p a r k e r

"We're ranked number one in the league right now," Coach Matthew says. "But don't get comfortable. We all know that we can easily drop down to the bottom."

Tonight, we have a game against the New York Islanders, here at our arena. The Blaze is on a ten game winning streak, but if any team can take that away, it would be the Islanders.

As team captain, Coach expects me to lead the Blaze to victory. But, beyond that, I have to be a role model on and off the ice. Wearing the C on my jersey is not only an honor but a privilege. This accomplishment proves my commitment and devotion to hockey and shows that my hard work has paid off.

My best friend and fellow teammate Deacon Knight nudges me with his elbow then motions to the rookie on our team. "Dude, I want to punch Kasanova in the face. He's talking about all the ladies he's gonna pick up tonight after our win."

Most rookies know their place. They treat the veterans with respect and stay quiet, but not Andrew Singer. The guy doesn't know when to shut his trap. I've warned him because the shit that comes out of his mouth is basically asking for a punch to the eye.

"So, are we going to Urban New York, tonight?" My other buddy Miles Hansen asks. He's one of the funniest guys I know and one of the—if not, the best goaltender in the league.

"Hell yeah we are. Drinks and women are the perfect way to celebrate our win," Deacon says confidently.

"I'm in, but let's focus on the game," I remind them. They chuckle at my sad attempt to be an enforcer.

Coach excuses us after an hour of watching film to get suited up for warmups. The locker room is buzzing with adrenaline. "Okay team, listen up!" I look at the piece of paper with the starting line up. "In the net, we got 'The Burger King.'" Everyone laughs at the nickname I came up with for Miles when I lived with him a few years back. His pregame meal is none other then burgers and fries. Not very healthy for a professional athlete, but it hasn't interferes with his game.

"On the left, we got 'Mister Serious.'" Deacon glares at me, while the rest of the team chuckles. Even though we're close, I'd be lying if I didn't say I am a tad bit afraid of Deacon. Can you blame me? The guy is intimidating as fuck.

"On the right, we have Jagor Jorris," I say. "And lastly, in the center, we have yours truly. The one, the only, Parker Baylor," I take an exaggerated bow. Some teammates laugh and others groan at my charades. "Now let's go kick some Islander ass!"

As we enter the rink, the screams of dedicated fans fill the arena. A sea of red and gold chant our names and hold up posters. "That's our captain!" I hear people cheer. "Let's go number #23," people scream. "Captain B!" There's nothing better this, I think to myself.

________________________

"We fucking won!" Our team celebrates. The game ended with 4-1. I scored two of those goals and assisted one of Deacon's. Pretty damn good if I do say so myself.

"Now, can we talk about going to the bar?" Miles begs.

"After you shower. You smell," I joke.

Once I'm done showering, I pack up my stuff and say my goodbyes. Since my friends and I drove in separate cars, we plan to meet at the bar. I walk to the reserved lot for players and staff and disarm my slick black Tesla. I slide into the driver's seat and check my phone. A thread of messages from my parents appear on the screen. Even though they live in Seattle, they watch every single game of mine on television. As their only child, I am my parent's soul pride and joy.

As I reply to their messages, my phone chimes with another text.

Unknown: Hey! I watched your game. Congrats on the win. I miss you, let's meet up soon. xo, Bianca

My stomach turns. I met Bianca Boyd when I was a freshman at Boston College. We dated for a few months before I was drafted to the New York Blaze. I know this sounds shallow, but I didn't see the relationship working out, so I broke things off. Better now, then to string her on. Bianca slapped my cheek but had no issue jumping right into bed with another athlete, while I began my journey in the National Hockey League.

After my rookie season, I gained a lot of recognition for my skating ability and puck handling. I even received the Calder Trophy. And since my name was surfacing in the media, Bianca began texting and calling me. My lack of response to her efforts didn't stop her from showing up at one of my games, claiming that she was my girlfriend and demanding that she sit in the WAGS box. She was clearly after my newfound fame and success.

I'm not sure how she managed to get my new number because I blocked her old contact. Deciding not to overthink the situation, I block her number and toss my phone in the passenger seat.

The drive to the bar is longer than I expected because the streets are packed. I get lucky and find a parking spot right next to Deacon's car. Him, Miles, and Andrew stand beside the parking meter. My friends wear an annoyed look, most likely due to Singer's presence.

"Took you long enough," Miles quips.

"Sorry. Traffic," I shrug.

"Let's head in. I'm starving!" he replies.

As usual, almost every head in the room turns to face us. I give them my signature smile and wave at some of the guys. We make b-line for bar table to get some drinks and order food, then head to one of the private back tables. A half hour has passes, and more of the team joins us to celebrate. A few ladies surrounded us—a few even tried to sit on my lap—but I wasn't feeling it.

"Damn, those chicks are smoking hot," I hear Deacon whistle and turn to face him. He's gawking at a booth near the entrance where three women sit.

One girl turns her head to us and her golden eyes stare into my soul. Holy shit. She's an absolute goddess.

"You okay there, man." Deacon taps my shoulders, with a knowing smirk on his face. "Got the hots for that Golden Babe?"

"Shut up," I defensively shove him.

"No need to get upset, Captain B," he jokingly taunts.

Andrew join our conversation. "Who has the hots for the models?"

"Models?" Deacon and I both question.

"You don't recognize them?" We shake our heads. "You've never seen them on magazines or commercials?"

"No. We aren't creepy stalkers like you," Andrew rolls his eyes at Deacon's comment.

"When you look like that, it's hard not to be creepy stalker," he retorts.

I'm with Singer on this one. Those women are gorgeous, one especially so. As if she could feel my eyes on her, the Golden Babe turns her head to our table again. Her voluminous, chestnut hair cascades down her shoulders. When her golden brown eyes meet mine, she turns an adorable shade of pink and quickly turns back to her friends. Desire fills my thoughts, knowing that I have an effect on her.

On a spree of the moment, I slide out of my seat and make my way over to her. The guys are preoccupied with the puck bunnies practically grinding on their laps that they don't even notice I'm leaving.

When I reach their table, my eyes only for the Golden Babe, I smile and hold out my right hand. "Hi, I'm Parker. Can I buy you a drink?"

Her eyes glimmer with surprise, but I see her full, pouty lips turn upward. She places her delicate, perfectly manicured hand into mine. "I'm Olivia. I'd love to take you up on your offer, but it's girl's night." She tilts her head toward her friends.

"No!" The one sitting beside her says. "She would love another drink." Her friend pushes Olivia out of the booth.

When she stands, I immediately take note of the dress she is wearing, showcasing her mile long legs. I'm 6'4" and her head falls right below my chin with the heels she has on, so I'm guessing 5'10" without them. I put my hand on the small of her back and lead her to a spot at the bar.

"I can't believe I have the pleasure of hanging out with New York's finest hockey player," Olivia smiles.

My eyebrows lift in surprise. "You're a hockey fan?"

She chuckles and shakes her head. "My friend just told me when you and your team walked into the bar."

I smirk. "So you guys were talking about me?" The familiar blush creeps onto her cheeks.

"Maybe." She shrugs nonchalantly.

I flag down one of the bartenders so that we can order some drinks. "I'll have a diet coke." I turn back to Olivia. "Driving tonight," I explain. Plus, I'm not a heavy drinker.

"Can I get an Arnold Palmer?" She asks the bartender.

"No alcohol for you tonight?" I question.

"Not the biggest drinker," she says. I like this girl already.

"I hear you're a model? I should've known with one look at your gorgeous face." My comment makes her blush profusely.

"You could pass for a model. With your chiseled face and muscular body," she flirts back. Damn, is it hot in here?

"Are you hungry? We can order some food," I suggest.

She bites on her bottom lip, "I could eat." She gives me an extremely slow once over. I'm not so sure she's referring to food.