Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys 1)

“The hat trick I got tonight says otherwise,” I say. “What score did Boston end up on again?”

“Fuck off.”

“That’s what I thought.” I give the driver my address, and he pulls into traffic. “You play the role of a petulant child so well.”

“And you play the peten-pretentious asshole. That’s you.” He hiccups. “Take me to the hotel.”

“I’m not going anywhere near your team. I have a spare room. You can sleep off the alcohol and leave in the morning.”

On the way home, I ask the driver to take us through the drive-thru to get Ezra food and water to help soak up the alcohol. He swears at me some more before tearing into his burger like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.

I’d say it’s the alcohol making Ezra act this way, but I’m pretty sure it’s just him. We don’t see each other often—thank fuck—but whenever we do, it reinforces why I choose to keep things private. Ezra makes it his mission to be as loud and obnoxious as possible, making sure everyone remembers he sleeps around with men, runs his mouth, and happens to have talent on the ice that is completely overshadowed by how annoying he is.

Every time he opens his mouth, I want to forcefully close it again. Zip his lips shut, or … the image of Ezra gagged and on his knees flashes through my mind, and I hate how much I like it.

If I was into that kind of thing, I’d almost consider taking Ezra up on his offer.

Almost.

Even gagged he’d still be … him. Entitled, eccentric, and egotistical. The three Es that make Ezra who he is.

We pull up to my condo in Rittenhouse Square, and I help Ezra from the car. It’s in an older building, right on the park, but the whole penthouse has been redesigned. I fell in love as soon as I saw the space.

Thankfully Ezra’s less sloppy, but I still try not to draw attention to us as we pass security. Chester, the concierge, congratulates me on a good game, and I thank him before stuffing Ezra into my private elevator.

“This is fancy,” he taunts.

“You can talk. I’ve seen photos of your place. Anyone would think you’re compensating for something.”

“Screw you. I have a massive dick.”

“Funny your thoughts went there when I was talking about your hockey skill.” The thing is, Ezra actually is a great player. He’s focused and talented, and whenever we go up against Boston, I know it’s going to be a good game—well, except for tonight. But Ezra’s behavior off the ice ruins every good thing he does on it.

He’s wasting time drawing attention to his personal life, and seeing him splashed all over trashy sites online always grates on my nerves.

A therapist would say that I’m projecting all my internalized homophobia at the out and proud poster boy for gay pride, but it’s not that.

It’s that he makes it a point to be so … out. I might be gay, but that’s not my whole identity. I don’t want to let it overshadow the other things that make me me. I’m a hockey player, son … I give back to the community. I use my privilege to help others.

I don’t want to come out to the world and be reduced to Anton Hayes, gay hockey player. And when I look at Ezra, that’s all I see. He’s perpetuating the image I want to avoid.

It’s infuriating. And a little intimidating.

The elevator opens into my foyer, which leads to the vast living area. The skyline is brightly lit through the wall of glass overlooking the park, and I direct Ezra to the couch while I go in hunt of more water and some painkillers. When I return, he’s slumped down in an armchair, jacket off, tie loose, and staring at the wood-paneled ceiling. He clearly hasn’t touched his light brown hair since his shower tonight because it’s all fluffy on top of his head.

“Here.” I hand over the glass and pills.

“Why are you being nice to me?” he asks as he reluctantly swallows the drugs.

“This isn’t nice. It’s responsible.”

His laugh is hollow. “Responsible. Right. Of course. What a fun quality to have.”

“Better than being all fun and no substance.” I should have dumped him outside his hotel, but I had no guarantees he’d make his way inside, and the last thing I want is for someone to see me going into his hotel room. Wherever he goes, gossip follows, and it’d be my luck that someone would see us together and assume we were sleeping together.

I eye Ezra, from his unfortunately gorgeous face half hidden behind that messy beard to his long, muscled legs. It’s easy to see why he gets so much dick. I’m guessing there’s not much conversation during his hookups because the moment he opens his mouth, it’s an instant boner killer.