“But don’t let that stop you from getting one for yourself,” he says, then closes the bathroom door.
I start to look through the menu. It’s all basic room service options, so I settle on a burger as well to make things easy. I’m about to pick up the phone to place the order, when I’m distracted by Gavin’s voice on the other side of the door.
He sounds, for lack of a better word, friendly. I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but I can’t help but be curious.
“Sorry I haven’t called yet,” Gavin says. “I’ve been looking for some privacy but there isn’t a good place right now with all the reporters.” He pauses. “I’m alright.” He laughs. “Believe it or not, I was the only one to not throw a punch… I know. Who’d have thought, right?” His laugh gets even lighter. It’s obvious whoever he’s talking to is someone he can relax with.
My lips turn down. The tone of his conversation feels like it’s reserved for someone like a girlfriend. Maybe he’s not as lonely as I thought. That should make me happy, and in a way it does. I don’t want him to be by himself. But something inside me—a selfish part that should know better than to be uselessly pining over a straight guy—is gutted.
I press the heels of my hands into my temples. This is stupid. I don’t need to be developing a crush on this man. This man who, if it wasn’t for this Olympic team situation, I’d happily be trying to outplay for the rest of the season and into the playoffs. We wouldbe rivals again, not temporary teammates slash co-captains. And we definitely wouldn’t be roommates.
That’s what this stupid developing crush is about. We’re sharing space and that’s weird for me. It’s making me confused. He’s still my rival, even if we have to work together for the next few weeks. But come the end of February, when we’re flying home from Milan with gold medals around our necks, this brief blip of affection I’m feeling for the league’s penalty king will be just that. A blip.
“Connor?” I hear him say. I almost answer him but then I notice he’s still in the bathroom. My cheeks flush when I realize he’s talking about me. I strain my ears.
“He’s alright… nice, actually. Nothing like his asshole father.”
Is that a smile I hear in his voice?Don’t be stupid, Connor. He’s not smiling. He’s sitting on a toilet hiding from you on his phone, hoping for some privacy that you’re not giving him.
I shake my head clear, then pick up the internal phone, pressing the button for room service. When they pick up, I place our order.
With that done, I go back to trying to focus on ESPN instead of listening in on Gavin’s conversation. No such luck.
“Did you find out if you could come to Milan?”
I turn my head to look at the door. Who the fuck is he talking to?
“I’d like it if you did. I think it would be cool.”
I strain my eyes and my ears, willing some sort of latent superpower out of me that never comes.
“You’re not an embarrassment. But I understand if you can’t make it.”
Embarrassment? What the fuck? None of this makes any sense, and it’s only leaving me with more questions.
“I know you never want money from me, but let me buy you this… Alright. Tell me you’ll at least think about it.”
Okay. So he hassomeonein his life. Someone he wants to come cheer us on at the Olympics. I’ve literally never heard of anyone inhis life. No one. I’ve looked. Gavin might be the one thing you can’t use Google for. I frown again. Fine, maybe I’ve been harboring a crush on the king of penalty minutes for longer than we’ve been sharing this hotel room. Sue me.
“Sorry about that,” Gavin says, this time to me as he exits the bathroom. He kicks his gym shoes off, then sits on his bed with his back against the headboard. “Did you place an order?”
I look at him and nod my head as I say, “Yes. Should be up soon.”
“Thanks,” he says with a nod as he crosses his ankles and lifts his arms to place them behind his head. The motion lifts his shirt up slightly, showing me a few inches of his stomach along with a treasure trail of dark hair I want to follow to its prize.
He raises an eyebrow at me. “Did you need something, Connor?”
Fuck. My chest and cheeks heat. He totally caught me staring. And now he’s looking at me like he knows I like what I see. Cocky prick.
Thankfully, I’m saved by a knock on the door. I jump off my bed and rush to open it and let the valet bring in the food.
Gavin
It’s cute how easy it is to fluster Connor. He’s an absolute mess as he rushes to the door. I wonder if that blush of his is all over or does it only rise to his cheeks? I bet it’s all over. I bet his smooth chest is flushed and warm. If he wasn’t my teammate, I’d be tempted to find out how pink and flustered he gets when he’s about to come. If this was the offseason, and I met him somewhere that had nothing to do with hockey and had no clue who either of us was, I’d do everything I could to find out.
I doubt it would even be that hard. Like I said, he’s always given me a station on my gaydar. I wonder if it’s his choice or his father’s choice that he hides that. Probably his father’s. But then again, it could be his choice as well. I mean, I’m one to talk. I’m notexactly open about being gay, either. But my approach to the matter is less about hiding it and more about letting people make their own assumptions about me and not correcting them. That way, I can keep the fact that I’m gay just out of sight. I don’t want that level of attention anyway. It’s nobody’s business unless I make it their business. Which is how I treat everyone else. If Connor wants to make it my business and confirm what I’m pretty sure is true, he can. But I’m not going to press. Besides, it’s not like entertaining my curiosity about how flushed his skin gets when he’s being fucked into a mattress is going to help get our team ready for the Olympics. Bringing that level of emotion into my playing is bound to make shit worse once it’s time to return to the regular season. I get attached to my teammates, even ones I barely tolerate, and take the role of team protector, some say, too seriously as it is anyway. Adding any sexual feelings to that dynamic is just going to end in disaster.
But damn it if it’s not tempting. The idea of getting a good boy to do bad things—that bad thing being me—is delicious.
