A gentle series of taps on his door made him freeze, and Kingston held his breath as a deep voice spoke from behind the door.
“Sloan, you good?”
Evans. The bane of his existence.
Kingston swallowed to wet his dry mouth and got ready to tell the asshole off, but froze when his dick gave an interested twitch at the thought of Evans barging in to find him like this.
That was…wrong.
“Sloan, are you breathing?”
Fuck.
“I swear, if I come in there and I find your dead body, I’m going to be so pissed. I don’t want your stupid ghost haunting me.”
Fuck.
Kingston rolled and pushed onto his feet. He felt ridiculous as he limped over to his bedroom door and threw it open, making sure to keep his lower half tucked out of sight.
He took one good look at the shocked expression on his rival’s face, his stupid eyes that could never pick a colour between blue, grey or green, and his stupid hair that was neither brown nor blond.
“Fuck off, Evans,” Kingston snapped. “Everything about you pisses me off. Pick a fucking colour and stop frustrating the hell out of me.”
He didn’t care if any of his words made sense. Kingston slammed the door in Evans’s face and stomped across the room into his bathroom. He needed hot water and thirty minutes to have a serious conversation with his brain and his cock, because this couldn’t happen again.
He couldn’t be attracted to guys—especially guys who wereRiley Evans.
“What the fuck?”
13 /RILEY
Riley’s dreamof playing for the NHL was slowly slipping away, and it was all Kingston Sloan’s fault.
He had thought that accidentally dragging Sloan to Jake’s place might build bridges of tolerance between them, especially since he was so well-behaved for the visit. That assumption turned out to be wrong, because while Sloan was happy to snuggle with Allen and smile at Jake, he drew the line when it came to Riley ineverything.
Living together? Seething, angry silence.
Travelling to the rink together? Don’t talk to him or look at him.
Practicing passes together? Good luck, because Sloan would rather pass to an imaginary player skating in the wrong direction than give a puck to Riley.
Locker room bonding and shower time? Avoidance. Icy-cold avoidance that smothered any spark of cheer in the space.
Riley couldn’t live like this for much longer. At this rate, his life would get easier if he quit, played in the beer league with Jake, and focused on furthering his education. Maybe he could open a sports merchandise business and partner with the Citadels? That was an option, right?
Sure, he wasn’t artistic, but he could play the piano and the guitar. Some of those skills had to be transferable to other sections of his creative side.
Hell, he could start a band. Rock and Roll was cool—he could be the lead singer and release his anger by screaming into a mic instead of throwing fists in hockey.
It wasn’t impossible, just…boring.
“Evans!”
The voice shouting at him was Sloan’s, which was weird because they hadn’t spoken in weeks.
Startled, Riley whipped his head to the side, catching a glimpse of Sloan’s slack-jawed expression for a split second before he collided with the solid boards.
Riley’s skates slipped out from under him, and he toppled backward, crashing into the ice with enough force to make his lungs spasm and then seize. Instinct drove him to flip over and push onto his knees, but he was already standing when shouting voices approached and hands reached out to steady him.
