He rubs his groin and licks his lips. “I can change that. Give me a second.”
I snort. “Where are we headed, anyway?”
He pulls away from the curb, and I enjoy the view of his strong hands on the steering wheel. I wonder if he knows I have a fetish for his hands?
“Some Michelin-rated place Forsberg likes. I’m sure it’ll be awesome. And they won’t let us pay, so you kind ofhaveto order the most expensive thing on the menu. That’s what these chuckleheads do.”
“Good to know.”
The team is taking us out for dinner for Wes’s birthday. They usually do the birthday thing on the road, but this time the whole team took an evening away from their families just so I could go, too.
When Wes pulls up in front of the restaurant, a uniformed valet takes the keys and calls him “sir”.
Indeed, when we walk inside I see it’s easily one of the swankiest places I’ve been in Toronto. The hostess walks us through an elegant bar and down a set of stairs. We’re in an honest-to-god wine cellar, with row upon row of triangular “shelves” built across the stone-clad walls to hold wine bottles. In the center of the cellar there’s a glassed-in private room with a table set for two dozen men I don’t really know. And most of them are already there, sipping the first cocktail of the evening.
“Heyyy!” several voices shout at once as we approach. It occurs to me that whoever picked this spot is a (wealthy) genius. A hockey team meal can be pretty loud. So why not hold it in a sound-proof chamber in the nicest basement in Toronto?
I’m in the lead, so I enter the room first, but then pause to let Wes catch up. He’s right behind me, his hand on myshoulder blade. “Evening, ladies,” he says to the room. “Where do you want us?”
“Put ’er there!” Blake yells, pointing at two seats together in the middle of the long table. “Let the games begin.”
We sit down, and a waiter in a suit that’s nicer than any of mine sweeps in to take our drink orders. I consider ordering something fruity just to fuck with people, but then I’d actually have to drink it. So I order a Griffon Ale instead.
“I’ll have a Manhattan. Make it on the dry side. No fruit.”
“Really?” Wes never orders a mixed drink.
My fiancé shrugs. “It’s my dad’s drink, and when I walk into a place like this, I always think of him.” Wes leans back in his chair and sniffs the air. “You smell that? Old leather and money.”
Eriksson chuckles. “Have I met your father?”
“Nope.” Wes shakes out his napkin. “And you never will. I only heard from him three or four times a yearbeforemy Big Gay Interview. Now he’s out of my hair for good.”
There’s a slightly shocked silence.
“And your mom?” Blake asks.
“She wouldn’t dare step out of line. Her loss.” He claps his hands together. “What’s good here?”
We order vast quantities of rich food. I choose a steak, along with more than half the table. Blake orders the rack of lamb, and I can’t help but be surprised. “You know that’s a sheep, right?”
He looks at me like I have an IQ of fifty. “Dude. The best defense is a great offense.”
Right.
A slew of appetizers arrive. Someone ordered three of everything for the table. We talk about how the playoffs are shaping up while devouring a mountain of shrimp cocktail, anocean’s worth of oysters on the half shell and a whole lot of tuna tartare.
It’s good living. It really is.
WES
The alcohol has just begun to do its work on me when Hewitt gets up and tosses his napkin on his chair. “Excuse me for a moment, boys.” He leaves the room. The men’s must be upstairs. They can’t possibly have one down here.
I forget he’s gone until he returns a few minutes later. And I do a giant double-take.
He’s wearingmyshirt—the bright green checked one that I bought in Vancouver.
“That’s…where’d you get that?” I sputter. I actually look down at my chest just to double-check that I’ve still got mine.
