Page 7 of Tough Guy and the Show Off

“Not even partners you’ve had?”

I shake my head. “A girl mentioned it to me once, but we didn’t do it. I experimented after that and yeah, sometimes it’s good. Straight guys do it too. Obviously.”

Trav nods at me, letting his hands fall away from my shoulders after a quick squeeze. “Shake it off, Beau. It’s no big deal.”

“Cool.”

We reach the bus just as some of the other guys exit the hotel and join us. My skin crawls as Trav greets the other players, chatting happily like it isn’t the crack of dawn and he didn’t see me getting freaky with myself.

He really doesn’t care. He’s not a judgy guy at all. If he can get over it, so can I.

Maybe.

Fuck, I hope I can.

FOUR

SHOW

“Come on, guys, just one verse,” I barter, standing up in my seat right as the bus lurches forward from the stoplight. We landed in New York a couple of hours ago.

“It’s not happening, man.” Harlson chuckles, shaking his head while the rest of the guys pretend to not even hear me.

“I’m the captain,” I remind them, “and I scored a hat trick last night, so I kind of feel like you dickheads owe me one little verse.”

Beau sighs and his eyebrows pull together in a look that clearly says “don’t make me do this.” I grin and nod. We’re doing it. “The last time I got everyone to do it, we won by three goals. It’s good luck.”

I hear Nilsson groan and I know I’m wearing everybody down. I would start singing myself and hope everyone joins in, but experience has taught me that only ever leads to me singing by myself while everyone else takes turns pretending to be the mean judge on American Idol.

Beau cracks first, just like I hoped he would, mumbling the first few lines of “Do You Believe in Magic.” I know it’s corny as hell, but we are the Boston Magic, so it seems appropriate. I join in, reaching down to jostle his shoulder. He grins even though he’s looking out the window and pretending like having to do this for me is torture, and he sings a little louder too. Klaussen cracks next, then Nilsson, and by the chorus the whole team, including Coach Hall, are all singing along. It’s off key and cringe as hell, and I fucking love it. I notice our assistant coach, Levi Kennedy, filming the whole thing. I grin and sing louder. All the guys are going to bitch later when the video goes up on the social media sites, but the fans will eat it up.

The bus rumbles to a stop at the players’ entrance at the back of New York Gators’ stadium. That’s what happens when you need to rename your team and you decide to let the fans pick the name with an online poll. “Gators” won out by about five votes, and I think the team owner probably made five accounts himself just to make sure they didn’t end up with the second leading choice “The New York Puckers.”

All the guys scramble to get off the bus as soon as the doors open. I reach into my pocket and pull out the pack of pepper and mixed fruit gum, popping one stick into my mouth before offering another to Beau. He shakes his head and gives me an awkward, crooked smile.

He’s still being weird. I don’t know what else I can say to convince him that it’s totally fine and there’s no judgment on my end at all about his bootylicious jerk-off sesh. If anything, he kind of made me curious. Not about him, obviously… ’cause, you know, he’s a dude and I’m not gay. But the whole ass-play thing. Anything that can make a guy shoot that hard has to be worth trying, right?

There’s a chill in the air that wakes up all my nerve endings the second I step off the bus. Damn do I love a crisp fall day in the Northeast. Give it to me any damn day over heat and humidity. New York can suck Boston’s nuts, but it feels good to at least be back in our own region, knowing that home is only an hour’s plane ride away. I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder, and Beau is right behind me, bringing up the rear as we all file into the arena.

The smell of ice, nacho cheese, and dirty jock straps should probably be revolting, but to me it smells like home, like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. People talk about love at first sight, some spark they felt, or how they just knew right away that the person in front of them was meant for them, and that’s how I felt the first time my dad took me to a hockey game. I couldn’t have been more than five years old, but I remember standing on my seat and screaming at the top of my lungs, watching Romanov score a last-second goal to win the game and knowing right then and there that that was what I wanted too. I made my parents sign me up for skating lessons a week later, and the rest is fucking history.

I claim a stall against the far wall and Beau takes the one next to me, just like he always does. I love the energy in the air right before a game, all the pre-game rituals and superstitions that give us each a sense of control. I know that Beau is wearing a pair of red socks without even having to look. He won’t wash them until we lose a game. Nasty, but hey, gotta stick with what works. Nilsson has his earbuds in listening to his pre-game playlist, and Klaussen is getting ready to tape his stick with the blue tape that’s been lucky for him this season.

“Come here,” I say as soon as I drop my bag and lean my stick against the stall. Beau chuckles and doesn’t even try to resist. He knows this has to happen. We always win when it does. He tilts his head down and I run my fingers through his hair. Honestly, I can’t even remember how this weird-ass ritual started, but it works and I’m not about to mess with it.

“You’ve got your gum, we sang your song, and now you’ve pet your personal bodyguard like he’s a big shaggy dog. You feeling good, Show-Off?” Alec Basilio, one of our second-line defensemen, teases me.

I don’t mind some friendly ribbing, but it’s the edge in his tone that makes it feel like he’s trying to call you out or embarrass you or some shit. That’s the reason most of us call him Assilio.

“Hell yeah, bro,” I assure him with a wink before picking my stick back up and getting ready to re-wrap it for the game.

“Show, think fast,” Alec says, pulling a puck out of his bag and tossing it at me. I catch it easily, but the force stings my bare hand.

“Dude,” Beau growls, straightening his shoulders to draw himself up to his full, intimidating height, and advancing on Basilio. “What if he hadn’t been paying attention? What if you hit him in the face and broke his nose right before a fucking game?”

Basilio rolls his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake up his little guard dog.”

I pat Beau on the shoulder to let him know it’s fine. I’m not going to let anything create tension or distract us all tonight, even if Assilio is doing his best to live up to his nickname while the rest of us are just trying to vibe and get ready to play.