I’m straight. I’ve always been straight. I like—no,love—Ilovewomen. I have a long, documented history of loving women. I donotdream about my best friend getting railed by his boyfriend. And Idefinitelydon’t wake up from it ready to punch a hole through the mattress with my cock.
It’s just stress. That’s all. It’s been a while since I’ve been with anyone, which is not like me. I’ve been preoccupied. Rylan, who's been like my brother for more than twenty-five years, unexpectedly coming out of the closet when I had no idea he was even gay was a shock, to put it mildly. Then, immediately gettingused to seeing him with a boyfriend, who’s also our teammate, has been...overwhelming.
Plus, our whole team is under pressure to improve our record. We have until the trade deadline in a couple of months to satisfy our ownership group that we’re making progress, otherwise they’ve told our GM, Carson Wells, they’ll break us up and start a full rebuild. And none of us wants that.
My brain is probably trying to process all the change and stress I’ve been dealing with. It’s just crossed wires. A glitch. No big deal.
I stifle a groan, swing my legs out of bed, and get to my feet. I’m determined to ignore my throbbing cock—no easy feat, since I’m hard enough to pound nails.
“Pull your shit together, Tremblay,” I mutter. I’m talking to myself, but when he hears my voice, my bearded dragon, Cookie, rustles around in his terrarium. He cocks his head to the side and gives me a judgy look. “Ugh, I know, dude. It was weird. You don’t need to make me feel worse.”
Cookie doesn’t say anything, just blinks at me as I pass him on the way to the bathroom.
But even as I sass my trusty reptile buddy, Rylan’s moans echo in my ears like the sound is tattooed onto my brain, and my dick twitches hopefully.
A freezing cold shower and about a gallon of coffee should get me back on track. Although I may never be able to look my best friend or his boyfriend in the eye again.
I pull my SUV into the players’ lot at the Sasquatch’s practice rink with Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” blasting through the speakers at a volume that’s probably illegal in some places.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, fidgety as a nun in a whorehouse. I need the noise. I need James Hetfield growling at me and the bass thumping against my chest because if it stops, my brain is going to cycle right back to that dream. To the image of sweat on skin. Of rippling muscles and my best friend’s groans of ecstasy. To the smirk on Jamie’s face.
I shiver before killing the engine, and the silence that rushes into the car is deafening.
My body is vibrating like I’ve downed six espressos, but all I’ve had is a green smoothie that tasted like dirt and confusion. I need a distraction, badly. I need to be Louis Tremblay: two-time Stanley Cup champ, two-time Vezina Trophy winner, and the guy who keeps the locker room from imploding when the pressure gets to be too much.
I grab my bag and head inside. I’m way early—it’s barely 8:00 a.m., and practice doesn’t start until ten, but after that damn dream, there was no way I was going to sit home. The hallways are quiet as the unique scent of the rink hits my nose: Zamboni exhaust, rubber mats, and stale coffee. Usually, I love the feeling of being in the building almost alone; it’s peaceful. But today, it’s just a bunch of empty space for my thoughts to run amok.
I turn the corner and freeze. Through the open door of the weight room, the rhythmicclank-hiss-clanksound of the squat rack reaches me.
I peek inside, then bite my lip to stop myself from swearing out loud. It’s Tanner Sinclair, our number two goaltender, acquired as part of the deal that brought Jamie Pirelli here from the Florida Jaguars. And my backup.Of course.
Sinclair’s a rookie. He played with Florida’s farm team for a couple of seasons, and he’s good. Like, exceptionally good. I’vebeen trying to get to know him, but he tends to keep to himself, and with everything going on in my head lately, I’ve been slacking on my gentle hazing rituals for the rookies. Time for that to change.
Tanner’s alone, headphones on, his face set in that grim mask of concentration he wears like a second skin. He’s doing squats, his form robotic and perfect, sweat darkening the back of his gray Sasquatch workout tee. He’s twenty-three and built like a brick shithouse, but he acts like he’s forty-six and doing his taxes.
He’s also the guy gunning for my job while my almost-thirty-five-year-old body decides whether it’s going to play nice for a few more years.
Normally, seeing him here so early would grate on my nerves. No one likes a keener. Not to mention that he’s a constant reminder that while I’m icing my aging joints, battling all the aches and pains accumulated over more than a decade of playing at this level, he’s getting stronger. But today, watching him stare intently at his own reflection gives me an idea.
A wicked, perfect idea.
I back away from the gym door before he spots me and hustle into the locker room. It’s empty, the stalls neat and organized. I make a beeline for the equipment room, scanning the shelves until I find what I’m looking for: the basket overflowing with rolls of clear hockey tape, the kind we use to tape our pads and hockey socks.
“Well, hello, friend,” I whisper with a grin.
It’s the oldest trick in the book. A true locker-room classic. And it is exactly what this morning needs.
I creep over to Tanner’s stall. His gear is hung up with military precision, his skates perfectly aligned, his laces tucked neatly into the boot, and not a stray thread in sight. This level of organization is unnatural for a goaltender. We’re supposed tobe weirdos. Agents of chaos. Sinclair’s vibe is more that of an accountant in goalie pads.
He needs to loosen up. Honestly, I’m doing him a favor.
I glance around to make sure I’m still alone before grabbing his left skate. I find the end of the clear tape and carefully, meticulously, lay a strip right over the steel blade. I smooth it down with my thumb, pressing out the air bubbles so it’s invisible.
Trying to skate on taped blades is like trying to walk on ice wearing bowling shoes. Zero edge. Maximum comedy.
I do the right skate next, humming the Metallica guitar solo under my breath.
I tell myself this prank is because Sinclair is way too serious. He’s a rookie, and being the butt of a few harmless jokes is part of the deal when you’re a hockey player. Because it’s funny.
