"What else? That's not enough?"
"That's not what's got you so worked up. Iknowyou."His voice is gentle. Lou and I have been best friends since we were little kids playing shinny on frozen ponds. Heknewme before Nick and my mom died. Before my dad started drinking andeverything changed. So he's seen me spiral plenty of times. He can handle it.
I sigh."I'm fine. Just tired. Got a lot on my mind with losing Freeman and Coulson, and the new guys coming in."
"Mhmm." He doesn't push, though I can tell he wants to.
"What do you think about the Pirelli thing?"
My stomach clenches."He's talented."
"Yeah, but that's not what I mean. You think the guys will give him shit about being bi?"
I grip the phone tighter."I hope not. We've got good guys in our room. I think most of them are open-minded. And anyone who has a problem with itknowsbetter than to say anything. Or at least they should."My tone is sharp.
"True. What about the shit that went down with Belov?"
"That's..." I sigh. "I don't know. It's hard to know what's true."
"IheardBelov was a real prick to him."Lou's voice darkens."Stupid, old-school mentality about him being bi, or whatever. Making stupid comments about Pirelli checking them out in the showers and having HIV or some fucked up bullshit. It's fuckin' ridiculous in this day and age."
"Yeah."My voice is rough. I clear my throat."As long as he shows up and plays hard, I'll make sure the team falls in line, but I don't think we have anyone who will be an asshole about it. If Pirelli can do what Travis Shaw thinks he can, he'll be a big help. And we fucking need that. We don't have a lot of time to make ownership happy."
"Yeah. We'll make it happen, though. Just gotta believe, Ry. We got this."Lou's an eternal optimist.
"I fucking hope so."
After hanging up with Lou, I head to my bedroom. My laptop sits waiting, for me like some kind of silent challenge.
My fingers hover over the keyboard before I type his name.What am I even doing?I don't Google-stalk my teammates. I don't obsess. But there's something about him... something different.
The first articles are straightforward:"First Openly Bisexual Player Drafted to NHL."There's a photo of him at eighteen, all golden curls and that infectious grin. Draft day. His parents are beaming beside him—a picture of pure potential.
I scroll down on the page. Charity work. LGBTQ youth support. Interviews where he speaks about representation with an honest intelligence that makes me weirdlyuncomfortable. Not because of what he's saying. But because I recognize something in him. Like heknowswhat itfeelslike to be an outsider.
Sounds familiar.
The media narrative shifts late in his first year."Jaguars' Pirelli Spotted at Club Before Big Game."Thereare photos of him stumbling out of various South Beach nightclubs at dawn, with rosy cheeks and messy hair, his clothes rumpled."Jamie Pirelli Linked to Reality Star." My chest tightens.
I want to stop scrolling, but I can't help myself. Stories and tweets about missed practices and public fights with teammates. The golden boy who went off the rails, acting out all over Miami's club scene.
"Party Boy Pirelli's Wild Night Out"is the headline on one gossip site, and my mouth goes dry as the image fills my screen.
Jamie's sandwiched between a man and a woman as they stumble out of some club in South Beach. The woman's dress is microscopic, her tanned skin and curves spilling out everywhere. The guy is all sharp angles and designer jeans. But Jamie... I swallow hard. His shirt hangs open, revealing perfectly carved abs, shiny with sweat. His golden curls are wild, like someone's been running their fingers through them. His face is flushed, his blue eyes glazed, and that mouth is curved into a lazy, satisfied smile that sends a rush of heat straight to my cock. Jealousy burns acid-hot in my throat.
He looks freshly fucked. It makes me goddamn crazy.
"Fuck,"I growl, slamming the laptop closed.
My room is suddenly too hot. Too small. My shorts are uncomfortably tight, and I'm hard as steel just from a fucking photo.
This is a problem. I've spent thirteen years in the NHL keeping this part of myself locked down tight. No risks. No exposure. Nothing thatcouldcrack the perfect facade of Captain Rylan Collings.
I force myself out of bed and stomp into the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The guy in the mirror looks haunted: shadows under his eyes, his jaw clenched.
I strip and step into the shower, cranking the water as cold as it'll go. The icy spray hits my skin like needles, but it does nothing to calm the heat coursing through my veins. My cock is still half-hard, the traitorous fucker.
I tryto think about plays, about defensive coverage, about anything except Jamie Pirelli, but that stupid image won't leave my mind. Those blue eyes. That mouth. He's the picture of a man whoknowsexactly what he wants… and exactly how togetit.
