The other side of the queen bed is empty, so I’m taking that as a good sign. My raging case of morning wood and my aching balls are also solid indicators that I didn’t put my dick anywhere I shouldn’t have.

A few months ago the unused pillow would have been occupied by a very satisfied, very well-used puck bunny. I used to be a dog. I probably still qualify as one, but I’m working on becoming reformed. It’s not that easy. Women want to ride my dick all the time. Not bringing honeys home is like passing by McDonald’s during training camp: you know you can’t have it because it’s not part of the meal plan, so you want it even more.

Instead of sex, Sunny and I text or have video chats. I like those best, especially when it’s late at night. She hangs out in her bed, and I can ogle her while we talk.

Eventually I’m hoping we’ll graduate past conversation to Skype sex. We haven’t even had real sex yet, so there’s no damn way I’m asking her to have not-real sex with me over video chat. I need to get past third base and all the way to home first. Until then, I’ll keep up with the post-Skype-ogle whack-off sessions. It’s frustrating, even though I like that she’s not slutty like the puck bunnies I’m used to.

All this means my dick has gone unused for the last few months. We’ve done some groping and making out, and she’s had her hand down my pants and vice versa, but that’s it. It’s weird. I’ve never not had sex on the first “date.”

Before Sunny, if I needed company, all I had to do was pull up my contact list, go to my honeys, call one, and wait. Usually said honey would arrive within half an hour; the ones who wear too much makeup take longer. It’s almost like ordering pizza.

It wouldn’t matter if I’d just come home from a workout or practice. I didn’t even have to shower. I could be sweaty and gross, or eat a goddamn head of garlic raw, and they’d still come and bounce on my dick.

Now that I’m trying to get Sunny to be my girlfriend, that’s not an option, so I’m stuck with my hand. In theory, if I can go without eating wings for a few months, I should be able to go without sex. It’s a lot harder in practice.

I lie in the bed that’s not mine, trying to remember the end of my night. I have a feeling I might have drunk-dialed Sunny. I hope she didn’t answer the phone. From the little I remember, I wasn’t in very good shape.

Off season is like this—late nights, lots of partying, drinking, and eating shitty food, then regretting it all when hardcore training starts again. I reposition my pillow over my head to drown out the bad music.

I’m drifting off when there’s a knock at the door. “Natasha’s gonna be here in twenty. Get your ass out of bed, Butterson,” Randy yells.

I peek out from under the pillow and stare at the numbers on the clock, willing them to stop moving around so I can read them. It’s after nine. My phone alarm should’ve gone off half an hour ago. Usually I hit the snooze button a minimum of four times every morning. I hate waking up almost as much as I hate asparagus pee. And pop music.

A few minutes later there’s another knock at my door. “Buck?”

It’s a female voice this time. It’s vaguely familiar. I ignore it.

Another knock. “Randy told me you need to get up.”

I still don’t answer. There’s whispering and giggling on the other side, followed by the sound of the doorknob turning. It’s unlocked. I’m out of bed in a flash, slamming my shoulder into the door to hold it closed. I’m naked. With morning wood. And my head hurts like hell.

I slide to the floor, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “I’m up. I’ll be down in, like, ten.”

More giggling follows and then the patter of feet as they move on down the hall, yelling, “He says he’s up!”

I’m still sitting on the floor with my head in my hands several minutes later when Randy comes knocking. “If you’re not down there in eight minutes, Natasha’s gonna make you do suicides.”

“I’d like to see her try.”

Natasha’s been my trainer since I was traded from Miami to Chicago. She’s tough, but awesome. Sometimes I hate her for it. The threats are enough to make me pick my ass up off the floor. I flip the lock, though, in case someone else decides they want to barge into my room.

I check the nightstand for my cell, but it’s not there. It’s not on the floor either, so I sweep my hand across the comforter to see if I accidentally brought it to bed with me. I find it under the pillow. I take it to the bathroom with me, pushing the button so I can key in my password and check my messages, but the screen stays blank. My battery must have died. I set it on the back of the toilet and flip up the seat. I’m hard, so it’s almost impossible to pee.

If my phone wasn’t dead, I’d pull up a picture of Sunny and take care of my problem like that. Instead, I have to use my imagination. This morning sucks worse than usual. Since I haven’t seen her naked yet, I have to cobble together images of her mostly naked in her bikini and imagine what her bare tits would look like. Eventually I give up and grab one of the trashy magazines from the rack on the floor and flip it open. It lands on a hot blonde with fake boobs. It’ll do.

When I’m about to blow, I brace my hand on the wall and let my shins rest against the toilet seat. My knees buckle at the end, and my aim is off, so I hit the back of the toilet lid. The whole unit shakes with my weight, and my phone shifts forward.