“Nothin’.”
“Was it the gay thing?”
I gasp. “Yes. Because anytime I get into a fight, it’s because my masculinity is threatened by homophobic twatfaces.”
“Then what was it? The game? You let fans get to you over a goddamn game?”
“If you’d lost tonight, how would you take it?”
“Grow up, man. We’ve all lost games before. We’ve all been kicked out of the playoffs. Well, you know, except Buffalo, who haven’t seen the playoffs in over a decade.”
I laugh and then hate myself for it.
“Where are you going?” Hayes asks.
“Gay bar. Because of all my gayness that’s gay, and that’s all I’m known for. Apparently.”
“Really? So because I assumed guys were attacking you over your orientation, you think that’s my only impression of you?”
“If the skate fits.”
Anton stops walking. “Seriously, Ezra. Why are you always such an asshole?”
I spin to face him. “Why are you always such an asshole?”
“You know, when most people save someone from getting their ass kicked, they get a thank-you.”
“That’s why you hate me? Because of my manners? Well, thank you, Mr. Straight, for stepping in to save my gay honor when I didn’t ask you to.”
Anton takes two steps back. “Wait, you think I’m straight?”
I blink. Then blink again. How drunk am I? Did I hear him right, or is my mind playing tricks on me? “Y-you’re not? How did I not know this, and why haven’t we had sex yet if that’s the case?”
He stares at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious. “Holy shit, you really are that conceited. Maybe we haven’t had sex because I don’t want my sexuality splashed all over the tabloids. Unlike some people, my focus is and always has been hockey.”
“Oh, so you’re closeted. But why? It’s not like we’re the only ones anymore. Ollie Strömberg, Westly Dalton, Tripp Mitchell, Foster Grant, Oskar—”
“You think I haven’t seen what you guys go through? The comments. The online hate. If people are going to hate me, I’d rather it be for my playing than who I have sex with. And I’m not closeted … not exactly. My team knows. My family. The important people. But I don’t want toxic people like those assholes back there to think they have a right to attack me for who I am.”
I take it back. The third worst thing is being cornered by Philly fans. Second worst thing is being saved by someone I hate. But the worst thing by far is realizing that for years I’ve thought the tension between Anton and me came from a place of resentment. It turns out it’s because I want to fuck Anton Hayes.
I did not see that coming.
Two
ANTON
I consider myself to be a levelheaded guy. I’m a fair player, I work my heart out, I’d do anything for my family … but there’s something about Ezra Palaszczuk that digs under my skin and sets all rational thought on fire.
That confrontation could have been so much worse than it was. If it had turned into a fight, you can bet it would have been hot news by morning. Like I told Ezra, my focus is hockey, and that’s all I want to be known for.
But I stepped in to help him without a thought.
Ezra sways, looking from one side of the street to the other. Those piercing blue eyes are heavy-lidded and unfocused. “Which way was I going?”
“Why?”
“Because I need to get my gay on.” He stumbles a few steps, changes his mind, and then swings in the other direction. Only he overshoots and somehow ends up walking into me.
How the hell is this guy one of the kings of hockey?
I help right him, but he presses harder against me.
“We should fuck.”
“I’m going to remind you of those words every chance I get.” I pry him off me. “You’re a mess. In what world would I be interested in someone who smells like a brewery and has the coordination of a two-year-old?”
“Of course. You’re perfect Anton Hayes, you have standards, and playoffs, and a hockey stick rammed right up your—”
“You know, I have no idea why those men wanted to hit you.”
“Jus po direct da cay blub.”
“Was that English or Polish?”
“Cay Glub. Club Gay. Gay. Which way?” He flexes his jaw. “Why won’t my mouth work right?”
This is what I get for interfering. An Ezra so far past drunk that even my conscience won’t let me leave him here.
Sighing, I grab his arm and yank him toward the road just in time to flag down a taxi.
“Ohh, someone wants to bow chicka wow wow.”
“Always, but not with you.” I shove him in the back of the cab as soon as the door is open. “And your beard looks ridiculous, by the way.”
He drops his head back and closes his eyes. “You’re such a fuckface.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you have two left skates. Goddamn pigeon.”