Page 4 of The Game Plan

Lauren and Mitch’s shared expressions say it all… fucking disaster.

I nod. “Yep. So I’m not getting married. I don’t own my company. And I will have to continue working for my cheating jackass ex, with our sexy-as-hell, half-Italian secretary, otherwise, I’ll be deported to small-town Canada.”

2

AUGUST

Jax

Vegas Baby

“I’m in what I like to call my zero shits given era,” I announce to my teammates, where we’re all sitting in the back of a stretch Hummer. “I’m no longer a rookie and I’m not old enough to have gotten myself tied down by marriage and kids.”

Swiping a bottle of champagne from my younger brother, TJ – a second line defenseman on our ice hockey team, the New York Dragons – I top off his glass. “I’m free to do what I want to do.”

As I slurp overspilling bubbles from my fingers, the other seven guys sing out, “You gotta live your life,” in the spirit of the dance track we’ve enjoyed on many post-game nights out on Long Island and in Manhattan.

Suzuki, our grumpy goal tender, shakes his head. “Since we’re in Vegas to witness our captain and his wife renew their vows ten times tomorrow, I suggest you keep your thoughts on marriage, monogamy, and the downward slope into a silver-haired life of misery and busted knee joints to yourself.”

“Also, what you really mean,” TJ says, snatching the fizz back, “is that the only things you care about in life are winning the Stanley Cup and getting laid.”

I shrug. “Same thing.”

I ignore the black dog in my mind telling me that isn’t true. That I care about every goal and assist earned or lost, the turnovers, every minute I’ve spent in the penalty box for a mistake, each time I’ve felt as if I’m letting someone down.

Yeah, I’m liberal with the use of my professional hockey status to get laid but sometimes, when alcohol isn’t an option during season, women are what I need to take me out of my head and wind down between games.

And hell, it can’t be said that I’m not open and honest with the puck bunnies about the fact I want nothing from them but a good time. If they choose to ignore me and believe that they could be the one exception to the rule of perpetual bachelorhood, that’s on them.

There are no exceptions to the rule because I have one true love and that’s hockey. Correction: winning hockey games.

All the team boys who could make it and their WAGs, plus some of the staff Tray and Amelie have invited along, are staying at Pharaoh Suites on the Las Vegas strip. Despite arriving in the early evening, the Mojave Desert’s late August heat is still kicking.

The players foot the bill for a charter flight down from New York – sounds like a flex but when we want to hang out as a group, it’s an easier way to travel to avoid unwanted attention.

During season, we live in one another’s pockets for eight months, living and breathing each other’s chirping and romance dramas. We’d take a bullet for the guy to our right but we might want to put one in him after eighty-plus games and a long time spent on the road.

The sad fact is, though, when we’re apart – as we have been since our Stanley Cup win in June – we’re like puppies, desperate to play with each other. Or torment the hell out of each other. We’ve got a week left before preseason promo starts and we’ll have plenty of time for posing and signing autographs then.

This trip is about those who could make it sharing in the sheer insanity that tomorrow, Tray and Amelie are getting married, again, not just once but ten times. One vow renewal for every year they’ve been together. Ten weddings between noon and midnight, with a themed costume change in each chapel. I already know I’ll rock the Elvis jumpsuit.

Amelie deserves this. All the WAGs do, for putting up with grumpy-ass men in agony for months during season. Though, and I’m going to say it, the wives and girlfriends are compensated pretty well.

Eight of us clamber out of our Hummer onto the sidewalk. We stumble like dominoes as someone pushed someone and now there’s a collapse of inebriated hockey players.

Another two limos in our group arrive at the hotel front and decant their passengers a little more sedately. I guess they put all the jackasses in one Hummer. Standard.

I’m pushing my brother off me and resetting my cool-bro stance when I spot the unexpected but familiar long caramel waves and Balenciaga shades of Sienna Jamieson, my personal PR, who my agent hires for me when I fuck up more than usual. She wasn’t on our flight down here; I’d have noticed.

She looks as fine as ever. Slim but shapely, toned but not excessively, flawlessly put together to look effortless. Today’s outfit of choice is no less precise in fitting than the tailoring she wears on workdays.

It’s a crying shame this woman is engaged to be married – a line I don’t cross.

“Yeah, yeah, catch you inside,” I respond to whoever asked me if I’m coming.

Because all I can think is, I’d like to be. I’m still drinking alcohol but I’ve already got the hangover horn.

Sienna spots me and turns on that perfect but professional smile – wide red lips, dazzlingly white teeth. I hold up a hand, thanking the good Lord for the cover of my own shades as I indulge in every sway of her hips in the sexy two-piece skirt-top combo she’s wearing.