I went for a walk through the bowels of Madison Square Garden, hoping to get some peace and quiet and clear my mind and figure out what the hell was wrong with me.
I didn't get it. I got what I wanted—the grudge-fuck. It was every bit as hot as I hoped it'd be, too.
But deep down? It wasn't satisfying. It was the opposite of satisfying. It was like I'd picked and picked at some scab until I finally tore it off—only for it to start oozing blood. And then I think to myself, 'well, what the fuck did I do that for?'becausesoon I'd have anewscab to pick off all over again …
I clenched my fist.I should've known better.Hell, part of me did! Before we left the club, I told myself it'd be betternotto fuck with Camille's heart. No matter how hot I thought it might be. It just felt like I'd be doing something wrong.
But then her friend zonked out. Camille needed help. And then we were in the car together. And one thing led to another.
And thenold, heartless Beautook over. Beau, who thinks with his cock.
And now I was acting like a crazy dick. And my heart felt like it was getting ripped out of my goddamn chest.
***
With a 6'3 athlete in full gear, walking around the halls of MSG on skate guards and swearing under his breath?
It was only a matter of time before someone from the media noticed me.
My old buddy Larry Graves from theTimesspotted me first.
“Beau!” he shouted, rushing to my side. “Beau, have you heard Dave Leroux's response to the statements you made yesterday?
I didn't care about this shit right now. I shot him an impatient and bewildered look. “What? No.”
Larry put on his reading glasses and began to read from a mini-notebook.
“And I quote: 'You mean to tell me Beau Bradford made some idiotic comments to the media? Wow, color me shocked. What Beau Bradford ought to focus on for once, instead of trying to piss everybody off, is how to actually play the game of hockey with skill and integrity. I heard that Beau didn't always play this way? Apparently, he used to actually be good at hockey and avoided the dirty stuff. Funny, I can't even imagine it now. But everyone has to make a living, I guess. Some people make a living cleaning up [expletive] from toilets. Even that's too honest of a living for Beau Bradford. The guy's just heartless. Scum. Scum on the ice. He makes a living by dredging up everyone's vulnerabilities and exploiting them for his own selfish—'”
“Stop!” I roared, nostrils flaring, a finger held in Larry's face. “I don't care what he said, for fuck's sake!”
“Is that on the record, Beau?” Larry asked.
“No! Fuck no!”
I turned around and went right back to the dressing room.
When I barged back in, it was like somebody lifted the needle from a record. Whatever the boys were talking about immediately stopped, and everyone looked at me with expressions of concern.
“Everything alright, Beau?” Hunter asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” I lied.
“You good to go tonight?” he asked.
“I'll be fine.”
I hunkered down in my stall and got lost, deep in thought.
Leroux.
Leroux said all that about me.
A guy I respected.
The worst part is, you know he's right.
The others were still chatting it up, but I couldn't focus. I had to do something. I got out my cell phone.
