Hosed (Happy Cat #1)(68)

But it’s not going to happen. It’s only October and I’ve just told Sylvia she’s coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs and that I’ll have her shit packed up and sent to her office tomorrow afternoon.

And then she said that I was an emotionally unavailable jerk who is incapable of sustaining an adult relationship. And then I said that she’s a blackmailing, birthday-ruining, manipulative, sushi-obsessed control freak who should try to choke down a carb once in a while because it might make her more fun to be around on pizza night or donut morning or any other day of the goddamned week involving carbs because a life without carbs is a stupid life. And then she flipped me off and told me to “have a nice long, lonely existence, asshole,” before knocking over a tray of champagne glasses on her way to the elevator at the other end of the roof.

The only good news? Very few of my guests seemed to notice our fight or Sylvia’s dramatic exit.

It’s nine-thirty, we’ve all been drinking since six, and most of my nearest and dearest are feeling no pain. I should be feeling no pain, too. I’m on my third tumbler of GlenDronach, haven’t eaten anything since lunch because the food at my party is unacceptable—if Sylvia and I were really meant to be, she would have realized I hated sushi two months ago—and haven’t drunk anything more serious than a beer since before the preseason.

But somehow, I’m stone-cold sober.

Sober and tired of celebrating, and wishing I could slip out and grab a deep-dish pizza from Dove Vivi. The cornmeal crust thing they’ve done to their pies is addictive, and I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in the world fresh mozzarella, house-made bacon, and a hearty slathering of pesto can’t fix.

Portland is home to some of the best eats in the world. It’s also home to more strip clubs per capita than any other city in the nation. If I weren’t committed to being a good host, I could have pizza in my belly and boobs in my face in under an hour. But I’m not the kind to ghost on my guests. I leave that for weirdos like my team captain, Brendan, who consistently vanishes from bars and clubs without warning, and clearly has issues with saying good-bye.

Not that I can blame him. After six years as a happily married man, going back to hitting the scene solo can’t be easy.

I’m just glad to see him finally out and about again. After Maryanne’s death, he shut down so hard a lot of us on the team were worried there might come a day when we’d show up for practice and learn Brendan wasn’t coming back to the ice, either because he’d lost the will to play, or because he’d lost the will to live.

That’s how much you should love the woman you’re going to marry. You should love her so much that if she were taken away from you it would feel like your rib cage had been cracked open and some sadistic son of a bitch was cutting away tiny pieces of your heart, slathering them in salt, and eating them right in front of you.

I’ve never felt anything close to that. For Sylvia or any other girl I’ve dated.

So maybe Sylvia is right. Maybe I’m going to spend the rest of my life solo, with my loneliness occasionally broken by short-term relationships with various hot pieces of ass.

“Poor me,” I say, lips curving in a hard grin.

Seriously, cry me a river, right? I’ve got a multi-million-dollar contract, a stunning loft with one-hundred and eighty degree views of the city, and my health, which is not something I’m stupid enough to take for granted. I was born with the kind of face that not even a black eye from scrumming with those douchebags from L.A. can wreck, and a body that performs—on the ice and in the bedroom. I should be laughing all the way to the dance floor, where I know of at least six or seven unattached hotties, any one of which would be happy to ease my birthday breakup pain by riding my cock all night long.

What do I want instead?

Pizza. My pajamas. And a crochet hook with an endless supply of yarn.

Nothing calms me down like hooking on a granny square until I’ve got one big enough to cover my entire damned bed. I’ve graduated to more complex projects since those early days learning how to hook so I wouldn’t go crazy while I was stuck in bed with mono for three months, but sometimes mindless repetition is the only cure for what ails me.

And yes, I like to crochet. Again, I’ll ask that you not fucking judge me, because it’s my birthday, because my charity, Hookers for the Homeless, has provided over two thousand caps, gloves, and scarves to people in need, and because my Instagram account—Hockey Hooker—has over a million followers. Clearly, the women of the world have no problem with a man who enjoys handicrafts. Though, the fact that my first post was a body shot of me wearing nothing but a Santa Hat I’d crocheted over my cock probably didn’t hurt.

I have no shame when it comes to selfies with my latest project. My friend Laura—childhood partner in crime and current public relations master for the Badgers—says she approves of my social media efforts to promote good will for the team. Her little sister and my crochet guru, Libby, thinks it’s great that I’m using my yarn addiction to raise awareness of the homeless crisis. But let’s get real. I started posing semi-nude for the tail and the attention.

I’m usually a big fan of tail and attention.

But now, as Laura and Libby climb the steps leading up to the patio from the dance floor, clearly intending to wish me a warm, bubbly, old-friends happy birthday, I wish I had an excuse not to talk to either one of them. Laura because she’s insane when she’s drunk—once she’s had a few, the usually level-headed La can’t be trusted not to embarrass herself and everyone around her—and Libs because I’m incapable of hiding anything from that girl.