There are tits and ass everywhere I look. And legs, lots of legs. Georg and three of our teammates talked me into a trip into the city tonight. We’re playing in New Jersey tomorrow night, and even though I specifically said no—three separate times—he wore me down and now, here we are.

“Don’t you remember the days,” Georg muses as he tips his vodka on the rocks to his lips.

“I remember lots of days, buddy,” I say. “Be more specific.”

“Sochi,” he says, slurring a little. “Babes, late nights, games played on two hours of sleep after lots of drinks and sex we couldn’t even remember the next day.”

“You couldn’t remember,” I say. “I remembered just fine because I wasn’t blackout drunk.”

“Perdoon stary,” Georg says with a burp and a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say with an eye roll. “Call me an old fart.”

“What about that hot blonde television reporter?” Georg says. “She wants you. You’ve had her before. Take her again.”

“Take her? I’m not a caveman.”

“Oh I forget, you are such a gentleman,” Georg says. The other guys laugh.

“Okay, so I’m not,” I say with a shrug. “I still don’t want Kacey. Already been there, brother. You think she’s so hot, you take a shot.”

The music picks up and the lights go low. A dancer comes out, so our attention goes to the show on stage. Georg and the other guys are all drop-jaw, making hooting sounds, throwing money up on the stage. The woman is gorgeous, tits totally fake, with long, red hair. She’s very fit, with good abs and shapely legs. She’s a good performer, too, a good dancer. I throw a twenty on stage, just to show my appreciation.

“Well now,” Georg eggs me on, “about time you get into the show a little.”

“I appreciate her artistry,” I say, grinning.

“I appreciate her tits,” Georg says. “but I would more appreciate her twat in my face.”

“I don’t think this is that kind of place,” I say.

“We’ll put our twats in your face,” a girlish voice says.

We turn and find three women behind us. They’re young-ish, early twenties, and all dressed scantily with cleavage bared. Georg grins like a wolf when one says, “Don’t you all play for the Crush?”

“Are you hockey fans?” one of the guys asks.

“We are!” the tiny one with short dark hair says as she jumps up and down.

Great, puck bunnies. How the hell did they find us in a strip club in Manhattan?

Georg pulls her onto his lap and she giggles, pulling out her phone so they can take pictures together. She pulls out a Sharpie and has him and the other guys all sign her breast with it. I shake my head when she tries to hand me the pen. She makes a pouty face that turns back into a smile when Georg whispers something in her ear. Likely, it’s something derogatory about me, but I don’t care.

Another of the girls goes to hang with the other guys, but the third, a dark-haired girl with a tiny waist, sits on my lap.

“I’m not really into this,” I say. “I’m sorry. Nothing personal.”

“Gay?” she asks with a giggle.

“No, definitely not.”

“Taken?”

“Nope,” I say, taking a swig of my beer.

“Well, then, why not take what’s being offered?” she asks.

“I’ve got a game tomorrow. Superstitious,” I lie.

“Okay, well, at least take a selfie with me?”

“I guess I can do that.” I cave to her request, determined to blow this shit show the minute she’s off my lap.

She holds her phone out to take the picture but right before she captures the image of us, she grabs my hand and slaps it onto her boob. She snaps the picture before I can even pull my hand away.

“Come on,” I say. “Delete that.”

She giggles and hops up, running over to my teammates. All of the girls take pictures before they finally take off, saying they’ll be at the game tomorrow.

I shake my head, knowing those pictures will be all over social media by night’s end. I kind of want to call Holly just to tell her it was a non-sanctioned boob grab, but I stop myself. My annoyance must be all over my face, though, because a wandering stripper comes over and asks if I need a “pick-me-up.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Dealer’s choice,” she says. “Lap dance out here for twenty. Private dance for fifty. You can touch for a hundred.”

“I’m good,” I tell her, “but thanks.”

She shimmies all around me. “I’d let you touch for free, big guy.”

“No thank you. Go see my friend over there, the guy with the long hair.”

“Suit yourself,” she says, heading over to Georg, who is glad to slip a twenty in the waistband of her tiny thong knickers.

I stand up and lean over their little lap-dance situation. “I’m heading back to the hotel, calling it a night.”

“Ti durak,” he says cheerfully.

“Yes, I’m a moron,” I say. “As always, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. And don’t end up in the hospital. I need you on the ice tomorrow, fuckwad.”

He waves me off and I shove my hands in my pockets as I make my way for the door, calling for a car service to come get me and take me back across the bridge. Holly came on this trip. Maybe I should see what she’s up to. Maybe warn her about the titty-grab picture. She’d probably want a heads up, right? That there’s likely something potentially negative coming on social media?

I decide to text her as I sit in the back of the car.

Damn. Thwarted again. That woman has self-control like no one I have ever met before.

I’m going to have to up my game with her.