Chapter 4
Gone Weak
Beau
Hunter and I left Camille's bakery and hailed the first cab we saw. The two of us climbed into the back and set the box of goodies between us.
I gave the cabbie the address, and we took off for the hotel. When I relaxed into my seat, I noticed Hunter was staring at me.
“What?” I asked him.
“I'm surprised,” Hunter said with a chuckle. “That was really, um, …”
Hunter trailed off.
“What? What?” I asked, as a pulse started throbbing in my neck.
“Weak.”
My jaw unhinged. “Weak?”
“You were like a puppy-dog back there. Never seen that from you.”
I leaned away from him. “A puppy-dog? The hell are you talking about, Hunter?”
“I've just never seen you get so flustered before. Hell, I've seen you try to start shit with six-foot-nine Zdeno Chara of all people. But a cute girl like that has got you all tongue-tied?”
“I wasn't fucking tongue-tied at all!” I snapped back.
“No? I thought you wanted to gloat over her about how amazing your life is and stuff. Instead, you ended up shelling out $300 for a couple boxes of cupcakes, hooked her up with tickets to the game tomorrow, and asked her out to the club tonight.” Hunter stifled a laugh. “It makes me wonder what you're going to do to get under Leroux's skin tomorrow night. Maybe you'll ask him for his autograph?”
“Fuck off,” I snarled.
Hunter laughed and back-handed my chest. “Take it easy, Beau. I'm just kidding you, buddy.”
But I knew he wasn't completely kidding.
“I'm not a completely heartless asshole, dude,” I said, pleading my case. “Me and Camille, we went to middle school together. What'd you think I was going to do? Make fun of her for trying to hack it as a small business owner?”
“Uh, I mean, I thought that's exactly what you wanted to do. That's what you said you were going to do, wasn't it?”
I blew a gust of air through my lips and muttered. “Shit.”
He was right. I did fuck it up, didn't I. I clenched my fists and ground them against my knee caps. God, what the fuck would that girl think of me now?
Suddenly, my esophagus began to tighten and no matter how much I tried to breathe, I couldn't quite get air into my lungs. My heart banged like a war-drum and, trying to stay calm, I held my palm over it.
Fuck. Anxiety attack.
Seems like every season I play in the NHL brings a new injury I have to battle all fucking year. This year, my ailment is the anxiety attacks. I haven't told the team doctors about yet—lord knows they'd want me to talk to somebody about it or put me on a pill.
Hunter put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Hey bud, relax. I'm glad to see that side of you.”
Only problem, he sounded more amused than he did enlightened.
I brushed his hand off me angrily. “You don't get it.”
“Apparently not.”
I turned away from Hunter and bust out my cell phone. If I'd learned anything about anxiety attacks, it was that you just had to try to breathe normally and ignore them until they went away.
So I fired up MeatMarket. Like I normally would.
Remember that message I'd sent out to all those girls on MeatMarket earlier? I thumbed through my messages and took a look at all the NYC girls who'd taken the bait.
“Umm, hello sexy. Sure, we can meet up.”
“LOL are you always this straight forward? But yeah okay I'm down.”
“Ur hot as hell. Tell me when and where and I'll be ur girl. All nite.”
“THE Beau Bradford? Normally I'm a nice girl, but for you? I'll do anything you want.”
Profile after profile of perfect 10's posing in their panties. But all I could do was look at them and grit my teeth. Usually, having some girls to look forward to got me going …
But today, for whatever reason, MeatMarket left me feeling spoiled. Without telling those girls where to meet up, I deleted the app and angrily stuffed the phone into my pocket.
I didn't get it.
Wherever I went, I had girls fawning over me. Girls who didn't know a thing about me, other than I was hot and famous and made it crystal clear that I'd never truly be interested in them. But that was enough to lure them over. In fact, that was like catnip to them—they couldn't get enough.
But then there was Camille. No matter how good at hockey I got, or how much more famous I became, or how much more money I had … none of that even mattered to her. In fact, it seemed to make her hate me more.
I just didn't get it.
You know what else I didn't get? Why the hell I thought she looked hot. Because I mean it, I can't stand her.
But it's true: she looked fuckin' great. Her Facebook pics didn't even do her justice—she was even hotter in person. I could tell she'd obviously been busting her ass all day at work, but she didn't sweat so much as she glowed. One look at her flushed, rosy cheeks? All I could hear, swimming around in the back of my head, was her orgasmic panting and moaning as I licked and slurped at her juicy pussy …
And those tits. Man. Rach had a nice pair. She had a great pair, actually, and she had 'em stuffed into a flirty, retro mini-dress that hugged the tight curves of her body. An apron went over that dress; but the apron was so tiny, it looked like it was more for show.
Mini-dress and tiny apron—dangerous combo. I had to be careful not to get caught stealing a peek.
Can't believe I'm actually thinking about Rach's tits, I thought to myself.
God—was Vinny right? Would I actually grudge-fuck her if I had the chance?
“Beau,” Hunter said. “Beau. Beau!”
“Huh?”
Hunter pointed out the window. The hotel was on our right. “Snap out of it, dude. We're here. Get out.”
“Oh, yeah.”
I opened the door and we slid out.
“Your head's in the clouds today, huh?” Hunter asked. “What're you thinking about? Camille, isn't it?”
“You're right. I am thinking about Camille.”
Hunter looked excited for a second—until I broke his heart a second later.
“And I'm thinking Vinny's got the right idea. I should try to grudge-fuck her, shouldn't I?”
Hunter smacked his forehead.
“Can you imagine how hot that would be? I bet she's a freak, too.”
Hunter groaned, but something else quickly caught his attention. “Uh oh. Look.” He pointed up ahead at an overweight bald guy waiting outside the hotel entrance.
I recognized him: Larry Graves, the beat reporter for the Scouts. He eyes lit up when he spotted us, and he pulled his digital audio recorder from his pocket.
“Guess he's looking for some pre-game quotes.” Hunter patted me on the back.
I nodded. “I'll give him what he wants.”
“Hunter, Beau!” Larry shouted as we approached. “What are your thoughts on playing New York tomorrow?”
“Hey Larry,” Hunter said politely as he brushed past the reporter. “Nothing from me today, sorry.”
I stopped for a chat. “Hey Larry.”
“Beau, what do you think of New York City?”
“I think it's awful.”
Larry's smile reminded me of a kid on Christmas morning. “Awful? What's awful?”
“This city. Every time I come back, the stench is even worse than I remember. Yeah, sure, I'm biased, because I'm used to breathing fresh mountain air. But this smell? Seriously, you guys gotta do something about it. It's unhealthy to live like this. You guys live like sewer rats.”
Larry could barely contain his excitement. He dug deeper for more controversy.
“Beau, you're slated to match up against Dave Leroux tomorrow. Any comments on his contract?”
“Was he wearing a ski mask when he signed it? It's a robbery.”
That's how the biz works sometimes. I give Larry a few controversial quotes, which will drive clicks to his articles. In turn, I get inside the heads of the Scouts players before the puck's even dropped.
I scratch his back, he scratches mine.