The Best Kind of Forever (Riverside Reapers Book 1)
The Best Kind of Forever: Chapter 2

HAYES

I never signed up for a Dr. Phil session with my teammates, but everyone thought I would benefit from a nice, cold, hard intervention about my current antics.

“My life is over,” I groan, plopping onto the couch.

Me and some of my teammates live in a multimillion-dollar, Victorian-style home. The sun peeks in the eastern window at exactly eleven in the morning, and it bathes the inside in a wreath of warm colors—like the yellow of the ginkgo trees growing outside our home rink, or the brilliant orange of the honeysuckles nestled down by the riverbank, or even the crimson burning bushes peppered along the I-80.

The interior is arguably more beautiful than the exterior. The leather couch is big enough to seat the entire team, and its vermillion backside matches the intricately designed curtains sandwiching the floor-to-ceiling window in the middle of the room.

Rosewood chairs line the massive dining table, complementing a cedar fireplace that’s always running since the weather’s changed. And as if the ginormous flat-screen television isn’t enough, a crystal chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling ties everything together.

“Your life’s not over,” Bristol, our captain, says, bringing me a cup of what looks to be tea.

He’s been going through a weird grandma phase lately.

NOT LIKE THAT.

What I meant is that he has this strange fascination with chamomile tea, gluten-free cookie recipes, and crocheting.

Our group consists of Bristol Brenner, center; me, right-winger; Fulton Cazzarelli, left-winger; Casen Strader, right defenseman; Kit Langley, left defenseman; and Gage Arlington, our goalie.

Bristol Brenner is my best friend, my wingman, and most importantly, the guy who usually ends up cleaning up my messes. (Not that I ask him to; he’s just that good of a guy.)

He’s my emergency contact whenever I need a quick getaway from a one-night stand gone wrong, or for when I get shit-faced and need a ride at two in the morning because I got into a scuffle at a local watering hole. Oh, and if I end up breaking my leg trying to turn my mattress into a stair-friendly sled. Which only happened once.

Bristol is way more put together than I am. He’s a year older than me, and one of the best forwards the Riverside Reapers has ever seen. We’ve actually been friends since third grade, and it was just luck that we got drafted to the same team.

I remember the first time I met him. It was my first day of third grade, and during snack time, he came up to me and stole one of my peanut butter crackers. With no warning or anything. Then just ate it in front of me with this look like, Yeah, bitch, and I’d do it again.

The next day, I decided to get back at him by uncapping all his Crayola markers so he couldn’t participate in arts and crafts. He didn’t seem to think I was very funny, considering he spent the entire afternoon insulting me in extremely colorful expletives. Expletives that were at least sixth grade level.

He didn’t bother me for the next few days, but little did I know what he was cooking up. Not only did that crotch goblin glue me to my seat, but he also planted a stolen teddy bear in my cubby, drew a bunch of ill-proportioned dicks on my desk, and told my crush, Lizzie Vanderburk, that I had head lice.

Needless to say, we spent a lot of time after class with Ms. Finch. And then we started to realize that we had a lot in common. For example, we both liked hockey, and we both wanted to grow up to become NHL players.

Over the years, I’ve seen him through his share of ups and downs too. But the biggest difference between me and Bristol is that he’s resilient, and he always springs back. He’s left that irresponsible and careless past of his behind, and now he’s the face of the Riverside Reapers for a reason. I, on the other hand, am still paying for the careless mistakes I’ve made, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever live down my playboy reputation.

Speaking of playboys, Casen Strader is the farthest thing from. He’s the team-appointed lover of the group.

Fuck, that sounds wrong.

I mean he’s the only guy in the group who’s currently in a long-term relationship. He and his girlfriend are coming up on seven years. They’re so in love that it makes me sick sometimes, and I know he’s planning on proposing soon. This is his fourth season in the NHL, and he’s made quite the reputation for himself as the Reapers’ notorious, rough-and-tumble defenseman. Don’t tell him I said this, but deep down, he’s secretly a huge teddy bear. Pretty sure I haven’t seen the man kill a fly.

Fulton Cazzarelli is the baby of the group. He’s a year younger than me, and he’s a rookie. We all joke that he’s like a golden retriever: overly friendly, innocent, eats food off the floor. He always wants to know what everyone’s up to, and more often than not, he usually has no idea what’s going on. But that apparently does it for a bunch of chicks—the whole clueless, boy-next-door vibe.

Gage Arlington is his partner in crime. He’s more extroverted, more irresponsible, and the only other person besides me willing to break the law for fun. He also has no sense of direction. We’ve lived in the house for two years now, and he couldn’t guide us home from the grocery store that’s a two-minute drive away. If he was dropped into some remote part of the Amazon rainforest and told to survive for twenty-four hours, I’m pretty sure he’d perish. But aside from his affinity for getting lost, he’s a helluva good goalie. Just like Fulton, this is his first year.

And finally, there’s Kit Langley. Kit lived in Brazil with his family before coming over to the United States. He’s a trust fund baby, and he played for UMich before getting drafted to the team. I have this theory that Kit’s one of those kids who peaked in high school, but his brain never developed past sixteen, so he’s eternally stuck with a teenage mindset. He’s one cocky bastard, but he always brings his A game.

“You’re gonna get through this, H,” Casen consoles, clapping me on the back and giving my shoulders a good shake.

Hopelessness flares up in my chest, melting into hands of fire that stretch around my throat. “I don’t know.”

I feel sick. Everything’s on the line for me right now, and I can’t lose this. I can’t. Hockey is all I have.

“This is my last strike. Three and I’m out. I don’t know how I can possibly turn my image around. Every hockey fan hates me.”

More like five strikes, but I digress. Like I promised Coach, none of my teammates know I slept with our biggest sponsor’s daughter.

“That’s not true. Not every hockey fan.” Although Bristol’s belief in me is appreciated, it’s misplaced. He’s always seen the good in me. He sees the good in people in general. He always gives everyone the benefit of the doubt, even if they don’t deserve it.

I lather my hand through the front of my hair, letting the strands fall back into place. “Remember that time I was trying to buy sriracha at the grocery store and that old lady started beating me up with her purse?”

Bristol snorts, covering his mouth upon seeing my deadpan stare. “Uh…yeah…that was very unfortunate.”

“Or that time some girl backed over my foot while I was standing in the KFC parking lot?”

To be fair, both instances happened around the time that news article about me dumping pop music’s next idol came out. And then I showed up to an event with two dates the following week.

Bristol smashes his lips together to silence the chuckle building in his throat. “Okay, so your image needs a little work,” he says. “There are going to be so many chances for you to redeem yourself, but you have to start believing that you can change. None of this works if you don’t believe.”

“You do realize how you sound, right? Believe in yourself? What kind of motivational bullshit is that?” My tone has more of a kick to it than I intended but come on. He doesn’t really think an attitude adjustment and a makeover is gonna fix everything, does he?

“The kind of bullshit that’s gonna get you out of this weird slump,” he replies, ticking his head.

“But I—”

“Just hear me out, ‘kay? I think I know a way we can get you back into the public’s good graces.”

“What? What plan could you possibly have that’ll get everyone to like me again?” I harrumph, hitting him with a stilted glare.

“Donate half a million dollars to charity?” Gage suggests.

Fulton’s eyes light up. “Adopt a shelter full of dogs?”

Kit rubs his hands together maniacally. “Auction off your body for a wild night with the Reapers’ very own stallion?”

“You could get a girlfriend,” Bristol offers.

“You want me to get a girlfriend?” I exclaim, taking in the ten unblinking eyes around the room.

A girlfriend? That’s the stupidest idea anyone’s come up with, and Kit once proposed that I fake my own death to get away from a stage-five clinger.

I’d rather be strapped to a gurney and thrown into the mouth of an active volcano than flaunt my love life again for the whole world to see.

Been there, done that, and it ended with me getting my heart publicly shattered.

Bristol thrusts his phone in my face, showing me a photo of some NHL player with his wife and kids, and under it is a plethora of supportive comments and heart emojis. “Just think about it, H. When you’re in a relationship, you’re automatically more likeable. And a girlfriend could help keep you out of trouble. Plus, being committed shows people that you’re caring and you’re not just some rabid dog looking to sniff every fire hydrant and mark it as his own.”

“If your next talk consists of you convincing me to be a dad, I’ll punch you in the taint,” I growl, the beginnings of a migraine buzzing around my skull like an angry hive.

I’m not interested in being with some girl for the sake of the cameras. My one and only relationship was a complete trainwreck. It’s clear now that serious relationships and I don’t click. I’m usually a commitment-phobe, and the first person I changed for just so happened to end up breaking my heart. I’m not going through that again.

“Yeah, H. You could benefit from getting into a relationship. It’s nice to have someone to look after you, to talk to, to fuck on occasion—or, you know, whenever you want,” Kit chimes in, inspecting his cup of tea like the goddamn thing’s been poisoned.

“I don’t need help in the sex department,” I grumble.

If only they knew what I did last night.

When I was in college, I used to go out every night and collect redheads, brunettes, and blonds like Pokémon. If she had a short enough skirt, I’d chase after her. That’s all it took. But then I got serious with Macy, and I never thought about other girls.

“You know, sex can help you get your mojo back,” Gage adds, waggling his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I was in a rut for a long time and then got some of the best head of my life,” Kit says, his lips quirking into a devilish smirk. “This girl’s tongue was crazy. Like it was so long it could—”

“Alright! I think Hayes gets it,” Bristol intervenes, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “There could be a lot of benefits to entering a new relationship is all I’m saying. Unless there’s another way you’d like to play America’s golden boy? Maybe donate a liver to someone in need?”

I don’t like the idea, but maybe they’re right. Come on, Hayes. Be realistic. Would you rather have your NHL career be over in the snap of a finger, or would you rather stick it out for a few months with some girl? Plus, a fake relationship will distract me from the colossal mistake I made with Sienna—here’s to hoping it’ll never see the light of day—and it’ll take attention away from some of my less-than-stellar behavior recently.

Now all I have to do is run it by my agent and Coach, and then I can get my life back on track again. I took an acting class in college. How hard could this be?