Chapter 8

Minutes must have passed before I let myself fall to the floor, almost convulsing in tears. Being called a "slut" had stung, but nothing hurt more than to hear him call me "used goods". I was used. He didn't care for me; he just wanted pussy, like I had feared. That on its own was painful to swallow, but to realize that he'd gotten me to cheat on my boyfriend of eight years was even worse. How could I ever come clean with Rob? Eight years of near-bliss and I had thrown it all away for a one-night stand? Star-struck or not, he would never forgive me.

I hate him!, my brain screamed. How could I have been so stupid to think that this NHL superstar had any interest in me outside of sex?

***

Sidney's POV

I unclenched my jaw as I pounded down the pavement, sprinting back to our villa before the rest of the guys returned.

How did they do it?, I wondered, thinking back to the countless number of women my friends managed in a night. I thought maybe it was liquid courage and outdrank them all tonight, but that clearly backfired when I couldn't even remember the girl's damn name. Mind you, I had never thought in a million years I'd be quizzed in the middle of sex.

I had told the guys about the beautiful brunette I had met on the way to lunch, and Max immediately started calling her "Yasmine", in reference to his favourite Baywatch babe. The name stuck, and I guess it must have slipped out when I was with her and really set her off. It was a shame, too: the brunette had been perfect. Not only was she hot, but she had no clue who I was, and likely never would. I thought she might have been Canadian - she had thrown in an "eh?" when we had spoken earlier - but I would have been recognizable to anyone from the Great White North by now.

The boys had had a good laugh at my expense, calling me "soft" and bet that I wouldn't be able to "hit it and quit it" with her, as they so lovingly referred to one-night stands. I was determined to shut them up and prove it on this vacation. During the regular season, the guys always gave me a hard time for not taking advantage of the bevy of women that threw themselves at us, but the truth was, I just wasn't the type to kiss-and-tell. I'd had my fair share of women - sometimes it was as innocent as a coffee date, other times it was incredible head and a good fuck - but I kept those rendezvous off the radar. It was hard enough finding a sane, attractive woman not looking to get her 15 seconds of fame through me; I didn't need a woman with a vendetta against me if she knew she wasn't the only one I was sleeping around with. The innocence I projected also attracted more classier women, and if the girl had a reputation to keep, she wasn't going to blab our story. Yup, I had my sex life down to a science.

I let myself into the palatial private villa we were calling home for the next week. I glanced at the grandfather clock in the foyer - 2:06am. I probably had 20 minutes to pack ice on my face before some of the guys showed up. I had to rummage through the freezer for ice cubes - most had been used for our pre-drink earlier - and quickly wrapped them in a dishtowel. I ran up to my room to check out the damage in the mirror. Red, but not bruised. Yet.

I couldn't believe I'd been slapped. I had never been hit - let alone turned down - by a girl in my whole adult life; who did this chick think she was? I felt bad for what I'd said to her - I had a lot of respect for women and didn't usually use such vulgar language against them - but it was the first word that came to mind after she humiliated me. Besides, she needed an ego-check. Like seriously, who likes to hear the sound of their own name that much that she had to stop having sex because I couldn't remember it? She was so vain...

Fuck. It was Vanessa.