Page 75 of Tough Guy and the Show Off

“Don’t worry about me, Harl. Worry about you guys. Chicago is in it to win it.”

He winks at me. “See you on the ice.”

“See you, guys.”

I walk out of the hotel feeling lighter than when I came in. All I wanted—no, needed—was to see Trav, to put my arms around him, to kiss him. I needed to know we could survive this distance, and we did. I believe we still can.

The only nagging thought is how we will do this long term? Will we spend the next handful of years stealing brief hookups in hotel rooms when we play each other? Trade off cities during the offseason?

Can we make this work?

Fuck, I hope so, because at this point, I don’t think I’m ever getting over Travis Showalter.

THIRTY-TWO

SHOW

An hour with Beau and I feel like a new man. Since I skipped the team lunch to make time to see him, I grab a couple of tuna melts from the café in the hotel lobby and wolf them down before joining the rest of the team on the bus to the arena.

I pop a stick of bacon flavored gum into my mouth to get rid of the tuna taste, except instead of getting rid of it, it mixes with it and creates a tuna-bacon combo. It’s not the worst, actually. I might have to try a couple of strips of bacon on my next tuna melt. Nothing but sunshine and silver linings today.

“You look happy,” Klaussen says, eyeing me up and down as I plop into the seat next to him.

“You skip lunch to get laid or something?” Basilio leans over the seat to smirk at me.

My stomach flutters and I can’t keep myself from smiling a little harder. Fuck, I want to tell him that’s exactly what I did. I skipped lunch to suck Beau’s dick and it was totally fucking worth it. What would he say? What would any of the guys say? Would they even care?

“He wasn’t getting laid,” Albert calls from his seat across the aisle before I can say anything. “We ran into Beau leaving his room just a little while ago. They were probably braiding each other’s hair and watching that stupid car show they both like so much.”

“My hair is too short to braid and Beau doesn’t use enough conditioner. It ends up turning into a tangled mess every time I try,” I deadpan, because sarcasm feels a hell of a lot easier than outright lying about any of it.

“You were fraternizing with the enemy?” Jurowski turns around in his seat in front of me and glares suspiciously.

“Whoa, dude, this is hockey, not war.” I can’t believe I’m actually the one saying that, but having your… whatever Beau is to me… on the other side of enemy lines gives a guy a whole new perspective on things.

“Is no different,” he argues. “You will be Show-Off tonight, not sad, mopey guy.” It’s not a question, it’s a demand, and I can’t help but sputter a laugh before I nod.

“Yeah, man, I’m going to play my ass off.”

I’m not just saying that to get the weird new goalie to stop staring at me with those freaky ice-blue eyes of his. I’m pumped for the game tonight, and I’m determined to show Beau and everyone else that I haven’t lost my fire.

The bus ride from the hotel to the arena is short, and by the time we file into the locker room, I’m buzzing with more energy than I’ve felt in a month. I jog ahead a couple of steps and brace my hands on the wooden bench in front of the row of the stalls that line the back wall. There are a couple of surprised gasps from the guys that turn into chuckles and clapping as I kick my legs up into a handstand. Damn, it feels good to feed the positive energy in the locker room again for a change. The bench doesn’t so much as wobble, so I up the ante by bending my elbows and doing a few handstand push-ups. That move earns me a few whistles and some more clapping before Coach’s booming voice joins the fray.

“If you break your arm before a game, Showalter, don’t think I won’t still shove you out there on the ice to play one-handed,” he threatens.

“Show’s been playing one-handed a lot lately, it seems,” Basilio jokes to a round of booming laughter.

I lower myself back down easily, and without any broken bones. Coach nods his approval with a scowl on his round face, but I catch a spark in his eyes that I could swear is a smile he’s refusing to let me see because he doesn’t want to encourage my reckless tendencies. He’s happy I’m in a good mood tonight. Hell, that makes two of us.

I’ve gotten used to my new pre-game rituals that don’t include Beau: re-taping my stick just so, listening to my playlist through my earbuds while I get dressed, and praying like hell that I can pull my head out of my ass and get it in the game. I skip the last two parts of that ritual tonight, listening to the jovial sounds of the guys playfully ribbing each other and hyping each other up for the game instead. I can’t run my fingers through Beau’s hair before a game anymore, but at least today I have the extremely fresh memory of my fingers tangled in his hair while his lips were wrapped around my cock.

We’re finally going to be on the same ice again tonight, even if it’s as rivals this time. Like I told Jurowski, it’s just a game, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to play my ass off against Beau.

The second I step onto the ice for warm-ups, my eyes go right to him, like a moth to a flame… or maybe more like a lovestruck idiot who wishes like hell that we had more than just an hour this afternoon.

And damn, he looks good. Stretching, moving, breathing, Beau makes all of it look sexy as hell. He turns his head in my direction, and even though I can’t see his face from here with the visor of his helmet in the way, I’m sure he’s smiling. He lifts one hand to wave to me without even thinking about it, and I laugh at what I’m sure will be a viral moment on TikTok later as I wave back.

Klaussen bumps my shoulder, reminding me without words to focus up and get ready for the game. I force my attention away from Beau and join my team in warming up.