Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys 1)

The impossible has happened. I like Ezra as a person.

And I’m beginning to think if we become actual friends, I’m going to end up liking him a whole lot more than that. I’m scared I already do.

I watch as he takes off his gloves and shoves them under his arm, then pulls his helmet off. I do the same. I remind myself that being friendly in public with Ezra isn’t going to make me fall for him unless I let it.

So I won’t let it.

I reach over and ruffle his sweaty hair. “It wasn’t broken ankles, but we sure showed Grant.”

“I know, it was like—” Ezra makes a gagging noise. “—teamwork.”

“You meeting up with him after this?”

“Yep. Queer collective rules.”

Sometimes I wonder if Ezra takes this queer collective more seriously than the others, but then I think back on the bond he has with Tripp, and it makes me curious. I have friends in the league, and I love them, but there’s something about shared experiences that can’t be beat. One day, when I retire, will I regret not getting to know these guys better?

I’m already regretting not getting to know Ezra sooner.

“Maybe I could come?” The words leave me before I give myself time to think them through.

Ezra stops in his tracks. We’re midway between the locker room with the waiting press and the fans hanging over the railings, so I’m confident neither will overhear.

He looks as surprised as I feel, but thankfully, he doesn’t question me. “I dunno, I sort of feel like you’d be cramping my style. Foster Grant is hot.”

“And taken,” I point out.

“Maybe his boyfriend is the sharing kind.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

Ezra blinks at me innocently, and it makes me equal parts amused and stabby. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I grab the collar of his jersey and tug him to me, thankful that our conversation has made us fall behind the others. “You’re trying to get me jealous.”

“You look so sexy when you’re trying not to deck someone.”

“Why do I always need to remind you who you belong to?”

His eyes fly up to meet mine and fuck. Umm. I’m still trying to think of how to make those words go away without sounding like a complete dick and making him feel bad again, when he starts to smile.

“I think you like it,” he points out. And of course, Ezra is able to see right through me. “Do you like seeing me flirt with other guys? Knowing that they can’t have what you can?”

Somehow, I hold back from groaning. “Not the place to be having this conversation.” I loosen my hold on his jersey and can’t help subtly brushing my fingers along his neck as I release him. He fights back a shiver that makes me grin. “But I give you full permission to flirt with whoever you want. We both know whose dick you’re going to finish the night on.”

I really want to kiss him to prove my point, but this isn’t the place to do it. So instead, we both head inside the locker room to cool down and shower. Even with a room full of men, I can feel Ezra’s presence like it’s the only one that matters. My body is so in tune with where he is at all times that it makes it hard not to chub up as I’m washing myself.

Once we’re finished and getting dressed, I glance over at Ezra pulling on a suit with what looks like a leaf print. He catches me watching him, and I hurry to turn my attention back to my cubby.

“You serious about coming to meet Foster with me?”

“Yeah.” I swipe my tongue over my bottom lip. “Think he’ll care?”

“Nah, he’s pretty laid-back.”

Ezra is right. When we walk into the hotel bar where the rest of the Montreal team is mourning their loss, the first words out of Grant’s mouth are “Fuck you very much, Palaszczuk.”

His team behind him laughs, but then he breaks away from them and leads us to a cocktail table with stools.

“How’s the shoulder, sweetheart?” Ezra asks.

“You two really couldn’t go easy on a rookie like me?”

“Rookie?” I take the stool beside him. “Yeah, you can’t play that card in your third year, and you really can’t play it when you’ve been offered another three years on your contract and the media can’t shut up about you.”

“To be fair, it’s Canada,” Ezra points out. “They don’t have much else to talk about up there.”

“True. Tell me, do they pay you guys in real money or just, like, Timbits?”

“Your jokes would be so much funnier if I was actually Canadian,” Grant says.

“You’ve been there over two years,” I point out. “You’re basically one of them now.”

“Shut up and buy me a drink. I have sorrows to drown.”

Despite his words, he doesn’t look all that upset. Disappointed, sure.