Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys 1)

“We should do it again,” he suggests.

“No.”

“You hate that you find me so hot, don’t you?” He leans in, presses his nose to the soft skin under my ear, and inhales. “Maybe I could do you this time.”

I grab him and flip us so he’s the one pressed up against the wall. “I’m gay, and you’re hot. That doesn’t necessarily mean I want you.”

“Again,” he taunts. “But you do, don’t you?”

God I want to shut his mouth up. Instead of getting angry though, I meet him at his game. “I told you last time, Ez.” I drop my voice. “If you want me to fuck you, you’re going to have to beg.”

“No way in hell that will happen.”

I step back and shrug, acting like my cock isn’t rock hard and weeping at my stubbornness. “Fine by me.” I turn and walk away. “You know my terms.”

I leave the hallway to the sound of him cursing.

Five

EZRA

Fuck, what time is it?

The buzzing of my phone can’t be my alarm. I make sure to set that shit to loud.

The night comes back to me. I was on a high until Anton walked away and kept walking. The rest of the night is a blur of drinking and coming home alone.

My phone stops as I reach for it. I have a missed call from West and a text message.

It’s a link to an article titled Enemies to Bromance with the thumbnail photo of me and Anton onstage singing.

I groan at West’s message: Let me guess. It happened again.

I start to type out a reply, but my messenger app alerts me to an incoming video call. Only, it’s not him. Well, not only him. It’s the Collective group chat, and Tripp Mitchell, the goalie for Vegas, is the one calling.

When I answer, West is already on the call.

“Are you fucking Anton Hayes?” Tripp asks, his red hair a contrast against his pale skin and adorable freckles.

West bursts out laughing, and I want to wipe the smile off his damn face.

“No,” I grumble. I don’t know how out Hayes is. He said his team knows and his family. I told West because I trust him implicitly, but he already knew.

“Ollie’s asked him to join our group chat,” Tripp says, “but he’s still not entirely comfortable with being one hundred percent out to the public.”

“Wait. Does everyone in the league know Anton is gay?” As I ask this, Ollie Strömberg himself appears on my screen and answers.

“I knew that. I thought our whole group did.”

“So I’m the only one he didn’t tell? Why?”

Three derisive looks are sent my way like the answer is obvious. Hey, just because I’m proudly out and don’t care about being seen with men, that doesn’t mean I don’t understand others not being the same. I’m not that self-centered and tone-deaf.

“Why are we talking about Hayes?” Ollie asks.

“Ezra is sleeping with him and denying it,” Tripp says.

“You’re lucky you’re across the other side of the country,” I mumble.

Two more guys join the call. Caleb Sorensen and Oskar Voyjik. Soren has been retired for a few years now, before a lot of us were even playing, but he and Ollie were the first two out players in the league. They’re the entire reason us other guys have careers while living our truth.

“How’s my honorary nephew?” Ollie asks Soren.

“Running rampant.” Soren looks exhausted. “He takes after my husband, and I’ve already been up for three hours. What’s the emergency?”

“There’s no emergency,” I say. “There’s a stupid article saying Anton and I are suddenly besties because we sang karaoke together.”

“How did that happen?” Tripp asks.

“Diedrich and O’Ryan signed us up, and neither of us backs down from a challenge.”

“Tell me again how you’re not egotistical,” West says.

“There’s nothing going on.”

Instead of reacting to me, everyone says, “West?” Like they’re looking to him for confirmation.

“Ugh, I hate all of you,” I say. “I’m not.”

West coughs, poorly disguising the way he says, “Again.”

I have no best friend. “You want to play that game, West? Really? What if I tell everyone you’re in a serious relationship with a hottie mchottie professor, but you don’t want to tell anyone because you’re scared you’ll jinx it and it will end, and then the kids will hate you because they already love him?”

“Duuuude,” West says.

“You’re seeing someone?” Tripp asks him. “Really? Mr. In Love With Ezra?”

West rolls his eyes. “You’re one to talk about being in love with your best friend, Tripp. At least Ezra’s gay. I had a shot. Dex is straighter than a blue line.”

Tripp flips off the camera.

My awesome distraction has worked, even if it’s brought up some past issues with West and me.

Once upon a time, we were more than best friends. But that ended when he retired, and I thought there were no hard feelings. I was wrong.