her drink on his grand piano? Whatever. But he’d never understand why some women had to be so bitchy and cutting when they left.
He snorted out a harsh breath, head shaking. It was his choice of girlfriends more than women in general.
Shit. He jammed the empty bottle into the trash can and yanked his cell phone out of the pocket of his cargo shorts. There had to be someone around who’d want to hang out for a bit. Get a bite to eat or, he checked the time, maybe a late workout or a game of tennis or something.
His legs were still sore from the morning practice and the drills from his personal trainer. That was after the two-hour workout with the Glaciers’ trainer. He could handle more though, if it got him out of the house.
He scrolled through his contacts, flashing past his go-to friends. Walters had fucking bailed the state to move in with his girlfriend in Atlanta. It’d been a fantastic move for the man, but left Henrik without his best friend. Hauke and Rylie were often tied up with their women, and he didn’t need to be reminded of his newly single status. A state he always tried to remedy before it was generally known.
He settled on Isaac Sparks and pressed call. He didn’t hang out with his defensive partner as a rule, primarily because he never thought about it.
“Roller?”
Henrik had become Roller in college, the nickname morphing from Steamroller after his aggressive style of play.
He blew past the confused note in Sparks’s voice. “Hey, Sparky. How’s it going?”
There was a pause before a hesitant “Fine.”
“Cool.” Henrik scratched at the scruff on his cheek and plowed on. “Are you up to anything this evening? I was thinking of hitting a movie or playing some tennis. You free?”
“Shit, Roller.” A loud sigh came over the line. “I’m beat. I was planning on staying in and hitting the sack early.”
“Sure.” His disappointment rushed out in a gush of air. “Be lame.”
“Come on,” Sparks groaned. “You’ve seen how Coach has been riding me since practice started. And with Rylie back, I’m only one mistake away from being bumped to second pair.”
Yeah. The writing was clear now that Rylie was playing even better than before his season-ending injury last February.
“You think so?” he asked, playing the obtuse role that kept him out of conflict. “Maybe it’ll be me who’s bumped.”
The disgusted cut of a laugh said exactly how much Sparks believed that. “Nice try.”
And that put an abrupt end to the conversation. What did Henrik say to that? It wasn’t like he wasn’t working his ass off to save his own spot. “I’ll see you at practice.”
“Sure.”
The line went dead before he could press end. He and Sparks had been the first pair defensemen for the last two seasons. Henrik had worked his way into that starting spot four years ago and based on cycles, age and attrition, he could be bumped—or yanked—back out of it pretty damn soon.
But not this year. He wasn’t that old yet.
He flew over a dozen other names to call before abandoning the idea with a harsh curse. A bird squawked an irritated response, which was followed by an equally annoyed reply. His chuckle was dry and bitter. Even the birds had someone to bitch at. Great.
Excess energy prickled over his skin to crawl across his nape. He rolled his head and bolted inside, paced through the kitchen, circled around to his formal living room and ended up back at the picture windows staring at the view he’d just left. He shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched forward, the emptiness closing in faster than he could push it back.
He jerked up, mind scrambling for an errand to do. The groceries were stocked by his maid, who’d already left for the day. The lawn crew took care of the landscaping. The Glaciers managed his hockey equipment, and his personal chef had a stack of meals waiting in his refrigerator. His stylist had left a rack of clothing for him to go through, but that was in his closet and wouldn’t get him out of the house.
Did his car need gas? He bounced on his toes. New shoes? Yeah. The ones he had on were two months old. Was it time for a new pair?
Did it matter?
Absolutely not.
He made a quick dive into his bedroom to change his shirt and grab a baseball hat. He didn’t feel like being recognized, not now. His six-five frame