From this side, I can see he has talent, but he’s so green. It costs Philly the game.
We walk away with the win, and I can’t help but think, “Suck it.” It’s my turn to condescendingly tell Anton, “Good game,” as I shake his hand, but when my palm lands in his, my mouth doesn’t work. It opens, but nothing comes out.
The asshole smirks.
Then he’s gone and we’re all heading for the locker rooms.
“I told O’Ryan we’d take their team out for drinks before, you know, they become the real enemy when the season starts,” Diedrich says.
The truth is, a lot of us are friends. Whether they play for your team or not, those guys out there on the ice are your brothers. There’s a handful of queer guys from different teams who get together whenever we can and joke it’s the NHL queer convention. We call ourselves the Collective, and it’s not nerdy at all.
Nope. Not even a little bit.
Going out for drinks with guys from another team is common. Win or lose. However, if we’d lost tonight, there’s no way I’d take Diedrich up on his offer, but winning? It gives me something to hold over Anton’s head.
I turn to Diedrich with a smile. “I’m in.”
Four
ANTON
If this were any other night, my response to Boston’s invite to go out would have been a solid no, but I didn’t have anywhere near enough time to taunt Ezra on the ice.
I hate that his team won, but neither of us has played a game like that before.
It felt amazing.
Just as amazing as seeing the fire in his eyes. The way he was trying to cover that he was remembering every detail. Because he was. I was too. But I have a better poker face than him.
And all through the press conference, I’m smiling more than I should be for someone on the losing team, but I’m too busy wondering how many drinks it’ll take for me to work my way under Ezra’s skin. I know there’s exactly zero chance of having sex with him again when he’ll have more than enough offers to hook up, but I want to remind him that no matter what, I’ve had him.
He needs to live with the fact he was owned by Anton Hayes.
It’s that memory that has me puffing out my chest as we enter the karaoke bar Diedrich sent us the address to.
It’s always odd playing in Boston. I grew up here but moved away for college. Even back then, Ezra and I were in the same hockey circles—not that he’d know it. Our paths rarely crossed, and I was the quiet kid who was third line and not very good in the beginning. Ezra … well, he hasn’t changed. He has his head so far up his own ass that he doesn’t notice the people around him. I noticed him though. Maybe too much.
O’Ryan breaks off to buy the first round of drinks, and the rest of us head for where the Boston team is making their presence known. Only five of my team came with me, the others, mostly newbies, headed back to the hotel to mourn the loss.
When you’ve played as many games as I have, you understand the old philosophy of “you win some, you lose some.” Except in the playoffs. Then losing is the equivalent of the end of the world.
The bar is already busy, but Boston has picked an area on the high side of the room to take over. I climb the two stairs to get to them and immediately look around.
I’d like to say I’m not searching for Ezra, but that would be horseshit.
It doesn’t take long to spot the back of his head, light brown hair rumpled and sexy, reminding me of how it looked after I had it gripped between my fingers. He’s leaning over the barrier, talking to some guy who might as well have hearts in his eyes.
It’s not surprising to see Ezra flirting with someone. It is surprising how fiercely I hate it this time. I usually despise it because he’s comfortable enough to do it so freely and out in the open, but I can’t deny that voice in the back of my head telling me this is different.
I head toward Wagner like he was my sole target all along. He’s close enough that Ezra should hear me the second I say anything, and I plan to take full advantage of that.
“Good game tonight.”
Wagner turns to me. “It was from one of us.” He laughs and pats my shoulder. “You were playing for the wrong team, Hayes.”
“Stop trying to steal my winger,” O’Ryan says as he approaches and hands me a drink.
“Yeah, imagine him and Ez on a team?” Wagner and O’Ryan chuckle at the thought that makes my stomach clench. A few of the guys saw our coaches in the bar together last night after the team flew in, and there have been rumors about a trade circling ever since. I’m praying my name is kept out of it, but I suspect it’s all speculation.