Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys 1)

“Love you too, brother.”

A low growl comes through the phone.

“Ah. Jasper’s there, I’m guessing?” I yell, “I mean in a platonic way, dude! You might find Westly’s boyish good looks attractive, but I need my men to be rugged, manly men who don’t faint at the sight of blood.”

“Okay, on that note, I’m going to go,” West says. “I just called to wish you good luck and to apologize for not being able to be there.”

“It sucks you’ll miss out on this year’s queer collective meetup. You’re going to miss Anton’s initiation.”

“I know. I wish I could be there, but—”

“You have a billion kids. I get it.”

West’s gaze flicks off-screen, and when his bright green eyes meet mine again, they hold something like regret, but I know for a fact Westly doesn’t regret retiring to be with his family.

“This was our dream,” West says solemnly. “I might not have made it, but you will. Drown out everything around you, and do what you do best.”

The need to lighten the mood hits like it always does. “I don’t think I can have sex on the ice. That won’t win us the game. I should focus on what I do second best.”

“I can’t even with you …”

“Sure you can because I’m me, and you’re you.”

West smiles. “Go win this thing.”

“No pressure.”

“Hey, you’ve gotten further than any other year you’ve played. Even if Tripp doesn’t let a single puck past him tonight and you walk away empty-handed, you’ve played in a Stanley Cup final. You’ve worked hard for this.”

I have. This is what I’ve been working for since my dad put me in my first pair of skates before I could even walk properly. He called me last week, but I didn’t answer it because nothing’s changed. Even after swearing at him, the only times he has made contact were to tell me what I’ve done wrong on the ice. I’ve let his calls go to voicemail ever since.

His latest was to tell me he’ll be here tonight. It almost makes me want to throw the game because I know, without fail, if we win tonight, he’ll want his photo op.

I’ll do it for him to keep family drama out of the press, but that’s all the time I have for him.

He might have been in the NHL for five years, but he wasn’t able to make a big name for himself. Still, whenever I succeed, he’ll ride those coattails as much as he can. He’s the reason I’m so good at what I do. He’s the reason I am where I am today if you ask him.

If anything, the pressure he used to put on me as a child could’ve crippled any desire I had to play in the NHL. It’s lucky I love the game more than I hate him.

Both of my parents love to brag about their NHL-playing son, but neither of them wants to be an active part of my life. I have no delusion that winning tonight will change any of that.

And where I used to despise it, in the last couple of months I have realized that I’m worth more than that. People always make a big deal about not turning your back on family. You respect your elders, and cutting people out of your life is wrong, but putting up with toxic relationships because you share DNA with someone is way too stressful, and I don’t know why people do it. I can’t believe I did it for so long.

I’m worthy of healthy relationships. It is possible to love me.

Just ask Anton and his family.

Anton’s parents are nothing like mine. They drove up to North Carolina when we played there. They seemed so loving and caring even if they had reservations about Anton and me being out. And when they said, “We don’t want either of you to be hurt,” I almost damn near cried because no one has ever cared about me before.

Maybe Westly has, but not … not like that. In one meeting, I felt closer to Anton’s parents than I ever have my own.

Anton comes back from stretching as Coach walks in to give us his pep talk before telling us to suit up.

My leg bounces while Coach tells us to go out there and play the game of our lives.

Anton places his hand on my thigh and squeezes, trying to reassure me and calm my nerves. “We’ve got this,” he says quietly so he doesn’t interrupt Coach.

I really hope so.

It’s just another game.

One more win. That’s all we need.

It’s not the end of the world if we walk away empty-handed.

Only, no matter how many times I tell myself that, my stupid inner voice reminds me that this isn’t just one more game.

It’s the fucking Stanley Cup.

Heading into the third period, the score is two apiece. Vegas scored early in the first, and we followed it up with a goal of our own. Then when we scored in the second, they turned around and evened it up. It’s like neither team is willing to let the other get away with holding a lead.