I’m a fun guy.
Some might say . . . neat.
A solid, trustworthy good time.
If you’re looking to have an amusing night out, I’m your man.
No drama.
No worries.
Just good old-fashioned fun.
I learned from a young age that life is short, and you have to fucking enjoy every second of it. So my rule is to say yes.
Say yes to as much shit as you can.
Hornsby, want to go to the pub down the street and get wasted with the locals?
Of course.
Hornsby, do you want to go skinny-dipping in the coach’s pool—when he’s home?
Absolutely.
Hornsby, do you want to fly to Vegas on our day off and run up the poker tables?
That’s a hell yes.
Living in the moment, that’s my motto, and up until now, that motto has served me well. It has taken me places I never thought I’d go. It has presented me with opportunities I never thought I would have.
But . . . and that’s a big but, a huge one.
This time, my yes has come back to bite me in the ass.
You see, it all happened on my birthday. We had an off day, high from a big win against the Calgary Barnburners. It was Valentine’s Day—yes, I’m a Valentine’s baby—and we went to the best singles bar in the city that would be crawling with women.
The drinks were flowing.
The conversations were engaging.
And I was by no means calling it a night anytime soon.
That’s when she walked into the bar.
In a hot pink dress that clung to every inch of her curvy body, she styled her platinum-blonde hair into long, silky waves, and the lipstick staining her gorgeous lips matched the color of her dress. There was no doubt about it—she was a total smokeshow.
Every guy she came within a ten-foot radius paused what they were doing to give her a very blatant once-over.
Unmistakably the hottest girl in the bar.
And as she saddled up next to me, unaware of my presence, it felt like the music stopped as she gently placed her clutch on the bar top. Casually, she leaned toward the bartender, her manicured nails drumming along the wood top as she sweetly asked for a gimlet with two lime wedges.
I was entranced.
I was hooked.
I was stolen for the rest of the night.
My mind wanted one thing.
Her.
She had my attention, and no one would steal me away.
No one would stop me.
Because in all honesty, I’ve had my eye on her for a while, ever since I met her two years before.
And that night . . . it was my chance. All excuses, all restrictions, they were tossed to the curb as I laid down the best tool at my disposal to get her to talk to me: it was my birthday.
And fuck, did we have a night. I can still remember the way her dress slid off her body as I held her in my arms. I can still vividly recollect that her lips tasted of lime and danger. And I can still smell her intoxicating perfume floating around me as I drove into her, one pulse after the other until we both came at the same time. Multiple times.
It was one of the best nights of my entire life.
But it had to end because we agreed it would be a one-night thing. So that morning, she slipped away undetected, and we both went back to our daily routine. Eat, sleep, and breathe hockey.
Was it the best birthday present I could ask for?
Absolutely.
Did she fulfill my every goddamn fantasy?
More than I could ever have imagined.
And if she came up to me and asked for more, would I oblige?
I would be hard pressed to say no.
Unfortunately, this isn’t a fairy-tale story of how my one-night stand turned into a romance for the ages, though.
Nope, that would be far too easy. This story, well . . . it exposes me as the man that I am. The man I feel to my very core. This is the story of how I wear the title “Ultimate Fuckup,” because not only did I accidentally get the girl in the hot pink dress pregnant . . .
But I broke bro code.
Because the girl in the hot pink dress is the sister of my teammate . . . and best friend.
