By the time my first few games as a Toronto Saint were all said and done, I had racked up more than a handful of goals and assists. Seven goals and four assists, to be exact. The points were sweet, for sure, but I couldn't take all the credit. I had line mates who were hell-of-a-playmakers and they made me look good.
One of those guys was Jonathan McBain.
"Are you coming to the thing tomorrow night?" he asked, voice slightly out of breath as he hunched over his bike and pushed his legs to the limit.
At some point over the three weeks I had been in Toronto, Jon and I had developed a routine of hitting the bikes at the Canada Bank training room every day after team lunch.
"Thing?" I panted.
He shot me a look, like I should've known what the hell "thing" was code for.
"The charity event for the Toronto Saints Foundation," Jon spelled it out, slowing down his speed, which prompted me to do the same. "Happens every year around this time. It's a tradition."
"Oh, right," I nodded. Someone on the management team had mentioned it to me the other week. "Yeah, I've heard of it, but I had completely forgotten about it," I admitted sheepishly.
Jon's eyes flashed to my face, a look of amusement in his eyes. His face was sweaty, a little red, and a few strands of light brown hair had fallen onto his forehead. Even in this state, I couldn't deny that I understood why some high school girls had made videos inviting him to their proms last June. Another teammate of ours, Tanner Hellman, had not only told me about the incident, but showed me the video, before practice the other day.
"You better prepare for some of these in a few months," Tanner had said.
I had just shook my head in response and continued getting my equipment on.
"So I'm guessing you don't have a suit then?" Jon asked.
I pushed my hair back as I thought. "I wore one to the draft, but that's probably back in Pasadena. So, I guess I don't."
"Honestly," Jon said, taking a drink from his water bottle, twisting the cap back on, and then shaking the plastic container in my direction, "you're probably the one person who could wear sweatpants and still have everyone there kiss your feet."
I climbed off the bike and laughed, but the sound turned into a wince as I felt a spasm in my thigh. Maybe I had pushed myself too hard this afternoon.
"I'm not so sure about that."
My coach, Dave Dale, would chew me out for at least five minutes if I looked anything less than what the Saints brand was all about. Even only playing under him for a few games, I knew he was the coach who demanded a lot from his players, and by "a lot," I meant perfection.
"Man, you have been killing it," Jon said, glancing up at me from where he was now stretching on the floor. "Killing it. That goal you scored the other night? That was quite a rush."
I nodded, trying to appear humble. Some NHL goals were scored by being in the right place at the right time. It wasn't unheard of for the puck to go off someone's skate and into the net. Then there were goals that were a display of pure skill. Like when you take the puck from your own end and dangle it through the other team and slide it through five-hole.
"I guess," I said, because I knew that if I didn't say anything, Jon wouldn't let the topic go. He had been drafted by the Saints four years earlier in the first round and he had been one of their more consistent players year-in, year-out.
I was in the middle of stretching my quads when Jon said, "You're allowed to take a date, by the way."
"It'll only be me," I said immediately in a tone that had a hint of finality in it; in what I hoped was a tone that said, this isn't up for discussion, moron.
Nope.
"You don't have anyone?" Jon asked me with a shit-eating grin.
I shook my head, not even bothering to give this idiot words to use as ammunition.
"No one is Pasadena?"
Silence.
"Or in Winnipeg?"
More silence. And a death glare in his direction.
"You're blushing. And making an ugly-ass face. What's her name?" Jon asked.
After a few moments of deliberation while I massaged my palm into my calves, I admitted, "We're just friends."
A friend I wanted to sleep with, some annoying little shit in my brain reminded me.
"I'm going to shower," I announced, pushing myself off the floor. "And you should do the same; you stink."
Jon rolled his eyes but held his hands up in surrender, like he was officially dropping the subject. Smart move.
As I lathered my body with a random bar of soap the team's trainer had stocked in the room with the hot water running down my body, my thoughts drifted to the kind girl with the fair skin and dark hair. They had been doing that a lot lately, ever since that sobering conversation with my uncle. And even though this was so not the place to fully admit this to myself, the knowledge couldn't be held back anymore: I wanted to sleep with Camille. I wanted to know what it was like to have her body underneath mine while her face contorted into expressions she had never made before and her mouth made sounds she didn't know she was capable of making.
I felt like the world's biggest douchebag for thinking about my friend, the best friend I've ever had, like that. How I went from playing mini-golf with her and making "that's what she said jokes" to discussing our sex lives and holding her in my freaking arms, will remain a mystery to me. It's like one moment I'm taking her skating and laughing with her and feeling nothing out of the ordinary for her, and the next I'm imagining what she looks like under those sweaters she always wears. I was tip-toeing the lineâhell, maybe I even crossed itâon New Year's Eve when I held her. I'm an idiot for even going that far, but I'm not enough of a tool to actually sleep with her.
Because Camille doesn't deserve that.
She's warm and kind and wonderful and sweet and deserves someone who loves her. Thank fuck she told me that there hasn't been anyone. I'd seriously pummel my fist into any guy who treats her the wrong way. At one point I had considered asking Lawson if she had dated anyone, but that's too much of a dick move, even for me.
Camille Riccardi is the kind of girl who equates sex with love and I know my feelings for her are definitely not strong enough to be love. My uncle's words flash through my brain again, of how we may end up thinking this is love. As the water falls down on me, shielding me from the outside world, I thought about the way I felt about Camille. I cared for her, of course. I liked spending time with her and seeing her smile. But love? No way.
The reality is, is that I have an itch.
I just can't scratch it with her.
Taylor: Hey. Can we FaceTime now?
Camille: YES! There's lots of family over at my place right now, and I could use an excuse to coop myself up in my room for a few minutes.
Taylor: Sounds good. Call me once you're there.
I smiled down at my phone; that was such a Camille thing. It would never occur to her that she could just go to her room because she felt like it. She was always setting up invisible rules for herself, terrified of offending others. It was one of the things I liked most about her, but I also wanted to scream at her that the majority of people she bended over backwards for didn't deserve her effort.
When I saw her name flash on my phone, I smoothed my hair back one more time and said, "Hey."
"Hi, thank you so much for rescuingâ. Ooh, you look fancy."
Camille was smiling, looking at me with amusement in her eyes. I could see a pillow behind her, so I guessed she was on her bed.
Like a prepubescent teen, I felt the colour rise to my cheeks with her comment. I looked down at the black dress paints and shiny grey dress shirt that I had bought at a shop on Bloor Street after my training session with Jonathan the day before.
"I think I look ridiculous," I admitted. "I'm way out of my comfort zone wearing this, but I have a charity gala event tonight for the Saints."
"I want to say that that sounds fun, but I think you and I both know that social events like that are hell for me," she grimaced.
I sank myself down onto the edge of my bed and grinned. "That, I do know. So, what's going on at your house right now?"
She sighed and the air made a loose tendril of hair fly upwards. Her hair looked to be in a low bun, but most of the front layers had escaped.
"Thomas and his family are over, which is great, but so is my mom's younger sister and her family, which also has two small children. And," she said, drawing the word out. "My dad's brother and his wife also dropped by."
"And all the commotion is stressing you out," I offered in what I hoped was a soothing voice. Camille, even though she had never admitted it to me, was a perfectionist. She must feel so strained feeling like she has to be "on" in front of all these people.
She nodded.
"Relax for a few minutes, then. It's only me," I whispered.
With her cheeks flushed, Camille leaned back further into her pillow. She was about to say something, full lips parting gently, when her eyes snapped to something off the screen.
"Yeah, Max, what's up?" she asked her nephew, who I assume came into her room uninvited.
"What are you doing in here by yourself?" I heard him ask her.
"I'm talking to my friend," she said.
I brought my hand to my mouth to contain my laughter.
"I want to say hi," Max insisted.
Before Camille could answer him, the four-year-old climbed onto Camille's bed, threw himself into her lap and moved his face so that he was only an inch away from the screen.
"Hey, Max, how's it going, buddy?" I asked, smiling.
"Taylor? Is that you? Where are you? Can you come over?" he asked.
Camille pushed Max back so that I wasn't staring at just his eyeball.
"Yeah, it's me, Taylor. I'd love to come over, bud, but I can't because I'm in Toronto. I got traded there," I explained.
"Like trading cards?" He made a face.
I nodded. "Yeah, something like that."
Max shrugged his little shoulders. "Trade back, we do it all the time on the playground. You should trade back because Camille misses you."
"Oh-kay, that's enough from you, Max," Camille rushed out, gently guiding him off her bed. "I'll be out in a few minutes."
"I have more to say!" I heard his little voice say from off camera.
When Camille turned to look at me, her cheeks were pink and her eyes looked frazzled.
"I'm sorry, I have no idea why he said that. He must have heard my mom and I talking..." she rambled.
It totally wasn't a big deal. I actually liked seeing the little guy. Whenever Camille and I talked, she always seemed to have a funny story about the kid, like when he corrected his kindergarten teacher in front of the class or how he tells his aunt that his parents "drive him craving."
"Hey, don't be embarrassed," I told her. When she started to shake her head, I said, "I wish I was with you too."
She looked so sweet and shy in that moment that it made me feel warm inside. The feeling was foreign, but pleasant. And I simultaneously wanted to feel it forever and never again.
"Have you heard from any schools yet?" I asked, changing the subject. I think it's better for both of us.
"No, none yet, but it's still pretty early for decisions. I'll know more in February."
I nodded, already thinking of what I wanted to say next. There was so much I wanted to tell her, things that I didn't have the luxury of telling her whenever I wanted. Like how my new teammates are, or how cool Toronto is.
"My dad is still mad at you, by the way," Camille teased, interrupting my thoughts. "He hates that you got traded. My brother's surprisingly okay with it, though. He thinks it made his hat skyrocket in value."
"He's probably not wrong," I agreed.
Twenty minutes later, after I had told her a bit about the most recent road trip I had went on, I reluctantly had to hang up the call because it was time to make my way to the convention centre.
I really wished Camille and I didn't have to end our FaceTime call, because that conversation was the most genuine one I had all night. It was a good thing I had splurged on my outfit, because this gala was a huge deal, bigger than what Jon had let on. Obviously, all my teammates and the coaching staff were thereâpeople I knewâbut there were also the team owners and community partners and media personnel and guestsâall people that I didn't know. I took the cues from my fellow teammates and mingled with as many people as I could before we sat down for the main course.
Everyone I met was polite, but there was this intangible feelingâand I'm not sure how exactly I detected itâthat made me feel that they were seeing me as Taylor Hudson, The Man, The Hockey Player and not Taylor, the person. Unlike with Camille, it was clear I wasn't having a chit chat with friends. These people weren't my equals. They were above me and the relationship we were cultivating was a business one.
It was ironic then, that when the owner took to the podium to address everyone and thank them for coming, he mentioned several times how the Saints organization was one giant family.
Maybe I had been reading the situation wrong. After all, I was the youngest one there, the newbie, and I wasn't about to go around slapping millionaires on the back and asking them what was up. They probably kept things polite because that was what I looked comfortable with.
Things warmed up, though, when we began the three-course dinner. Because yeah, hockey players can eat. Each table was a mix of current players, alumni, family and staff, and I was sitting next to Jonathan, who brought his girlfriend. I couldn't remember what her name wasâSara, Stephanie? It was Sydney; Jon just called her. Sydney had a friend, Allie, who stayed by her side all night and had a tendency to be overly touching with the men she interacted with. I remembered her name only because she introduced herself to me like, three times.
I also ended up sitting next to her at the table.
She was nice enough. She was also more than hot enough. Long, blond hair and tits that were peeping out of the tight black dress she was wearing. That was a ballsy move, wearing something like that to an event of this class.
If Camille was here, she'd chew me out for that comment, even though I knew she'd never wear something like that. To anything. Camille and Allie were a different kind of hot. Camille had the beauty that you came to appreciate over time. Allie had the ability to immediately make your mouth water.
"Taylor, have you met my friend, Allie? She is the host for the SportsCast show, Between the Pipes," Sydney said, leaning across Jon.
"Yeah, we met," I said, careful not to look at Allie for longer than what is considered polite.
"I was just telling Taylor that I hoped he didn't mind attention, because he's going to get a lot of it here in Toronto," Allie said.
Was she saying that? Her voice was a little irritating, not going to lie, and I think I tuned her out.
That was another way she differed from Camille. When she spoke, I wanted to listen.
"I can already tell. I'm okay with it, I guess. I don't think I have much of a choice," I joked.
Allie smiled enthusiastically, throwing her head back a little, and placed a manicured hand on my bicep. Did she squeeze my arm or was I just imagining things?
"You better believe you don't! You're young and hot and a talented hockey player. The entire city is going to go crazy for you."
Allie had to be a few years older than meâmaybe mid-twenties. I knew that I looked older than I was, but I still felt boosted that she called me hot. My eyes glanced to hers and I realized that she already had her eyes on me. She pursed her pink lips and I felt a jolt in my body.
How long had it been anyways? Several months? Almost a year? Doing it myself didn't count.
That was the fucking sad thing. I couldn't remember the last time I got laid. The closest I had come to having sex had been talking about it with Camille. And I knew that conversation was a one-way ticket to nowhere, but I couldn't help myself indulge in it.
I was attracted to Camille, big time, but she's not someone I could mess with, I reminded myself for the tenth time. My thoughts from earlier swirled in my mind in a never-ending stream. She deserved to have someone love her, not play with her. She'd find that soon enough, and I'd personally destroy whatever asshole thinks he's good enough for her in the meantime.
That was enough about Camille, for now.
Allie was here, and she was demanding my attention. It had started with a lingering hand on my forearm and then it morphed into a gentle squeeze. Then she dropped her napkin on the floor and before I could reach for it, she was already bent down, offering me quite the view. With the cloth in her hand, she brushed the back of her hand against my thigh.
When the night finally wound down, she asked me if I was interested in discussing opportunities for me to guest star on her show.
"It won't take up too much time, just maybe twenty minutes," she had pitched. "I just like to show people what I can offer and go through our schedules. I know they can be all over the place."
I nodded, having read between the lines. She wanted to come over to my place and hook-up. It may have been a long time, too long, that I had done something like this, but I wasn't that out of touch with the language of it.
That was how we ended up in the same Uber on the way back to my apartment complex. Neither of us had said much, but we were eyeing each other and teasing what was about to come.
As we rode the elevator, I noticed that Allie was shorter than me, but not by much. She was wearing heels that made her legs look impossibly long.
My mouth watered at the prospect of having them wrapped around my waist.
I let Allie into my apartment and flicked on the light.
"Wow, I like your place," she said.
Forget the small talk.
"Yeah? I like your face. And body."
And I intended to make myself very familiar with both of those things. Opportunities, my ass. Allie knew exactly what she was doing when she invited herself here. But just to make sure, I asked her before I started making out with her.
It was a go.
All I had wanted was to get it out of my system. To bury myself deep inside a woman and ride the wave of pleasure I hadn't in so long. When Allie wrapped her lips around me, that was just a bonus.
Thank fuck the team trainer stocked every guy with a box of condoms.
I swear I thought this was going to be a one-time thing with Allie. It wasn't. It ended up being a three-time thing.
But that wasn't the worst part. Because remember when I said I was The Man? The women of Toronto also thought that. I was introduced through friends, or I met them at a restaurant. Mostly, though, they messaged me on social media. Point was, it wasn't difficult for me to find a willing woman to sleep with. Not a brag, just the truth.
I didn't want to be a complete asshole about it and disappoint my mother, so I always made sure they were well fed and well satisfied. They had fun, I had fun. They liked my tattoos and stroked my ego, among other things.
In three weeks of being in Toronto I had surpassed my kill count from my non-Toronto life.
I wished I could say I didn't have a single regret, but that wasn't true.
One person had officially become off limits.
I had officially become the guy I warned her about.
As if I didn't have enough reason before, now I really could never sleep with Camille Riccardi.