“Good thing we have a boathouse.”
Keno looks up, perplexed. We don’t have a boathouse. When he sees me smirking, he slaps my leg and turns back to his phone. “We can build one. Oooh, we can build a really cool one with ample storage for all the toys we get, but also maybe some indoor/outdoor living, kitchen area, and a bathroom.”
I tilt my head. “Yes.”
He grins. “Awesome. Your house or mine?”
This time, I roll my eyes. My house isn’t on the lake. Fucker. I should just sell it. Keno’s house might be a bit smaller than mine—by more than two thousand square feet—but we have a lake and toys at his house. Besides, who needs more than a single guest room?
Although, my backyard is better for parties. And it’s not like I don’t have a pool. We could totally put a float on it. The super large one that he paused on might take up the entire pool, but hey, we could still use it.
The bus pulls up to the hotel and we start unloading. By the time we get our bags and keys, Keno pockets his and says, “Food is just around the corner. I’ll meet you upstairs.”
I grab his bag from him and flash him my room number.
As I get into the elevator and listen to our teammates talk, I wonder about how much the world would truly push the whole gay thing if they knew we typically shared a room when we traveled. Never because we have to, but because we usually hang out until we fall asleep.
It’s not like we touch in bed. There’s nothing going on. Not even accidental cuddling. It’s even rare that either of us cross the middle of the bed when we sleep.
There’s just so much focus on shit that’s not important in the world. Like who’s sleeping with who and whether they’re having sex. Friendship is friendship. We don’t need to defend it to anyone. We don’t need to explain why we buy shit together or why we opened a bank account together a couple of months ago. Obviously, it made it easier to buy shit together.
I’ll never understand why so many people need to share their unsolicited opinions. I recently read about a trainer who told her students that those who share their unsolicited opinions are always critiquing the other person.Always. Half the room looked horrified and opposed. The other half enthusiastically cried, “Yes! Exactly!”
The first half claimed they’re just trying to be helpful, but I’m sorry Karen and Chad, if someone wanted your help, they’d have asked for it. If they wanted your opinion on anything at all, they’d have asked.
Mind your own damn business. We didn’t ask for your critique, and we’re probably living much happier, more fulfilled lives than you, so go the fuck away.
I smirk as I push open the hotel room door. Even in my mind, I go off on tangents. Maybe I’m hangry after all.
CHAPTER 2
KENO EDGEWOOD
The gameagainst New Jersey is totally shit. The refs absolutely fucking suck. I mean, there’s zero doubt, even among the New Jersey players, that they’re fucking throwing the game. By the last six minutes of the third period, we’ve had four two-minute penalties. And at least three were bullshit.
New Jersey’s captain, Alex Michaels, even challenged the last one. They didn’t take it back.
We’ve had more than ten penalties in this game, which is incredibly unusual. Not just for our team, but for hockey in general. More than half were bullshit.
What makes it even more fucked up is that not a single penalty has been called on New Jersey. Not one; and there’ve been at least two that should have been.
“If we’re going to get called on breathing, then we might as well give them something to penalize us for,” Julian mutters as he drops onto the bench beside me.
Julian is new to our team this year. It’s his second year in the NHL. He started with Chicago, and we traded for him this year. He’s a cool guy with a big laugh and loads of personality once you get him talking. Otherwise, he’s very quiet. He has thebiggest smile, though. The kind where you can’t help smiling, too.
“Keep playing respectfully,” Coach Merrill scolds, resting his hand on Julian’s shoulder.
“There should be someone checking in on refs,” Hilt argues. “It’s like a tenured professor at a college. Once their job is guaranteed, they can suck and no one will do anything about it.”
I’m not the only one who glances at him, but his gaze flickers toward me and he shrugs. “My brother has tenure. He has lots of things to say about his colleagues.”
I chuckle. Then my shoulders sag as one of the refs blows their whistle. I’mshockedthat the call is against Arizona.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” New Jersey’s Hunter Evans says as he glides toward them, slamming his stick on the ice. “Just let us fucking play, already.”
You know it’s bad when the opposing team—the winning team—is surrounding the refs and arguing about the call.
“Yeah, we get it. You love New Jersey,” our Barron Walsh says. “Don’t worry; you’re making sure they win.”
