When I stepped in a few minutes ago, Louis was already a lump under his duvet, facing the wall, back to the room. He didn’t move when the door latch clicked.
I toe off my dress shoes, lining them up perfectly parallel to the wall before unbuttoning my shirt. My brain is still buzzing from dinner. It was a good time, but I find those kinds of social situations tiring. I’m naturally introverted, I guess. Louis seemed off tonight. Even from the other end of the table, I could sense it. He was almost manic. He was telling stories and holding court the same way he usually does, but his smile neverreached his eyes. He was putting on a performance—a good one—but a performance all the same.
I grab my toiletries kit and head for the bathroom, stripping off my dress pants as I go.
Under the hot water, I try to wash off the day. The humiliation of falling on my ass in front of the entire team after getting pranked isn’t pissing me off as much as it was earlier. Instead, I keep thinking about the way Louis was with the little kid in the parking lot.
I turn off the water and dry off. Get a grip, Sinclair. I’m obsessing over him. Analyzing him like he’s a player whose shot I’m trying to deconstruct.
The dynamic between us is confusing on the best days. Every team has one starter and one backup fighting for the same job, so the tension is baked in. But with us, it goes deeper than that.
Louis Tremblay is light-hearted, always smiling. He’s the team prankster who made it to the NHL on a level of natural talent most guys can only dream about. That’s not to say he doesn’t work hard. Nobody makes it to the league without working hard. But Louis has never had to grind the way so many of us do. The way I always have.
Do I resent how easily it seems to come to him? Of course.
I’ve always been the opposite: serious, analytical, laser-focused. I have some natural ability, sure, but talent alone wouldn’t have gotten me anywhere. I’m here because I never stop working. Not for one second. I’m always looking for the edge, whether it’s studying, watching tape, or reading whatever I can get my hands on from the greats who came before me and the ones still playing now.
There are no days off if you want to be the best.
I step out of the bathroom with steam billowing out behind me and a towel wrapped around my waist. The light from illuminates the space between our beds.
Louis has rolled over so he’s facing into the room now. His eyes are still closed, but he’s still awake.
Louis Tremblay is a loud sleeper. After rooming together on every road trip for the last four months, I know that as well as I know my own name. Currently, the only sound in the room is the soft hum of the heating. If Louis was asleep, there would be snoring. Or at least he’d be making those snuffly little sounds that happen even when he’s not snoring.
Right now? His breathing is way too controlled and quiet. Deep breaths… In, one, two, three, four… Out, one, two, three, four… In, one, two…
Louis Tremblay is playing possum.
I should ignore it, turn off the light and go to sleep. I don’t know what his problem is, but I need to remember this ain’t my circus, and these aren’t my monkeys. Whatever’s got him wound up doesn’t concern me.
I step into the lit area between the two beds to grab my boxers, but my back is a little tight from the flight and probably from the way I landed on my ass earlier when he pranked me, so I lift my arms, arching my back and rotating my shoulders, trying work out the kink near my spine.
“Hffffhu—”
The sound cuts through the silence: a sharp, jagged intake of breath.
I freeze. Shit, is he sick or something? That almost sounded like he was in pain. When I glance over, he’s still facing the room with his eyes squeezed shut. But his breathing is faster than it was a second ago.
My analytical brain replays the last five seconds. I stretched. He gasped. I’m standing here, backlit by the bathroom light, wearing nothing but a towel that I’m about to drop so I can get dressed. And Louis—who is definitely awake—just made a noise that sounded a hell of a lot like he was choking.
A weird, electric charge zaps through me. No. It can’t be. There’s no way that was a reaction to me. Even though I’m mostly naked and, perk of being a pro athlete, I look pretty damn good with no clothes on. But that’s impossible.
I drop my towel and step into my boxers, quickly pulling them up and adjusting the waistband before yanking my T-shirt over my head. I have to force myself not to scramble and hurry to cover up as if I have something to be ashamed of.
I figured out I was pansexual in high school, but outside of my immediate family, that’s a vault I keep locked up tight, especially in the hockey world. Being naked around other guys is part of the job, so I’ve trained myself to be clinical about it. Get in, get dressed, keep my eyes to myself, get out. I don’t linger, and I never look. I don’t give any potential rumors one inch of runway. But just because I keep my sexuality on lockdown doesn’t mean I’m dead from the waist down. And the truth is, despite how annoying he is, I’ve had more than a couple of those thoughts about the man lying a few feet away from me.
I turn off the bathroom light and slide under my covers.
I lie there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, but Lou’s still awake, and for some reason, the air in the room is heavy with tension.
Finally, it’s too much. “You know I can tell you’re not sleeping, right?” I say into the darkness.
No response.
“You snore. You always snore.” I pause. “Like, really loud. It’s pretty impressive.”
“I do not snore,” comes the muffled reply.
