Anaheim. Game five of our as-yet-undefeated season. I should be pumped. I should be listening to some classic rock, thinking only about how I’m going to skate today, and how many goals I’m going to score.

Instead, I’m sitting on the bench in the locker room, half-dressed, looking at pictures and videos I took of Holly while we were skating. I took one in slow motion, a short one as she took her first, gliding movements on her own. It’s from the back, her gorgeous hair hanging long, her arms out wide. As she turns, laughing, the video goes blurry.

I do have my own social media. I have a Facebook page meant to allow fans to connect with me, though I never check it. I have Instagram, too, but I only login every few months, and usually only to repost stuff from the team. And I have Twitter. Twitter, where all boob-grab pictures go to cause me distress and fuck up my relationsh—

Whoa. Did I just ship myself with Holly?

I think I did. Scratch that, I totally fucking did.

Georg flops down next to me and says, “What are you over here moping about?”

“Not moping.”

“Sure looks like it,” he says in a judgey voice. “Do you know I was just balls-deep in a puck bunny ten minutes ago? In a supply closet full of mops and buckets and shit.”

“Sounds romantic.” My sarcasm can’t be helped.

“Since when do you care about romance?”

“Fair enough,” I say with a shrug, because he’s right. Romance has never been my forte.

On a whim, I decide to post the video of Holly on my Instagram page. I caption it ‘Skate Training. New Recruit.’ before closing out my account and tossing my phone into the locker so I can finish getting dressed.

Someone’s got the Rolling Stones playing from a Bluetooth speaker. Normally, this would be just up my alley and I’d be asking them to blast it. But the song Beast of Burden comes on, and it just depresses me.

Holly totally ghosted after seeing the text from Kacey. I suppose I understand. The text was totally meant to suggest we’d done something more than just an interview. I’m not even sure it was just Kacey’s text that bothered Holly. I think it was more…me. I think she’s seen all the junk pointing to the “douchebag womanizer” sign above my head, and she panicked.

Whatever. I’ve got a game to play. I’ll figure out how to get Holly back in my orbit after we win this game.

We head out through the tunnel, the media team back in place, having us make funny faces at the camera for Snapchat. Holly nods as I pass, and I blow her a kiss. She blushes and moves to the guy behind me.

Anaheim has this long-ass intro video with a light show and a recap of the previous game. I swear it’s like ten minutes long and only when it ends do they let us out on the ice. Of course, we get booed because it’s what’s expected for visitors on road games. Then the lights go down again, and they introduce their starters and play Enter Sandman by Metallica.

They’ve actually got a player called The Sandman. He played for Nashville for a couple of years before getting traded to Anaheim. He’s known for crosschecks that actually knocked dudes out. Lights out. Talk about a hard hit. I have been instructed to stay as far away from him as possible. Interesting how the team is playing into this guy’s reputation by using this as their intro song.

I’m not starting tonight, which is annoying, so I sit on the bench spinning my stick around, legs bouncing with nervous energy, while the game gets started. Chalamet is out on the ice in my place, Georg at his left.

I look around and find Holly staring at me. She looks at her phone, then back at me with wide eyes. She must have seen the video I posted. She points to her screen and I give a quick nod and then look away. If I focus on her, I’ll just end up taking a dump like I did in the last game.

Coach puts me in on a line change, when The Sandman heads back to the bench. A Justin Bieber song plays while we skate out, which is a weird choice. It’s also weird I know it’s Justin Bieber, I guess.

Anaheim is out for blood tonight. The crowd here is rowdy, loud, and ready to see some fighting. Check after check pushes my teammates to the limit, particularly young Mikhail, who ends up taking a wild swing at an Anaheim player after he gets pushed into the glass for the fourth time.

I feel good, though. The energy just pushes me to work harder. Play harder. I score one in the first period, one in the second period. In the third, they tie it up with two goals right in a row. It makes the crowd go even crazier. Coach has his best line on forward, with me and Chalamet on the wings, Georg at center.

We strike forward, fast and furious, moving the puck down the ice, only for Chalamet to get checked. The resulting call puts us on a Power Play with only two minutes left on the clock. The noise in the arena is deafening, Anaheim pushing back against us, fighting for control of the puck.

Chalamet takes a shot on goal that pings off the top of the net. We hang back and wait for Anaheim to bring it back to us, and Georg, game face fierce, goes right after it. He makes a run with it, shooting it straight at the goalie, who falls on top of it.

We just keep pressing and as the clock dwindles, Georg finds an opening to get to me, just as The Sandman swings my way. I fake right, toward the glass, and he falls for it, giving me just the opening I need to get a shot off.

It’s like slow motion, watching the puck sail up and over the goalie’s helmet, into the back of the net. The buzzer goes off just seconds later. Georg is there, jumping on my back, crazy yelling about “fucking ducks,” as we skate back, high on adrenaline, to line up.

We head back to shower and change, the locker room electric. Five wins in a row is not a bad way to start a season. I sit on the bench as Coach and one of the trainers looks me over for any sign that the game may have aggravated my concussion.

With the all clear, Coach rubs the top of my head and says, “If I wasn’t so damn old, I’d name my firstborn after you, young man. You are on fire this season. Keep it up.”

Mikhail, on the other hand, hasn’t fared as well. He sulks across from me, rubbing his wrist.

“You okay, kid?” I ask, lifting my chin and eyeballing his rapidly-swelling joint.

“Fucking Sandman,” he growls. “I want to punch his teeth in.”

“Seems to be the sentiment about the guy. He wants you in a coma, though, so that fight doesn’t seem fair.” I nod at his wrist. “You get that checked out yet?”

“It’s fine,” he says, but he’s still rubbing at it.

“Swollen,” I say. “At least have them take a look, give you some ice.”

He stares blades at me for a minute before getting up and stalking away.

“Nice talking to you, too,” I say lightly as I grab my phone.

There are texts from Holly.

I grin and check my post. It does, indeed, have more than 400,000 likes and about a hundred comments, including the one she mentioned, though most are like, “Aw, cute.” I block the one jerky person and delete her comment, then text Holly back.

I’m not sure what else to say, so I just put my phone down and head to the showers. Most of the guys are out now, so I take my time then head back to get dressed. Georg asks if I want to go out for a beer and I agree. Why sit around feeling crappy anyway? We just won. I just killed it on the ice. I should not be sitting around worried about whether or not some woman I’m not even dating is worried about a social media post which didn’t even identify her.

In the cab on the way to the bar, Georg elbows me in the ribs. “When did you become such a brooding bastard?”

“I’m not,” I say. “I’m going out. All good here.”

“I feel like I don’t even know you anymore,” he says, mock crying.

I roll my eyes at him and laugh. “I’m the same me.”

“Liar,” he says, pulling a flask out of his jacket pocket. He takes a swig and offers it to me. I hold up my hands and shake my head. “At least, please, please, pick up a chick tonight. I’m concerned for your libido.”

I laugh again. “You’re stupid. And single-minded. Seriously.”

“That Kacey is still gunning for you, bro. I saw the piece before our home game. She looooves you,” he singsongs in my ear making me want to punch him.

“I told you, not going back for seconds. She tried. Offered. I said no.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I don’t like her very much. She’s not a very nice person.”

“Since when do you give a fuck?”

“Since now,” I say. “I’m ready to find someone nice, maybe make a thing of it.”

Georg looks like I really did punch him in the mouth rather than just think about it. “Huh? Does this have to do with the girl you took skating? Oh yeah, I saw your video, lover boy. Are you hiding this girl from me?”

My phone buzzes.

Georg thankfully doesn’t press me any more about Holly. We find a small bar where he drinks a few too many and I drink enough to take the edge off. We talk about how much he hates Viktor Demoskev, how he hopes we can play All-Star together.

We don’t stay out late, returning to the team hotel, finding the bar there hopping with women and other players. I see no sign of Holly, but Fiona is there. She gives me bedroom eyes, which is a surefire way to get me to head in the other direction right about now. I just avoid the whole scene, handing wasted Georg off to one of our third line defensemen before heading up to the room.

I don’t know when things changed for me, but I realize I meant it when I told Georg I was tired of the whole game with women and alcohol and whatever. Maybe it’s that I’m nearing thirty, or that I’ve got renewed career goals to work on. Maybe it’s the mystery of Holly Laurent, because she really is still a mystery.

I turn on a movie, falling asleep with thoughts of a brunette beauty still lurking in the back of my mind.