CHAPTER 5
Paxon
It’sthird period and we’re up one over Tampa. Their offense came in hot last period, but we’ve got this. Landham wins the face-off then pivots around Tampa’s defense. Hen makes eye contact with me and we close in to protect our man.
I see the opening and hope Landham sees it too. Knowing him, he does. He skates past me, passing the puck to our winger Wouburn, who skates forward and passes it back. I spot a Tampa defenseman coming my way and make quick work of slamming into him, sending him into the boards. Landham breezes past me, dekes right, then sends the puck soaring to land in the net over the Tampa goalie’s left shoulder.
Let’s go! Fucking right.
Hen bumps his helmet against mine as we all swarm Landham in brief celebration. We finish the game strong and Palachuk fucking kills it, blocking two shots from Tampa. When the game ends, we’ve pulled off a 3-1 win over the visiting Florida team. Good enough for me.
Back in the locker room, I remove my gear while Coach pumps us up. We fly out tomorrow to Denver. That’s gonna be a tough game. They’ve been giving us hell this season and even got a shutout the last time we played them.
I drag my tired ass into the showers, and as soon as I’m under the water and drowning out the noise around me, thoughts of my red-haired stranger fill my mind. I didn’t notice in the dark last time just how many freckles he has. They’re like constellations across his flesh.
I believed him that he wasn’t actively looking for me, but that didn’t stop it from being alarming when I saw him. I never thought I’d see that face again, and unfortunately, I wouldn’t mind a round two, only this time, I’d like to see that incredible mouth of his wrapped around my dick.
That thought is jarring as my cock twitches and swells slightly. I covertly squeeze the base and think of the worst thing I can—stepping in dog shit barefoot. That calms things down considerably. Can’t be popping bone in the shower. Not that it doesn’t happen. Dicks don’t always make sense and it’s easy enough to ignore, but since the guys don’t know about my sexuality, I try to prevent incidents like that. I’d be mortified if any of the guys ever thought I was intentionally looking.
It’s almost impossible, but I’ve always made it my mission to ignore the sweaty, naked, athletic male bodies surrounding me at any given time. No one could accuse me of checking out my teammates.
I throw on my suit again, knowing the media will be out there waiting for us. I never—or at least rarely—have to talk to them. Usually only if I had a major play or a scuffle during the game. Lately though, everyone wants to know where I’m landing on retiring. The deadline to decide is coming. The owners and coaches need to make draft and trade picks, so they have to know if they’re going to be down a defenseman next season. I just can’t decide one way or the other. I keep waiting for some kind of sign, but so far nothing.
“Chirps?” Hen asks, patting my back. “One drink, Bouche.”
I start to decline but then the idea that my mystery man could show up there again tickles my brain and I find myself agreeing. “One drink.”
“Whoo! Bouche is in!” Hen shouts while the guys cheer like this is some epic event.
Chuckling to myself, I grab my coat and toss it over my arm, preparing to walk out and face the media lingering in our tunnel.
I’m a pro at ignoring the cries of my name and the flashing lights. Our team PR person, Jackson, is waiting at the end, filming us as we walk out so he can post it later on our Instagram page. I give him a peace sign as I pass, then brace myself for the cold waiting on the other side of the tunnel.
The air outside is crisp, and there are a few snow flurries falling around us. It’s not worth driving across the busy street separating us from the bar, so we trudge through the parking lot as a group.
Hen pushes the door to Chirps open and I see that the place is packed, making my skin crawl slightly. I scan the crowd, wondering if there’s any chance Boone made it here. I looked up a few times and never saw him in the stands, but I got the text that he was there. Sometimes he drops in after the game knowing I’ll be here, but I don’t see him anywhere.
My chest tightens with anxiety. Something’s going on with him. I have no proof, but I can feel it. I know him well enough to know when he’s avoiding me. Fuck. I gotta hope it’s not drugs again. That was one rough patch to go through, never knowing if he was gonna get hurt or accidentally kill himself. Getting him into the best rehab in the country wasn’t cheap, but it was worth it. I hope he hasn’t relapsed.
“We’re doing shots, Bouche,” Andres yells out.
I tip my head in his direction to acknowledge it. I could go for a drink or two. Anything to get my mind off my brother and the fine-ass mystery man. Within minutes, the table we’re at is lined with shots of tequila. I’m pretty sure we’re all going to regret this on the plane tomorrow, but I’m cutting myself off at one shot and one beer. I can’t party like Andres and the other young guys.
“On three,” Landham says, raising his shot. “Magnets. One… two… three.”
“Magnets!” we shout in unison before slamming back our shots.
The crowd joins us in celebrating, buying us more drinks and mingling with us. After a few minutes, Andres appears by my side. He’s already had at least two shots, but his eyes are clear.
“Got a second, Bouche?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
He glances over his shoulder at the guys as his brow creases. “Can we step away?”
“Yeah, sure.”
We cross the bar together, choosing a relatively quiet corner away from the larger groups. I wonder if this is a follow-up from the call the other night. Andres rubs his hands together and blows out a breath.
