“And if we lose?” Eli asked.
“Then even more reason for us to meet.”
Eli chuckled. He ran a hand through his loose curls. “Fine. It’s a bet.” He checked his watch and gave me a smile I wanted to kiss right off his face. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you,” I said, giving him a bro-ey handshake, even though all I wanted to do was grab his hips and yank his body against mine so I could rut myself against him. So I could ease some of the delicious pressure that had built up inside me.
Maybe tomorrow, I’d get my wish.
Before leaving, Eli stopped and turned around, a curious look on his face. “Oh, before I forget, what cologne are you wearing?”
“I’m not wearing any.”
“Huh, really?” Eli said, leaning in and taking a deeper whiff. “I could have sworn… Well, you smell good.”
“You too,” I said.
Hah. If only he knew just how good he smelled to me.
Chapter Eight
Shark Bait
ELI
Over two hundredpounds of muscle and gear slammed into me. I hit the boards with a loud grunt and a frustrated “fuck!” The puck—which had been in my possession seconds ago—was now being passed between the opposing team. Sharpened blades sliced across the ice. The hometown audience groaned loudly. I didn’t have a chance to pass the puck to Gabe, who had been in a prime position to rush it toward the goal.
My first game with the Bobcats, and I was already fucking it up.
Great.
I half expected to be called back to the bench, swapped with someone else. But Coach didn’t make that move. He left me on the ice. I had to lock in. This game would set the tone for the rest of the season.
We were in the third and final period. The Sharks were up by two against our goose egg.
Not a single fucking goal.
I pushed across the center ice, gliding toward Gabe,who had regained possession of the puck. He was a force on the ice, like a rumbling storm that crackled with lightning and thunder, overflowing with kinetic energy. Dylan flanked him, guarding him from an overzealous Shark who tried poking at the puck. Gabe curved it around him. I glided back, positioning myself for a pass. I found myself in a position that felt promising. I had the goalie in sight. I could drive the puck past him; I just needed it in my possession first.
Gabe held on to the puck, smacking it away from a Shark trying to steal it.
Pass it. Pass it. Pass it to me.
He sent it to Chris. But before Chris could take possession, another Shark checked him, sending them both sliding across the ice. I exploded into action, trying to steal it, but was too slow. My stick was slapped out of the way. I grunted in frustration. The opposing team intercepted the puck and immediately brought it across the blue line, driving it toward the net.
Shit, shit, shit—three to zero. They scored. Air horns blasted through the rink, but the crowd wasn’t nearly as loud. Everyone out there wearing Bobcat colors seemed to have the same energy as funeral attendees.
“Did the Bobcats trade a fucking coma patient onto their team?” It was number fifty-four—Viktor Ivanova, the team’s captain and a known instigator—as he skated a smooth circle around me.
I wanted to smack him with my stick. Instead, I settled for something that wouldn’t net me a penalty. “Fuck you.”
“Nah, not into that gay shit.”
My anger boiled hot enough to melt the ice. He must have done more than just a preliminary search on me, eventhough it wasn’t too difficult to find an article or two featuring me as one of the few out and proud players in professional hockey. Most of the people I interacted with were respectful (at least to my face) at the minimum, a lot of guys not giving a fuck about who I chose to date.
But that didn’t meaneveryonewas cool with me being gay. Hockey was a sport that often attracted hypermasculine men, and those were the ones with the most fragile egos and an even weaker assurance in their own masculinity.
Which meant I knew exactly where to hit. “Why, scared you might like it too much?”
