Free Point Shot 02 - Game Misconduct by V.L. Locey Page B

away from the reservation desk without ogling her tits, which were perfectly fine tits, just not appealing right now.
    I waited by the elevator, my thighs and calves on the verge of cramping. My lower back ached as well. Plans for the evening were a hot bath, acetaminophen, dinner, TV and bed alone, unless Betty Palm and her five sisters showed up. The compulsion to find Dan’s room and force myself into his thinking space was enormous. The only thing that had stamped out that stupid fire had been the realization that if I did behave like that, Dan would get madder. He needed his time. I had to respect his request.
    “It really sucks when you find out the world doesn’t revolve around you,” I told the silver doors to the elevator.
    Someone calling my name snapped me back from staring stupidly at the elevator doors.
    “You’re staying here as well?” I asked Ailo Grahn as he loped toward me. Ailo matched my six-foot-three in height but had a slightly leaner frame. He wore jeans, shirt and jacket for a casual look. Dark-haired with brown eyes, he made all the puck bunnies swoon even now that he had to be well into his forties. “I thought you’d be holed up in some five-star.”
    “I don’t think there’s a five-star within a hundred miles of this place,” Ailo replied with a soft Swedish accent.
    “True, that,” I said as the chime sounded and the doors opened. We stepped into the empty lift. “I’m four.” Ailo hit the proper button and the doors closed.
    “So, Victor Kalinski.” Ailo turned slightly to look at me. I raised a tired eyebrow. “I’m surprised to see you in this group. The last time I heard your name it was linked to being in contention for the Art Ross trophy. Injury send you down?”
    “Something like that,” I replied, while pushing that memory aside. There was no point dwelling on something that would never repeat itself. That fantastic season in Boston and my shoo-in for the trophy for most points in the NHL was nothing more than a memory now.
    “I thought perhaps. You looked dull today. Still amazing, but dull. Like a skate that needs honing.”
    “Well, that’s your job, right? Hone me,” I said.
    Ailo chuckled. He was a personable guy when he wasn’t screaming in your face. “Why don’t you join me for dinner in my room? I’d love to talk to you about some of the things this program will give you.”
    I glanced from the crimson numbers above the door to the man at my right.
    “Sure.” It would be an honor to sit and talk with one of the greatest centers who had ever played the game. Besides, I didn’t have anything else to do aside from chew Tylenol and jerk off. “I have to be in bed by ten, some arrogant Swede informed me.”
    “I’ll have you in bed by ten.” He clapped my shoulder just as the elevator slowed at my floor. “I’m on the next floor. Room 5-D. Give me thirty to get room service ordered. Any allergies?” he asked, hand on the door to prevent it from closing.
    “Stupid people, those hairless cats and anyone with the last name Kardashian.”
    “I’ll make sure none of those are on the menu.” Ailo laughed, then stepped back and released the elevator door. It slid shut silently. I dragged my weary ass to my room, where I threw my duffel to the floor, stripped, took another shower because sometimes it took two to get the stink off, and pawed for something decent to wear to dinner. I found nothing but T-shirts, jeans and socks. Way to pack, Kalinski. Ten minutes later, hair still wet and dressed in distressed denim and an old Megadeth T-shirt, I rapped on Ailo’s door. He had also showered again. His dark-brown hair was damp when he opened the door. He was jeans-and-polo-shirt casual. “They just brought dinner. I hope you like Italian?”
    “Love it,” I said as I did a fast check of his room. It had the same layout as mine but a different color scheme. Mine was tan and blue, this one tan and green. A savory thick cloud of garlic and oregano