Page 5 of Securing the Pucking Rebound

Fuck, they were good times.

But one by one, each of my boys has met his girl, and their lives have changed beyond belief.

Linc would rather spend an evening being tortured by Parker. Although I can’t deny it, having our athletic trainer at his disposal twenty-four-seven means that he’s in the best condition he has ever been in. He’s also happier, which is saying quite a lot, because he’s always been pretty happy. I can’t really say the same for Handsy, our tendy. He was always a grumpy motherfucker. But then, he is a goalie. They’re a different fucking breed. But since meeting Freya, he never stops fucking smiling. It’s weird. Even my old defensive partner, fuckboy Everett Donnelly, is happily coupled up with a baby on the way.

Fuck, life sure has changed. I can’t even attempt to take Marilyn out with me now to find bunnies. Christ knows how he managed to snag a woman like Hailee, but the little fucker managed it.

Since moving to LA, I’ve never felt lonely. My teammates have always been there to distract me from the parts of my life I’d rather not think about.

I need to find a bunny.

I really need to get laid.

Lying back on the weight bench, I close my eyes as I think back to the last woman I hooked up with.

A blur of faces and hair colors fills my head. A range of hotel rooms meld into one, stopping me from pinpointing the exact event.

Stopping cold turkey has fucked me up. But while I’m in this situation, while I can’t perform in the way the bunnies expect of Calvin “Killer” Keller, I refuse to even try.

The last thing I need right now, while my world crumbles around me, are shitty articles on the bunny sites claiming that I’ve lost my touch.

I don’t know how long I lie there, wallowing in self-pity, but eventually, I force myself to my feet—or foot—and hobble over to where I abandoned my cell.

The guys are getting back from a road game today. They killed it again last night against Dallas. That’s one of the few games I’m willing to miss.

The arena might be a long-ass way from my hometown, but just being in Texas is bad enough. The less time I spend there, the better.

When I wake up my cell, the past that I’m desperately trying to ignore rears its ugly head again in the form of a missed call from my mom.

There’s also a whole stream of messages in the boys' group chat, which I ignore as I make my way to my bathroom for a shower.

I drop my shorts and boxers to the floor, but unlike previously, I don’t kick them into—or at least at—the laundry basket.

A frustrated cry spills from my lips. I can’t even fucking do that.

The powerful stream of hot water goes some way toward making me feel better. But right now, only a fucking miracle will fix all my problems.

When I finally get out, I haphazardly dry off, scrub my towel over my head, and call it a day with my hair before pulling on a clean pair of sweats and hobbling toward the kitchen.

I pull one of my preprepared meals from the fridge and throw it into the microwave to heat up. I reach back into the fridge on autopilot, but I stop myself the second my fingers connect with the cold bottle of water.

During the season, the only time I really allow myself to drink anything other than water, or my one coffee in the morning, is after a game. But considering I don’t have any in the foreseeable future, or anything other than endless rehab to try and get my knee functioning as it should again, I reconsider my options.

Abandoning the water, I reach for one of the two beers that are in my fridge. Before my injury, I can’t remember the last time I even had beer in my fridge, let alone spent an evening drinking alone.

I had better things to do. Hang out with the guys or head out in search of a bunny or two. Or three.

The first goes down too easily, and before my meal is ready, I’m reaching for the second.

Thirty minutes later, I place an order to have some more delivered to my apartment, and I fall onto my couch with my game controller in hand.

Pulling my cell from my pocket, I open up the guys’ group chat.

Killer: Anyone down for a game?

It takes longer than usual for anyone to respond, and I know why.

Donny: Can’t. Rubbing Bea’s sore feet.