I gave a dry nod. “He’s a great sniper. Awesome at offense.”
Gabriel played as right wing, which was an offensive position that required one to be aggressive about getting the puck and keeping it. Lots of shit-talking and body slamming was involved. I played right defense, which meant I typically had Gabe’s back on the ice. It was—as the name suggested—a primarily defensive position. I worked hard to make sure the other team didn’t even get a chance to try and shoot for a goal.
“A great what?” Dylan asked with a tone that surprised me.
“Sniper,” I repeated, louder this time. “He’s a great sniper.”
“Ohh, right,” Dylan said with a laugh. He sounded relieved.
What the hell did he think I called him?
“You’re right, Gabe’s a star.”
“He is, he is.”
“And so are you.” Dylan poked my bicep.
That bit was harder for me to believe. “I’m just glad to be in a team surrounded by talent. I feel like everyone here is playing on the NHL level. It’s inspiring.”
“I think a lot of it has to do with how close we are. Us Bobcats, we’re like a family. We also really just fucking love hockey. It’s in our bones. My dad and my grandfather both played, my dad going to the playoffs for the Stanley Cup twice. My grandmother used to be a center for the Seattle Chargers. My mom, she’s the most badass of them all—she played in the PWHL until a really bad knee injury took her out. Now she’s one of the regular reporters and analysts for ESPN.”
“Holy shit, that is hockey through and through.”
“It is, it is.” Dylan cocked his head. He had bright blue eyes that were simultaneously beautiful and intimidating. Like he was looking through me, scanning my deepest, most intimate secrets. I looked away, as if that would help sever whatever imaginary connection I was feeling.
“I can’t say I have such a deep-rooted history with hockey, but it is something that my parents were obsessed with. My family didn’t have much money growing up, so whenever we’d save up some entertainment money, it would go toward a night out watching a hockey game. I started playing around five years old, going through the junior system. In high school, I picked up a gig at a coffee shop to pay for all the shit I needed and help my parents out.”
Dylan nodded and smiled at that. He was definitely one of the guys I clicked with best. We bonded pretty quickly when his love of Broadway was mentioned in the locker room. It wasn’t exactly the most common thing for a “typical” hockey player to be into, so it was nice to see that someone else besides me shared the same interests. Besides being a model, I could also see Dyl being an actor in another life. If the rink hadn’t called to him, I was sure the stage would have. He enjoyed attention, but not in an obnoxious way. More like in the way a golden retriever would happily sit in the middle of a house party with his tongue lolling out as long as they were getting pets.
We continued to chat a little more about our past with hockey until Dyl’s attention was pulled away by Emerson. He called him back over to the table to settle some bet.
I checked my watch. It was already nine. Damn, time had flown by pretty fast. I figured I could use a hot shower and some downtime before tomorrow’s game. I pushed off the bar, turned around, and closed my tab, tipping the kindbartender, who I was sure I’d be seeing around. I turned back to the group but stopped midway, frozen.
It was Gabe. He was still at one of the pool tables. He’d just reracked the balls and was chalking the end of his stick. His biceps twitched in his baby blue shirt, his chest making every thread of that shirt fight for its damn life.
It was his eyes that made me freeze. He had them locked on me.
Watching.
What the hell? Did he have a problem?
Why were my cheeks flushing with heat?
Why did my lungs tighten and my stomach flutter?
Why the hell was he smiling?
I decided my shower and bed could wait. I wanted to figure out what this guy’s deal was. He’d been acting weird ever since the moment I met him that night in downtown, and it didn’t change after we hung out at the photography meet-up, either. He’d only speak to me if it was about hockey, and he was always bolting out of the locker room after every practice, almost like he was avoiding something.
Or someone.
Me. He was clearly avoiding me, and that, well, it bothered me. I had a craving for praise and validation. I loved to be liked. For a long time, I had solely focused on chasing down my happiness by trying to please my ex-boyfriend—and finding myself constantly failing, especially if his (often shouted) words were to be believed.
With him out of the picture, I had found myself suddenly yearning for praise from all different directions. I wanted to make sure everyone around me was happy, that I was doing a good job, that people liked me.
So this—whatever it was—between me and Gabe had to be squashed.
I didn’t want whatever was brewing under the surface to come out on the ice later. Maybe he just didn’t like me because I was new, or maybe I reminded him of some asshole neighbor who would always let their dog shit in front of his house and never pick it up, making you cross your front yard like it was an active minefield just to check the mail.
