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Fuck if that doesn’t make me want it more.

And West? Fuck him. He can’t have her.

He’s going to try, though, and I don’t like it. That means I need to move quickly.

But first…I need to get rid of this fucking headache.

I raid the medicine cabinet and grab a cocktail of pain meds that are okay to take together, and then I head down to the kitchen. I don’t take them quite yet. First, I need to make something to wash them down with.

With that in mind, I set out on putting together the hangover cure passed down to me by my mentor, the former center for the Vegas Vengeance and hockey legend Nathan Lochlan—the same recipe I’ve passed down to the younger players on the team. The recipe I swear by.

I pull out a jar of pickles and dump some of the juice into a cup. I don’t bother with measuring. I’ve made this shit enough times that I can eyeball it. I add a splash of bourbon, Tabasco sauce, and Worcestershire sauce, and I squeeze a lemon into the mix. I swirl it around, shake some salt into it, and grab an egg.

I crack it on the side, separate the yolk, and drop it in.

I throw the rest of the egg and the shells in the sink, and I toss the pills in my mouth first. I follow them up by pouring my concoction into my mouth in a single shot.

I wince as I swallow the mixture. It’s thick with the pills in there.

Shit. I forgot the one key ingredient: a coffee chaser.

I start the Keurig and gulp down a cup of orange juice to try to get the overwhelming pickle taste out of my mouth, and it makes me want to vomit.

Maybe that’s the actual cure—vomiting. Maybe Nathan was always full of shit.

My phone dings with a text, and I grab it to see who’s brave enough to interrupt my morning.

West: Clock’s ticking, pretty boy. Ticktock.

I’m too goddamn competitive to lose to West Fucking Sellers.

It’s hilarious that he thinks he’s got a leg up on me. I saw the way she looked at me. She wants it, and she can have it…apparently to the tune of a hundred grand.

Me: Still nearly two months. If anyone should feel the pressure, it’s not me.

It’s my cockiness showing. It’s a façade I’ve built on the ice. I work better under pressure. I fight harder. I don’t panic. Instead, I think the moments of intense pressure have the power to show what we’re made of.

And this…is not that. It’s a stupid bet among friends.

One that I’m going to win.

And the best way to win is to research.

I type her name into a search bar, and her Instagram account shows up.

I click on it, and of my two accounts, my personal one is the one that pops open since that’s the one I’m usually logged into.

My main account is public, and that’s for my publicist. It’s curated and it’s a peek into the life of an NHL star. I’ve never posted to it, and I never log into it. I don’t even know the password, to be honest. But it’s my “official” account or whatever.

My second account is my personal one. It’s private, and I only give my closest friends my username. I mainly post to it for my mother, and I only post once a week, if that. I guess it makes her feel close to me or something. And I also scroll it for hockey and other sports content, home improvement ideas, recipes, golf courses and golf swing tips, and, of course, the ever-popular diving fails, which work every time I need a laugh.

My username is my initials and my birthday, so most people don’t just stumble across my account. Still, every single day, I have new follow requests. I don’t know how people find me.

I land on her profile, and yep…that’s her. In fact, there’s a whole carousel of her with her brother and the other woman that was with them from last night with the words “Chapter 22” surrounded by the sparkle emoji as the caption.

It was posted yesterday.

Same gorgeous smile.