Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys 1)

I have to laugh. “Are you calling me a butt pirate? Offensive much?”

“Fuck off.”

“Nah. You owe me. I can’t believe you sold me out to Hayes.”

“If I let you sleep in my bed, will you shut up about it?”

“Yes.”

He grumbles under his breath. “Fine. Just go to sleep already.”

“I have to do one thing first.”

I attach the pic and send it to Anton with the caption: I really don’t have any complaints about the outcome of this prank. Hope having your big, comfy, nice-smelling bed to yourself was worth it.

The next morning when we emerge in the lobby, I don’t have to make eye contact with Anton to know he’s glaring at me.

It makes me insanely happy to be the focus of his attention.

“Anyone else get the best sleep ever?” I ask.

“Someone got laid,” Diedrich taunts.

I open my mouth to draw this out, but Kosik beats me and ruins my fun.

“No, he did not.”

“You liked me spooning you all night, big guy. Don’t lie.” I blow him a kiss.

“Who wants a new roommate on the road?” Kosik asks.

“Uh, why were you two … spooning?” Larsen asks.

“Yeah, Hayes? Why did I spend the night curled up next to Kosik?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The fucker smirks, and I’m so pissed Kosik couldn’t let me pretend we had sex. Just for long enough to make Anton crazy.

One thing’s for sure: payback is going to be bigger and better.

And it starts as soon as we get on the bus to the airport.

He sits down front, and I’m toward the back with Larsen.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

Anton: Book a hotel room on the Strip somewhere for tonight.

Tempting, but I’m not going to bite.

Me: Sorry, can’t. I’m catching up with Tripp. You know, bros before hoes.

Anton: Tripp Mitchell? As in the goalie for Vegas? Gay Tripp Mitchell?

Me: The one and only. Want to mess with my bed again tonight so I have an excuse to stay at his place?

Anton: The only excuse you need to fuck anyone else is that you’re done with me, so go for it. Just know your actions have consequences.

Damn him.

Me: Tripp isn’t my type. He’s too nice. But I did promise I’d catch up with him. If you were part of the queer collective with us, you’d be bound by law to do the same.

Anton: Law? Really?

Me: Yep. Another law is you have to have fucked at least one of the others in the group. I’m your ticket in.

Anton: And who exactly did Strömberg and Sorensen fuck considering they were in relationships with other people when they came out?

Me: It’s a new rule. It was unanimously decided that I would take one for the team and hook up with you. You’re welcome.

Anton: You’re so full of shit.

Me: We both know I’m full of cum.

Anton: You will be.

Me: Promise?

Anton: Tomorrow. After the game. We’ll find a way.

As soon as we’re checked into the hotel and I warn Kosik not to “lose” his room key again, I order an Uber to meet Tripp at the D on Fremont St.

It’s where we always go whenever part or all of the NHL queer collective is in town for obvious reasons—the name alone.

I walk into our favorite steak house and find Tripp already there with, unsurprisingly, Dex Mitchale. They’re sitting on one side of a high-walled booth, so I slide in opposite them.

“You brought an outsider?” I pretend to be outraged.

“It’s only Dex.”

“What if I want to talk about a guy I hooked up with who has a weird-shaped dick?”

As the words fall from my mouth, the waiter appears. “Uh, umm … I’ll give you a few minutes.”

Tripp smiles. “You’re going to scar the waitstaff for life.”

“Please, like he doesn’t like the D,” I mutter.

“Really?” Dex asks. “How can you tell?” Dex leans over Tripp to try to see the waiter’s retreating back. “Tripp, you should ask for his number.”

“Yeah, Tripp,” I taunt. “Ask for his number.”

“I’m good. Thanks.” Tripp buries his head in the menu.

Then Dex turns to me. “So, guy with a weird dick. Was the tip cut at the end to make it look like a snake tongue?”

I … have no words.

“I’m proving I can be one of you guys. Talk all the dicks you want. I own one. I’m not scared.”

Tripp holds up his hand. “Please don’t.”

“All good. I’ll need the Mitchell brothers to help me out with something later anyway,” I say.

Tripp kicks me under the table because he hates, hates, hates it when he and Dex are referred to as the Mitchell brothers. Same last name, spelled differently.

And they couldn’t look more opposite.

Dex is tall and lanky with dark blond hair. He’s hot as fuck but dumb as bricks, and that’s okay, because he’s a loveable bastard. Not a bad hockey player either. Tripp is shorter and wider, with the reddest hair you’ll ever see. His skin is flawless and covered in adorable freckles.