thing works for me. I’m not looking for a permanent place to set up a Christmas tree for the rest of my life; setting down roots is not my idea of a good time now, if ever. I’ve seen what setting down roots can do to a person when they don’t actually want it, and it’s not pretty. I know this because the result is me—team troublemaker.

I open the fridge, pop the top off a Corona, and settle into the couch. It’s barely afternoon, but it’s been an exhausting morning. I’m ready for a nap, a burger, and bed.

Alone.