“Then what do we do after the season?”
“Right,” he says. Now he’s starting to come around. His tone is picking up and some of the color has returned to his adorable, kissable face.
Goddamn it.
“And who knows if I’ll even be back here next season. I could get sent down to the AHL.”
“You won’t be,” I assure him as I always do. “But yes, that’s a valid point.” Except it isn’t. Because if he was sent down to the AHL, we might be able to pull off being fuck buddies or something. But I’m not going to drop the thought into his head. He doesn’t need that. Not when he’s only just stopped visibly reeling. And honestly, if I was forced to choose between linemate or fuck buddy, I’m choosing linemate every time.
But, of course, now I’m the one reeling. Because damn it, maybe what I needisa fuck buddy. Someone to distract myself from him. It has been a while since I’ve hooked up with anyone.Anonymously, of course. I could open Grindr now and see who’s near user HotTexasStud24.
Which is also a terrible idea. We just narrowly beat the Florida Storm Front and while most gay men don’t give a flying fuck about hockey, some do. It’s not worth the risk of getting found out by a Storm Front fan with a grudge because I scored the game-winning goal.
And also, I’ll be honest, an anonymous quickie isn’t what I want anymore. What I want, which is becoming harder and harder to ignore—partially due to sharing a room with him—is sitting across from me right now.I suddenly regret forcing the issue into the open. Fine, I’ve got the answer I’ve been obsessing over, but what next? What have I started here?
I grab my wine and swallow what’s left in the glass then rise. “Let’s go find the guys before I do something stupid.”
“And by something stupid, you mean me,” he says, looking up at me.
“Of course.” I grab the bottle of wine and drink directly from its neck as I head for the door.
Brandon
Well, tonight has taken a turn and I can’t tell if it’s for better or for worse. I’m leaning towards worse.
To start, I just outed myself… officially. Thankfully it was to another gay player. A gay player who I’ve been in love with since I was a fucking fourteen-year-old. The fucking catalyst for my sexual awakening. A man who—despite the mixed emotions of this conversation—has still managed to make me half hard. So yeah, definitely worse. Way worse. I was much better off when I didn’t know the love of my life, my goddamn dream man, is gay.
Ugh. And possibly interested. In me. But also not. But also yes. But also no, it’s a terrible idea. And it is a terrible idea! The worst idea. But also… the best? I mean, Gavin and Connor make it work. Why can’t we?
But also, Gavin and Connor are clearly in love. Meant to be, in fact. Not that I believe in that sort of thing. But if I did, it’s clear it applies to Gavin and Connor. So why couldn’t it apply to me and Ryan too?
Everyone loves a meet cute, don’t they?
Not that we had a meet cute. I’d say it was more of a meet ugly. I was an awkward kid. But here we are, reuniting eight years later and both of us are fully fledged consenting adults.
I consent, Ryan! I consent!
Okay. Tone it down, Brandon.I’m just horny. That’s all this is. It’s been days since I’ve gotten off. And I haven’t hooked up with anyone since I left UDub. That’s definitely all this is. I should let him go find the guys on his own while I stay here and crack some stick alone in the shower. But who am I kidding? That’s not what I’m going to do at all.
I’m going to follow him out of this room and down the hall, and honestly, to the ends of the earth if I’m given the opportunity.
FIFTEEN
Ryan
Lying on my couch with my feet propped up on the arm and ice packs on my knees, all I feel is exhaustion. For a two-game road trip, it may as well have been four for how I feel today. Sure, we had success against Florida, but we got absolutely shit pumped by the Carolina Bob Cats the next day. Granted, that might have been because we were all hungover.
And that’s also why Coach Chris called an early morning bag skate for us today instead of letting us rest like we normally do after returning home from a road trip in the middle of the night. Hence the ice packs on my knees and the bottle of ibuprofen within arm’s reach. After an hour’s worth of suicides on the ice, it’s safe to say I’m wrecked.
We’ve reached the dog days of the season. The final stretch. In all my previous seasons, my fellow Mules and I would be planning our summer vacations and post-season golf trips. But this year, we’re all rehabbing our bodies in the hopes of being able to play deep into the postseason.
That postseason is so close I can taste it. I want it. It should be all I’m thinking about.
But it’s not. Because even while I lie here with ice on my knees, all I can think about is the other thing I want. Brandon. I wonder what he’s doing.
Oddly enough, he’s probably taking a fucking nap. That’s what he used to do on Sundays when he was younger. Sundays were everyone’s one day off. Monday through Saturday was nonstop hockey. Games, practices, workshops, conditioning, all squeezed into every hour of our days that wasn’t spent studying. In the pie chart of our days, sleeping generally took up the smallest wedge. And none of us would have it any other way. We lived and breathed hockey. We still do. But back then, it was even more all-consuming than it is for us now.
Now, as professional players, it’s all we need to do. As kids, we had to dedicate just as much time but also had to squeeze in everything else just in case our wild hockey dreams didn’t come true.
