Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys 1)

As someone who was always unnoticed on my teams until I clawed my way into the spotlight in college, the thought of being traded stings. Logically, I know it’s part of the game and that it doesn’t mean you’re a terrible player, but it’s the feeling of being so easily replaceable that screws with my head.

I’m an egotistical bastard on purpose these days, because there’s still that voice constantly reminding me I have to fight to be good enough, and I’ve worked out that if I fake confidence, I begin to feel it. I wear my ego like a mask, covering up that somewhere deep down, I still believe that being who I truly am won’t cut it in professional sports.

I remind myself our coaches were having drinks, and that doesn’t mean anything. Just like right now. Me having drinks in the same vicinity as Ezra.

Besides, anyone who would put Ezra and me on the same team should not be responsible for decision making.

“I don’t see how it would make any difference which team I was on,” I say. “Except if I was on yours, I’d be showing him up from the same side of the ice.”

I swear I can feel his stare. Knowing I’ve succeeded in getting his attention lights me up. All I need now is for him to bite.

“He dominated tonight,” Wagner says, loyal to a fault.

“Well, we all get lucky sometimes.”

A scoff comes from behind me. Bingo.

“Getting lucky? Like you’d know anything about that,” Ezra says.

“Changing the topic to sex, how unusual for you.”

“Are you slut-shaming me?”

“Just pointing out you have a one-track mind. I’m not shaming you for being a slut but for being you.”

“And yet, that’s my most sought-after quality.” Ezra looks me over. “Haven’t had a complaint yet.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure there’s one coming.”

“You two really don’t like each other, do you?” O’Ryan asks.

Ezra says, “No,” at the same time I respond, “I don’t think about him enough to not like him.”

Normally, that would have been the truth. The only times I really think about Ezra are when I’m facing him on the ice or scowling at yet more ridiculous antics that have him splashed all over the tabloids. For the last few months though, I’ve thought about him far more than I’d admit.

The guy can fuck.

I might have been the one topping him, but I wasn’t doing all the work.

“You realize that only makes you sound like an asshole, right?” Ezra’s tone is light, but I can tell I’ve pissed him off. He’s too easy to read.

“For being the one person on earth who doesn’t give you attention? If that’s the case, I can live with being an asshole.” I tip back my drink and finish it in one mouthful. “Anyone else need a refill?”

I glance at Ezra, daring him to ask, but he wisely stays quiet. Wagner and O’Ryan are still going with theirs, so I leave for the bar solo.

It’s pretty obvious why Diedrich chose this place. It’s dark and moody, with the main lights coming from the stage, drowning those daring to do karaoke in a multicolored wash of lights. When I was younger and grew up here, it was called something else. It reminds me of a large cigar lounge, one that’s been updated to still look old but cater to a younger audience.

There’s no dry humping on the dance floor here.

Pity.

I’m buzzing with the need to hook up tonight.

As I’m waiting for my turn to order, I glance back to find Ezra talking to that same man again and narrow my eyes in their direction.

I grab my drink, but as I get back to the table, the emcee’s voice cuts through the room.

“Next up, we have Anton Hayes and Ezra Palaszczuk!”

I glare at the guys. “Which one of you did that?”

They all try to look innocent.

Ezra jumps the small balcony, and my pulse rate spikes as he heads for the stage. He takes a microphone, stands in the spotlight, and then his ice-blue eyes zero in on his target: me.

I’m determined not to look away, so I see the moment his smile starts. “Coming, Hayes? Or are you too scared to go head-to-head off the ice?”

The crowd bursts into “Oohs” and taunts.

I put down my drink. “Bring it.” Even if karaoke isn’t my thing, I’m a mediocre-to-average singer, so at least I won’t embarrass myself up there. There’s no way Ezra’s deep, scratchy voice could carry a note.

I amble my way to the stage and take my own mic. “Queen okay?”

“Only if it’s ‘Don’t Stop Me Now.’” He came up with that way too quickly.

“Fine. Deal.” Who doesn’t know the words to that one?

I channel some of the confidence I hide behind on the ice and pretend like this is an average night for me.

There’re a few whoops from the direction of our teams, and someone catcalls, but up here the lights are too bright to make out exactly who it’s coming from. It doesn’t matter. They’re traitors. All of them.