Me: You are so predictable.
Ezra: Says the guy whose first reaction was to insult me. What a surprise.
I close out of my messages because he’s right, but I don’t want to admit that. Insulting Ezra is easier than complimenting him, and I catch myself going to do that alarmingly frequently.
Instead, I do a search for last-minute reservations and book a room in the hotel two down from us for tonight. No matter how the game turns out, I’ll be making use of that bed.
Preferably all night.
Which isn’t something we’ve done before, but it’s been a while since I had a good sex marathon, and if anyone is going to keep up with me, it’s Ezra.
The thing is, I know he’s going to ask to top me again, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. It’s not like I don’t bottom when I’m in the mood, but when it comes to Ezra, the thought of giving up control to him makes me hesitate. Not because I don’t want to give it to him … but I’m scared of what will happen when I do. I’m barely holding him at arm’s length as it is.
And I have no doubts he’s going to want control one of these days, no matter which position he’s in. I’ve got Ezra playing by my rules for now, but that dynamic won’t work forever.
Especially because I sort of like it when he pushes back. That photo in bed with Kosik, his teasing about Tripp. It both makes me angry and turns me on.
Ezra knows who he is.
I thought I did too, but I’m starting to doubt.
When we make it to the arena that afternoon, we head out for a practice skate, then change into our suits early.
Coach has organized for some fans to come through for a meet and greet before the game, which is one of my favorite ways to get motivated and boost my high before I hit the ice.
There are some superfans out there, and being so far from home, getting to meet people who look up to you, is a great feeling.
The fans are waiting behind a sectioned-off area as we approach, and I beeline straight for the two people wearing my Philly jersey. I’m assuming it’s a dad and son who would probably look similar if the son wasn’t wearing a face full of makeup. He could only be … twelve? It’s hard to tell, but they both beam as soon as they spot me.
“Anton Hayes,” the dad says. “This is so exciting.”
“For both of us, trust me.” I pull out my Sharpie. “Want me to sign that jersey?”
“Hell yeah.” He immediately turns so I can sign the spot at the back above his left shoulder blade.
“You’re the best player,” the kid says. “I can’t believe Philly traded you.”
“Best player?” Ezra says, sliding up beside me. He’s in a snakeskin-print suit that should look ridiculous. It really should. But damn if I don’t want to devour him in it. “You must be talking about me.”
The kid goes red. “E-Ez-Ezra …”
“Palaszczuk, nice to meet you. Not a fan of your fashion sense,” he says, pointing to the jersey. “But your contouring is to die for.”
“Thanks. I taught myself from YouTube.”
“Incredible.” He uncaps his Sharpie. “That’s a nasty number on your back, but why don’t we balance things out. This doofus”—he nods to me—“can sign one side, and I’ll sign the other.”
“Yeah? Can you?” He hurries to turn around, and I watch for a second as Ezra leans in and signs the jersey.
“You’ll be the only person ever to have a Philly jersey signed by Ezra Palaszczuk,” I point out. “He’s normally allergic to anything that isn’t Boston.”
Ezra winks at the kid. “Some people are worth it.”
The smile he gets in return is enormous, and I’m hit with that moment again, just like when I saw Ezra with the teen at the pet adoption, that despite everything, all the shortcomings I’m convinced he has, people respect him. Kids look up to him. Because he doesn’t hide who he is. It unsettles me. Because it almost makes me want to look up to him as well.
His dad shifts, catching my attention. “Ah, sorry about this. You’re our favorite player, but, ah, Todd’s always looked up to Ezra, and some of the other, umm … I’m not sure the right way to say it. But my son’s gay, and seeing others like him play the game, it’s one of the reasons we love hockey so much. It helped us bond.”
I turn back to where Ezra and Todd are laughing over something I missed, and an uncomfortable truth starts to kick in. My life is hockey, my image is hockey, and I’m damn good at it.
But there are a lot of other players out there, ones who are as good, if not better, and I have teams of people waiting to fill my skates.