Allen would have told him off, but the guy sitting on the other end of the bench beat him to any kind of conversation.
“Is this really what you losers from Nova Scotia do on Friday nights?”
Allen came to an abrupt halt, causing Riley to bump into him. Thankfully, his balance was still decent, and he was able to stophimself from falling, but his relief only lasted until Riley shoved past him to posture at the stranger.
“The fuck are you doing here, Sloan?”
Great. It was time to whip out the toxic masculinity.
Allen peered around Riley’s broad shoulders to study the newcomer, who looked like every other idiot hockey player with shaggy white-blond hair and a sneering expression. He was handsome, but it was the anger in his gaze that was throwing Allen off. It was like he actuallyhatedRiley.
“I’ll go wherever the fuck I want to go,” said…Sloan, which was probably his last name. “It’s no wonder you haven’t been called up yet. How much time do you spend playing pointless games with washed-up has-beens?”
“You haven’t been called up either,dickhead,” Riley shot back.
They were starting to draw a crowd, and Allen was becoming more uncomfortable by the second. He grabbed the sleeve of Riley’s sweater and yanked hard enough to draw his attention away from whatever dick-measuring contest was happening.
“Don’t you have a game to play?” Allen hissed. “Get out of here before I kick the back of your knees and toss you on the ice.”
Sloan couldn’t hear what they were saying over the sound of the music and the climbing voices, but something must have shown on Riley’s face to make his brow quirk up.
Rileygrowledlike he was a viscous fae lord from a romantasy novel and then turned away from his adversary. He was glaring as he gently directed Allen to sit and began taking off his winter coat.
“What are you—” Allen grabbed his coat, trying to keep it closed, but Riley wasstrong. He clenched his jaw as his only source of warmth was taken away, and then sat in disbelief while Riley pulled off his sweat-damp jersey before unceremoniously shoving it over Allen’s head.
The smell of sweat wasn’t awful mixed with whatever cologne Riley was wearing, but Allen still grimaced and cursed, purposely kicking a padded leg to show how mad he was.
“I wasn’t going to touch your boyfriend, Evans,” Sloan snapped, sounding offended.
“Good, fucking keep it that way, you pigeon.” Riley hadn’t looked at the guy; he was too busy tucking Allen’s hair back into place and then wrapping his coat around his shoulders.
“Don’t talk to him,” Riley ordered.
Allen rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
Riley let out a strained laugh and turned away, his eyes staying on Allen as he followed the length of the bench, crossed the wall into the players’ box, and vanished into the tunnel beyond.
Feeling much like a tree that a territorial dog had pissed on, Allen groaned and began resituating himself. His arms weren’t even in the damn sleeves of the jersey, and he was tempted to take it off, but he had a feeling Riley would climb the damn glass and make him put it back on if he did.
“What a fucking weirdo.”
Allen was thinking the same thing, but it wasn’t him who had said it out loud. He kept his eyes facing forward as Sloan slid across the bench and bumped elbows with him.
“What is this, medieval times? Does he think I’m going to throw you over my shoulder like a sack of barley and ride my horse into the sunset?”
Oh, yay, how he loved feeling like an object. At least barley was an upgrade from a soiled tree.
“Are you talking to me because you want to, or because you want to piss off your rival?” Allen asked, still refusing to look at the douchbag. “He seems pretty trigger-happy if that’s what you’re going for. No need to drag me into it.”
The silence was deafening, as was the announcer's voice, who was starting to call out the lineups. These games weren’t official, but they were real enough to stir up old anxiety for him.
The glass separating the players’ section from the bench was low enough that Allen knew he could reach over and pat Jake on the head like a dog if he wanted to. The thought cheered him up and quieted the squirming in his stomach.
Then Jake and his teammates were on the ice, Riley among them, who was wearing a new jersey.
“I didn’t think Evans was into guys,” said Sloan, casually.
Allen’s teeth were ready to crack from how tightly his jaw was clenched. “Is there a problem with that?”
