Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys 1)

Anton would be there already. Suited up, styled hair, smug expression in place.

With my remaining moments, I take out my phone and hover over my best friend’s name. He has a lot going on since he left the NHL, but I need his advice.

He used to be a fuckboy like me, but now he’s all … responsible. Settling down even. I shudder and hit Dial.

“Punch another fan?” West says by way of greeting.

I visited West and his five kids—all his younger siblings who found themselves without parents after a fateful car crash over a year ago—during the off-season. His time in the NHL was cut way too short, but he needed to be home.

I can’t pretend to understand it, being the only child of a bitter divorced couple with a lot of younger half siblings I’m not close to, but West was always close with his family.

And now that West has settled down with his boyfriend, playing happy families, I really don’t understand it. I’m not the type of guy who people want to settle down with, and I never thought West was either, so it was … odd. I felt like an outsider the whole time I was sleeping on his couch, and I had to get out of there before I caught the monogamy.

NHL and happy families or not, we’re still best friends, so I told him what I’d done—all the mistakes I’d made. Namely, getting drunk and all the events following that led to being railed up against a wall by Anton Hayes.

When I don’t answer West right away, he says, “Oh no, did you punch another fan? I was joking.”

I huff. “No. I didn’t. But … The game is against Philly tonight.”

“Ah. Is it the first time you’ve seen Hayes since—”

“Yep. I’m not sure how to play it.”

“Leave it off the ice,” West says, like the answer should be obvious. “Pretend it didn’t happen.”

“You really think Anton would let me get away with that?”

“Anton Hayes is actually not a terrible guy.”

“Lies. There’s only one part of him that’s not terrible, and—”

“Don’t need to know. Thank you.”

A muffled voice yells behind him, something about an Xbox controller.

“Ez, I have to go.”

“No! You can’t. I called for advice. Tell your kids to sit quietly for two minutes.”

West bursts out laughing. “You should know that doesn’t work with them.”

True.

“Wesssst,” I whine.

“You’re worse than the kids. Just don’t do it again. I know this is hard for you to believe, but you don’t have to fall on every available dick. Gotta go.”

He ends the call before I can thank him for not helping.

I take a deep breath. Though West’s advice was not sound, his message is. Don’t have sex with Anton again.

Easy.

I can’t let one guy ruin hockey. Hockey is my life. Anton Hayes can’t take that away from me.

Focus on that puck. Don’t pay attention to jersey numbers. Don’t look Anton in the eye.

That’s been my mantra since we hit the ice, and the funny thing is, it’s working. It’s working so well that I’ve intercepted more passes in one period than in entire games last season.

I’ve stripped the puck and given our forwards so many shots on goal I’m disappointed they’ve only sunk two of them. That happens to be the same number of goals Anton has scored on his own.

I may be doing well, but so is he.

Damn him.

He looks completely unaffected by my presence, and I feel like an idiot for stressing about this game when it’s obvious he cares even less than me.

I expected … something. A snarky comment, a dismissive look, but no, he’s ignoring me as much as I’m ignoring him. And our playing is better because of it.

Who knew the key to success was ignoring your own biases? If I hadn’t focused so hard on hating Hayes, maybe last season’s playoff series would have ended differently and I never would’ve had sex with him.

Is this what growing up is? It feels like there’s a life lesson in this situation somewhere.

Philly’s offense comes flying toward us, passing back and forth between them. My gaze is laser trained on the puck, and I see the play before I make it. O’Ryan tries to pass to Hayes, but I’m faster. I extend my arm, and the puck finds my blade instead.

Then there we are, face-to-face, charging toward each other. Just Anton and me. It’s the first time all night I lock eyes with him. There’s no way I can get around him, so I quickly pass to Wagner at the other side of the rink, who crosses the blue line and then passes to Diedrich, who’s gaining on the net. He shoots, and we take the lead 3-2. Our game only gets better from there.

One of Philly’s rookies, Moreau, makes some stupid mistakes, which is understandable considering it’s his first time in an NHL game. Even if it is only preseason and doesn’t count for standing.