“Good luck,” he says to me.
“Thanks. I’m going to need it.”
THREE
Gavin
This is weird. No. This is infuriating.
Why does he have to be such a nice guy? He’d be so much easier to hate if he was an asshole like his father. And he’d definitely be less attractive as well. If we were strangers, in a place where no one knew who either of us was, I’d definitely make a move on him. He’s exactly what gets my gears running. Athletic, strong, and fit. Plus, there’s that competitive edge to him that would make him fun to conquer in the bedroom. But there’s also something else about him. Something below the surface, hiding behind that golden boy exterior. A vulnerability that I rarely see in the men I share the ice with. For some, they might see that as weakness. But for a guy like me, it pulls at a more primal side. The side that says,keep him from breaking. Which is its own mind fuck. Because up until we arrived at camp, breaking Connor Kennedy was part of my job description. That directive, however, no longer stands now that we’re teammates. It’s officially my job to keep him safe on the ice so he can make plays and score goals while I run over anyone who tries to fuck with him.
Wait. Is he whistling?
He sure as shit is. Now that the water’s been shut off in our hotel room’s shower the unmistakable sound of him whistling a tune is no longer drowned out. There’s probably woodland creatures in there with him, knotting a towel around his waist.
I run my hands through my hair and tug. We’ve been in this room for fifteen minutes and it’s already bordering on torture.
Scratch that. It is actual torture. His whistling has stopped, and the bathroom door swings open, revealing a near naked Connor Kennedy emerging from the steam. Fuck me. He’s twice as hot wearing nothing but a towel.
I mean, I always knew he was good looking. Everyone knows he’s good looking with his classic all-American boy golden hair and bright blue eyes. But standing here in only a low-slung towel, it’s like one of those damn Abercrombie & Fitch models from my sexual awakening has come to life in the flesh.
No. Not going there. I’ve managed to keep the fact that I’m gay a secret from the league for years; I’m certainly not going to let my cover be blown by Connor Kennedy and his stupid washboard abs.
I do smile, though.
“Like what you see?” Connor asks while blotting his hair with a towel.
“I like that I see I have two more abs than you do.” I smirk.
“Bullshit,” he says, and his eyes twinkle with challenge.
I rise from the edge of my bed and pull my shirt off, suddenly glad that like him, I chose to wait until we returned to the hotel and got settled into our rooms to shower. His eyebrows lift when he sees I wasn’t kidding. While his six-pack was impressive, mine is an eight and I have a much deeper V cut leading into my shorts. Plus, while he does have chest and shoulder definition, it’s nothing compared to mine. Clearly he didn’t spend his childhood and now his off season hauling and chopping wood for fuel for his fireplace.I guess there probably isn’t much need for that in Chicago. It’s not like he has a full forest of trees in his backyard.
I throw his words back at him. “Like what you see?”
He rolls his eyes at me. “Sorry to disappoint you, Gavin. I’m not some puck bunny who’s into that sort of thing.”
Interesting. I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not like Connor, or anyone in the NHL for that matter is out, but my gaydar is generally pretty in tune and he’s always given me a station. Not that it matters. Sure, as I’ve established, he’s absolutely my type. Being smaller than me, he’s the perfect size for me to manhandle, and top the hell out of, without being a total twink. He’s masculine, and clearly strong—not as strong as me, of course—and I have always wanted to know what skater thighs feel like squeezing my sides while I drive my dick into their owner. But if he’s not gay, then there’s no point in continuing to dive down this particular fantasy rabbit hole. Besides, even if he is gay, us hooking up would be a massive mistake. For a league full of men, the NHL is worse about gossip than a women’s sewing circle.
I ball up my shirt, toss it into my duffle bag, then grab a clean pair of briefs.
“Are you planning on unpacking?” Connor asks.
“I doubt it.” I shrug. Why would I? We’re hockey players. We live out of our bags throughout the entire season while we travel around. Even when the season is over I never unpack as I go straight back to Alaska to spend the summer with my father.
Connor sighs and grabs my garment bag, which contains my league-mandated suits for showing up to games. The rule has been carried over to the Olympics as well. “You can at least hang these up,” he says and proceeds to, in fact, hang them up.
See. There’s my gaydar pinging again. I’d have hung them up eventually. Maybe. But there is something charming about him doing it for me.
He shakes his head at me and points to the bathroom. “Aren’t you going to take a shower?”
“Why?” I grin at him. “Are you taking me out to dinner?”
“No.” He laughs. “It’s just, can’t you smell yourself? You stink like a hockey bag.”
“You do know you didn’t smell like roses after practice either, right?”
“Yes. I’m aware. Why do you think I got in the shower?”
