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ONE

KYLE

“YOU READY FOR THE AUCTION?” In the locker room, my younger brother Bobby started stripping out of his gear as I did the same. The other guys from our pickup game changed around us. “Got a fancy suit so you look extra hot for the bidders?”

“Did you just say hot?” I shot a scowl at Bobby.

“What? I want my brother to get high bids. Family honor on the line and all.”

This locker room always took me back about a dozen years to a time when being jammed in together with a bunch of friends to change was a common occurrence. Bobby played on a recreational team in Chicago, and when I was in town, he always organized a pickup game with some of his friends and teammates.

This weekend, I wasn’t here with the rest of the Detroit Arsenal though. The NHL All-Star Game would be played here, and not only had I—Arsenal center Kyle Pressgrove—been selected to play for the Western Conference, but I’d also be competing in the skills competition for the title of fastest skater.

An unofficial event for the weekend that I’d gotten involved in was the Hockey Allies hockey bachelor auction to raise money for its work to ensure equality in hockey regardless of a player’s orientation or gender identity. I’m always ready to help a good cause, but being paraded out for bids scared me a bit—actually more than a bit. I’m trying not to focus on that.

Bobby wasn’t helping.

“Hey, Bobby, is it okay if I bid on him?” My face heated, and I suddenly felt self-conscious in just my jock shorts as one of Bobby’s friends added to my embarrassment.

“Of course, as long as you treat him to a great date if you win.”

“Please stop.” I buried my face in my hands, hoping to will the redness away before looking back to Bobby. It wasn’t easy though. Many of his friends chuckled. I couldn’t blame them for that since I would’ve laughed too in their shoes. “As my brother, you are not allowed to talk to me about being hot… or not being hot… or whatever. Jesus. I can’t believe I let you and Garrett”—or G, as Bobby and I called him—“talk me into this thing. And I’ve got to be up there against Mister ESPN. Really? I get that it’s a good cause, but what if I’m won by some creepy stalker type?” A valid concern since Garrett’s been dealing with that stuff. “And what if no one bids at all?”

“Have you seen you?”

Why? Why did he keep going?

“The hockey body. The five o’clock shadow. Those piercing eyes. I know what people say about you online. In fact, you could give people what they want and show more skin, maybe an open shirt. As for G, it’s ESPN’s loss they didn’t pick you.”

I snorted out a laugh. Garrett Howell, a center for the Burlington Dragons, had a perfect ESPN body, and he deserved that cover, even though I’d given him a fair amount of shit for it. My brother and I had been friends with him since we all played juniors. He even stayed with us and essentially become our third brother.

We’d also all come out to each other.

He’d been the third person I’d told, after Mom and Bobby. He told me shortly after he moved in with us because he’d wanted me to know, so I told him too. We’d been a great support system for each other over the years, and Mom and Bobby always had his back too. All his social media activity and the cover had brought some unwanted attention though. Even though he had someone watching out for him, I still worried.

“You got the family looks too, you know.” I looked to divert the discussion. “You conveniently forget that sometimes.”

“But they work better on your athletic build.”

We weren’t twins, but Dad had apparently had dominant genes, and we carried a lot of his features—the light blue eyes, the nose that was a little too small for our heads, jet black hair, and the near constant scruff. We had his height too at just over six feet, though I had a couple inches on Bobby.

He was also a bean pole. Where I’d filled out in high school, Bobby remained on the thin side. He’d tried to change that, but no amount of weight training did much to bulk him up.

Luckily, we got along great. Sure, we did some picking on each other, but there was no doubt—ever—that we were tight. I think it helped that we were only a year apart, but our parents also made sure we treated each other right. They didn’t put up with any petty sibling rivalry.

But Mom wouldn’t have even chastised him about what he was doing to me now. Odds were, she’d have joined in.

“If you were part of the lineup, I’d bid on you, Bobby, but I don’t want Seb coming after me,” another of Bobby’s friends chimed in.

I grabbed my phone from the shelf in the locker I used and snapped Bobby’s slightly reddened face. I rarely embarrassed him, no matter how hard I tried. Even in middle and high school, he had a high immunity for it. Somehow his friend pushed the right button, and now I had some proof. I took a couple more pics as the redness darkened.

“No fair, bro.” He tried for the phone, but I snatched it out of reach.

“Totally fair. Seb’s going to love them.” Bobby’s fiancé couldn’t get much of a rise out of him either—which we both attributed to his even-keeled therapist persona.

Bobby looked at his phone, which chirped with Mom’s tone. “She’s boarded and seems on time. She used way too many emojis to end her message.”

I looked over his shoulder. “Is that every excited one there is? Wow.”