“I have no time for this shit, Laura. Either you run the ad or don’t. I don’t give a shit anymore. I’ve already gotten paid,” I say. Laura, my agent, is about to respond, but I don’t need to hear it. I’ve heard it a thousand times before.

“Look, handle this. This is your job. My job is to play hockey. Why the fuck am I even on this call? Hit up my manager. Get this done.”

I hang up the phone and lean back in my chair. “Jesus,” I sigh.

Bronson looks at me and adjusts his tie. “Tough day, huh,” he says.

I shrug. “Tough year. Ever notice that these advertisers expect everything from us now? They want me to come back in and redo the Nike ad. I’ve already gotten the check. It’s aired in Japan already. Why the hell should I be bothered to redo the damn thing? I’d rather cut the contract than go back to the studio,” I say. I kick up my feet onto my desk and close my eyes.

“You’re lucky you can get Nike to give you something,” Bronson says. “I barely landed that Adidas ad last year. This year, I’ve gotten nothing.”

I hold back my laughter. “You got that Frosted Flakes gig, right?”

“Fuck off,” he says.

“Come on,” I say, “just say it. Once. For me.”

He shakes his head and laughs. “I said, fuck off,” he repeats.

I crack up, but stop myself when I see his face turn serious. He looks out the window with jealousy in his eyes. It’s almost as if he’s staring back at himself. When he glances back over at me, he smiles. “They’re… greeaaaaat!”

I clap my hands loudly. “There you go! Tony the Tiger, ladies and gentleman!”

“Stupid,” he sighs. We both lean back in our chairs and stare into the void. The humming of the air conditioning can be heard over our silence. The hotel is nice. They always hook that up for us, but any off time is boring to me. I’d rather train all day than sit around here.

“Let me ask you something,” Bronson says. “What would you do if you couldn’t play anymore? How would you handle it?”

I laugh and shrug. “You feeling your age creep up on you or something?”

“It’s just a question,” he says.

“Well, you know how much I love the game. We’ve been playing for years though. It has to end sometime. Plus, I think I’d kind of be relieved to get out of the spotlight a little. I hate the business aspect. It’s a load of crap. I hate the contracts and the cameras that are constantly being shoved in our faces. If for some reason I couldn’t play ever again, I’d probably thank the lord above,” I say.

“Yeah. Everything around it kind of sucks. Of course, we have money now. That’s pretty nice,” he says.

“That’s how they rope you in for life, my friend.”

“True enough. Well, I’ll tell ya, I’ve got to get into the city before we leave for Chicago. I haven’t partied at all. No women. No booze. No nothing. It’s like I’ve taken a vow of celibacy,” he says. He grabs a dumbbell from the ground and attempts to lift it, but drops it back onto the carpet after one pump.

I nod. It’s been about the same for me too. Training this year has been rough. I’m starting to feel it more. I have all these newbies smashing into me on the ice, but they don’t know how to sink a puck below the crossbar. They want leaders like us, but they won’t listen or train correctly. It’s been a mess.”

“Yeah, well, the coach is a ball-buster this year and the rest of the guys suck,” I say. “What can you do? Oh, shit, I forgot to tell you. I saw your favorite personal trainer yesterday at the gym.”

“Who? Becky? The girl with the sweetest ass in town?” He squints his eyes and makes a gross gesture with his hands, like he’s massaging a butt, or something. I laugh at how weird he is.

Bronson has been my buddy for over ten years now, but he’s a total nut. We both have played on separate teams most of the years, but we finally got traded to the Blackhawks together. Now we get to fuck up the other team, just like we did in college. Only problem is that I have to deal with his antics on a daily basis. He’s been chasing Becky around forever. It’s hilarious that he can’t take the hint.

“Bro, I don’t know what you’re doing with your hands there, but yeah. I’m talking about Becky,” I say.

“Did she mention me?” he asks me, placing his hands back in his pockets.

I shake my head and chuckle. “Nah. She just said that she saw the game or something. I don’t know,” I say. “She’s not that cool, to be honest.

“Shit. Don’t talk about my girl like that,” he sighs.

I grab my phone and open my schedule up. There is another scrimmage tomorrow morning. Another scolding by the coach awaits us as well, most likely. I can’t wait to get back to Chicago. I hate it here in Seattle.

“I caught eyes with this one woman, though. Not sure if she was into it or not. She kept looking away, and acting kind of weird,” I say.

“She probably knows who you are,” he says.

“I’m still under the impression that people don’t really watch hockey,” I say. He laughs and agrees. “Besides, this woman was different. She was natural looking, and not vapid. You know when you just look at a woman and can tell that she’s for real?”

He begins rolling a puck on his desk, in between his fingers. He shrugs at my question. “I prefer plastic, myself,” he says, winking. “The less they talk, the better.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a dunce,” I tell him. He smiles at the word dunce.

“A natural woman. Got it. So she had big, natural tits or something?” he asks. He throws the puck in the air and catches it.

I groan, wishing I hadn’t even brought up the subject. We’ve always had different taste in women. He likes the supermodels. I like women who can offer a little more than that. Plus, I’m over all that bullshit. I’ve been in the game since I first got hair on my balls. I’ve had all the women in the world. Seriously. All of them. After a while, it starts to get boring. I appreciate a lady who comes with the whole package.

“That’s not the only reason why I was checking her out,” I say. “But yeah, she had some pretty big tits.” I laugh.

Well, she did.

“That-a boy! So what happened?” he asks. I can see from his excitement that he’s starting to get worked up.

“I just got done working out and saw Becky. I figured you’d want me to put in a good word, so I mentioned you and said we should all hang out soon, before we leave to Chicago,” I say.

“You’re my best friend.” He gives a false smile and drops the puck onto the carpet.

“Yeah, whatever. The girl I wanted was gone by the time I was done with my stupid conversation. I was kind of pissed because she dipped so fast. She didn’t even give me a chance,” I say. I think back to her doing those squats. Her body is everything that I want. Thick waist. Big tits. An ass to die for and a perfect face. A real woman. She’s just… beautiful.

“She’s the kind of woman you’d want to put a baby in. Let’s put it that way,” I say.

“Gross,” Bronson mutters. “Babies. Why do you always say weird shit like that?”

“Because it bothers you so much. You know you’re 35, right?” Standing up, I grab my hockey stick. Immediately, he grabs his. He guards the puck, but I simply shove him down to the ground. He groans like a hurt man.

He mimics my words without making the sound. I head toward the door. “You leaving?” he asks.

“Yeah, in a second. I’m going to stretch and run some warm-ups for tomorrow morning,” I say. I lean against the door frame and stretch a little for comfort.

“Man, I can’t stop thinking about that woman,” I whisper to myself, shaking my head.

The problem is that I’ve been given a certain level of fame. When I see something I want, I get it. But this woman left the gym in a hurry. I’ll never get to see her again. It pisses me off.

“Well, stop thinking about her. Think about the roaring fans. Think about the massive stadiums, the women who won’t tie you down, and the delicious, foamy brews we can all drink after the game. If that doesn’t get you off, think about decimating your opponent. Don’t get soft on me, Lawrence,” he says.

“If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s soft,” I say.

He claps his hands and points at me. “Exactly,” he says. It’s like he wants me to think he’s got me in a trap or something. I love Bronson, but sometimes he’s a little dense.

“Alright, I’m out,” I tell him. I can’t handle anymore of the weird shit today.

Right as I place my hand on the knob, I hear him shuffle in his seat. “Wait, I almost forgot,” he says.

“What is it?” I think to myself. The air condition humming above us is beyond agonizing at this point.

“Party on Friday,” he says. “A bunch of the guys are going downtown. They apparently have this three-story club reserved for us. It’s going to be huge. You have to be there since you’re our star player.”

I give the standard line I always give when people call me that. “I’m not the star player. We all work together to—”

“Right. Just shut up and show up, okay? It’ll be fun. I know how much you hate leaving Chicago, but maybe it’s because you don’t go out ever,” he says.

“You’re probably right,” I shrug and walk into the hotel hallway. “I’ll see you there, player.”

“That’s the Lawrence I remember,” he says.