by Rachel Reid
He went on to explain the hockey camps they would be hosting in Montreal and in Ottawa that summer, with all proceeds going directly to the foundation. He named some of the organizations they planned to focus on when they made their first donations, and he announced his mother, Yuna, as the director and treasurer of the foundation. Neither he nor Ilya could imagine a better person for the job.
He ended by talking about their website, where people could make donations online, and then opened the floor to questions.
When it was over, Shane pulled Ilya out of the room. He texted Hayden. Need you to guard the door again.
Shane herded Ilya into the bathroom and pushed him back against the door as soon as it closed. He confirmed that the room was empty, and then said, “Oh my god. Come here.” He stood on his tiptoes and kissed him. “I didn’t think you’d say any of that.”
“Neither did I.”
They kissed again, completely unhurried, and Shane really hoped Hayden had gotten his text.
“I wanted to kiss you out there,” Ilya said.
“I wanted to climb into your lap out there. I’m so fucking proud of you, Ilya. I’m...proud to be with you. I want you to know that, even if we keep it a secret, I’m proud to be with you.”
“I know. Me too. When the time is right, we will stop being a secret.”
Shane still wasn’t sure when that would be. They had talked about waiting until one or both of them had retired, but that seemed like much too long a wait. Shane felt he could easily play for another ten years at least.
“Are you sure you need to go back to Ottawa today?”
“Yes. And you are flying to Chicago tonight.”
“I know,” Shane sighed.
“This is why I want my pilot license. Would be faster.”
Shane groaned. “Please don’t get your pilot license. I will be very mad if you fly into a mountain and die.”
“Aw. Sweet.”
There was a knock on the door, followed by Hayden’s voice. “Hey, uh, could you guys wrap it up, maybe? I kinda need to get in there for legitimate bathroom reasons.”
Ilya sighed and stepped aside, and Shane opened the door.
“Good press conference, guys,” Hayden said as he strode past them toward the urinals. “Sorry about your mother, Ilya. That sucks.”
Ilya gave Shane a look that said this is your best friend? Shane ignored him.
“You think it went okay?” Shane asked Hayden.
“For sure. It’s like, powerful, right? Rivals coming together for a greater cause. I mean, no one in that room knows you guys are all in love and shit.” He finished at the urinal and went to wash his hands. “But the way you were looking at Ilya, Shane, I thought people were gonna figure it out. Hell, I thought you were gonna start sucking face in front of the whole world. Like Hunter.”
“No way,” said Shane.
“We have better control than Scott Hunter.”
Hayden flicked the water off his hands, then rubbed them on his pants. “Would have been memorable, though.”
“Not really what we wanted the focus to be today,” Shane said.
“Okay, well, I’ve gotta take the twins to a birthday party, so I have to split.” Hayden stepped forward and hugged Shane. Then, with some hesitation, he extended his hand to Ilya.
Ilya shook it, then patted him on the back. “Thank you, Hayden.”
“Yeah, well...sorry about your face, I guess. Not that you didn’t deserve it.”
“Is okay. My face can heal. Your face, however...”
“All right,” Shane interrupted. “That’s enough. Bye, Hayden.” He shoved Hayden out the door and then turned to Ilya. “I’m gonna go find Mom. Come find me in a bit, okay?”
“Yes. I will.”
* * *
Ilya found himself in the same position Shane had been in earlier: gripping the bathroom counter, staring into the sink, deep in thought.
His life was so close to perfect now, even with the secrets he was keeping. Secrets he was letting go of, like balloons, one at a time. Now the world knew he and Shane were friends. Now the world knew the truth about his mother’s death. He imagined he would be hearing from Andrei about that, but he really didn’t care. His brother had only called him a couple of times since their father’s funeral, and only to ask for money, which Ilya had refused.
Fuck Andrei. Ilya had a better family now.
Shane’s parents had come over for dinner last night at Shane’s house, and there had been a moment—when Ilya had spilled some cooking wine and Shane had wordlessly handed him a cloth—that Ilya had been struck by how right it all felt. To be at home, with this man he loved, making food together for Shane’s family. The family who had been so warm and welcoming to Ilya, once the initial shock had worn off.
Ilya hadn’t been kidding about wanting to marry him. And not for citizenship, of course. He wanted to be Shane’s husband, and to live together, and maybe even raise children together. Not as many children as Hayden had, but, like, a reasonable number.
Ilya had been snarky about Scott Hunter’s lack of self-control, but sometimes he was dying to do the same thing. He would fantasize about grabbing Shane at the end of a game and kissing him, right there on the ice in front of everyone. Just get it over with and out there and anyone who had a problem with it could fuck off.
Baby steps, Ilya reminded himself.
The All-Star Game was coming up, though, and he and Shane would be on the same team again. Ilya was only about sixty percent sure he wouldn’t kiss Shane against the boards if he scored a goal off of a pass from him.
Ilya smiled at his reflection in the mirror and smoothed his tie. He would have to warn Shane about the possibility of being kissed at the All-Star Game, just to stress him out.
He pulled out his phone to check the time, and a message popped up. Don’t leave without saying goodbye.
Ilya wrote back right away. Never.
He had a surprise for Shane, actually. He had booked a room in this hotel. They had less than two hours before Ilya needed to hit the road, but after years of practice they were good at making the most of an hour or two of privacy.
1126, he texted, and waited for Shane’s reply.
Shane: Seriously?! Best news ever. See you soon.
Ilya chuckled, set an alarm on his phone, and went to meet his boyfriend.
* * *
Acknowledgements
I would first of all like to thank my editor, Mackenzie Walton, who made this weird story so much better. I would also like to thank my husband, Matt, who listened to me nervously read this entire book out loud to him and responded with nothing but enthusiasm and support.
I also am grateful to HBO for producing a documentary series called 24/7, which followed the Pittsburgh Penguins and the Washington Capitals in 2011. The series planted the seed for this story all those years ago (not that the characters in this book are based on any actual people, of course).
Now available from Carina Press and Rachel Reid,
New York Admirals captain Scott Hunter takes his pregame rituals very seriously. In this case, it’s not just a lucky smoothie he’s craving—it’s the man who made it.
Read on for an excerpt from
Game Changer.
Chapter One
Tuesday, January 14 was the day Kip Grady learned that loud blenders and hangovers didn’t mix.
He hadn’t meant to drink so much last night, but Chuck and Jimmy had been in town and he hadn’t seen those guys in months. It wasn’t like he’d gotten wrecked. He had been aware that he needed to be at work at six the next morning, but he’d still managed to drink just enough to make the high-powered blenders his mortal enemy.
But he had a job to do. And that job was to make the best damn smoothie he could for the busy-looking woman waiting at the counter.
&n
bsp; “Here you are, ma’am.” He tried not to wince as he handed the customer her order. “One Green Warrior smoothie with a wheatgrass shot.”
He glanced at the clock. Six thirty. Jesus Christ.
There was no time to rest his head on the inviting pile of oranges that sat on the counter. The weekday morning rush at Straw+Berry tended to be steady right up until nine. Maria was working with him this morning, and that was cool. They worked well together because, while neither of them was particularly invested in this job, they took it seriously and did everything they were supposed to. Plus, she was funny.
“Which of these damn smoothies cures a hangover?” Kip moaned when the shop was briefly empty.
“Um, none. But allegedly the watermelon one.”
“Okay. I’m going to make myself a giant watermelon one with, like, five Advils in it.”
“I think you mean five ‘wellness boosts.’”
Kip did make himself a giant watermelon smoothie, and he did feel slightly better after drinking it. He took two Advil.
“So what were you up to last night, anyway?” Maria asked.
“Oh, just hanging out with some college friends.”
“Yeah? Are they cute?”
“Nah. I don’t know. Not my type.” Chuck was big, burly, and bearded. Jimmy was the complete opposite: short, slim, and looked about seven years younger than he actually was.
“Are they super-successful juice-bar baristas too?”
“They got jobs in their field. They’re both working in Boston. Business something? Insurance? Finance? I don’t know. They wear suits to work.”
“You wear an apron. That’s pretty great.”
“Yeah, I’m super proud.”
“And a ball cap with a little strawberry embroidered on it. Come on!”
Kip threw a chunk of frozen pineapple at her.
“Tell you what, Kipper. I’m going to be nice and do all the prep work in the back this morning so you can just rest your pretty head when the rush is over.”
“Yeah?”
“Yup!”
“You are the best and I love you,” he sighed happily.
“I know. Now look alive! We’ve got businesswomen coming in and they want liquefied kale!”
It was another hour of steady rush before Kip was finally able to enjoy the quiet that Maria had promised him. She went to the back room to chop fruit and vegetables, and he slumped into a chair he had dragged behind the counter and pressed his face against the wall. It was a nice, cool wall.
He hadn’t even realized he had closed his eyes until he was startled by someone clearing their throat. Not aggressively. Just enough to let him know they were there.
He opened his eyes and stood quickly. “Sorry, sir,” he stammered. “What can I—?”
Kip’s mouth may have dropped open like a cartoon character’s. Possibly his jaw was on the floor, and his tongue may have rolled out of his mouth like a carpet. It just so happened that the hottest man he had ever seen was standing in front of him.
“Um, what can I get for you?” Kip managed.
The man was tall, blond, and, well, ripped. And Kip knew he was ripped because he was wearing a ridiculously tight Under Armour zip-up jacket thing and sweatpants. He must have just finished a run, the way his damp hair clung to his forehead and his skin glistened with sweat.
“Good morning,” the sweaty man said cheerfully. “Sorry to wake you.”
Kip’s cheeks flushed. He dipped his head a bit so the brim of the stupid baseball cap would conceal it. God, the hottest man in the world is standing in front of me and I am wearing an apron and a strawberry baseball cap.
“You didn’t... I wasn’t...” Kip took a breath. Pull it together! “Sorry. Had a bit too much fun last night.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “On a Monday night?”
“Yeah, well, you know the life of a smoothie maker...live fast, die young, right?”
The man laughed. Kip nearly fell over.
“So what’s good here?” the man asked, squinting at the menu.
“Um, there’s one with blueberries and pineapple and kale—but you can’t taste the kale, I swear! It’s good. I like it.”
“That would be the...Blue Moon Over Brooklyn?”
“Yeah. All the names here are kinda dumb.”
The man pointed a long finger at Kip’s name tag. “I like your name.”
Kip glanced at his own name on the tag, as if he didn’t know what it said. Like an idiot.
“It’s, like, a nickname,” he said, as if the hot guy had asked him for further information. Which he had not. But Kip kept talking because that’s what he always did. “I mean, everyone calls me Kip. So it is my name. But not, like, my real name. It’s, um... Anyway. You want one of those blueberry smoothies?”
“Sounds good,” the man said, politely ignoring how fucking dumb Kip was being.
Kip got to work loading the blender with various frozen fruits and fresh kale. Fortunately it required focus, and then the machine was loud enough that he couldn’t talk over it. He glanced over it at the man, who was now standing with his hands on his hips, studying the uninspired photos of fruit that decorated the small space. Kip’s eyes didn’t know where to land, rapidly jumping from broad shoulders to ridiculously huge arms to a muscled back tapering into a trim waist to an ass that was frankly just—
Kip shook his head and turned off the blender. He fumbled for a plastic cup and filled it with blue smoothie. “Here you are, sir.”
The man turned, nodded, and handed Kip a folded, slightly damp twenty-dollar bill from the pocket of his sweatpants. He waved his hand when Kip tried to hand him his change. “Keep it.”
“Seriously?” Kip asked, watching him take his first sip. Watching his pink lips fit around the straw.
“Yeah.” The man smiled. “We’ll call it a finder’s fee. This is delicious.”
Kip smiled back. “Glad you like it. Have a nice day.”
The man toasted him with his smoothie cup. “You too, Kip.”
Kip felt a little giddy at the sound of his name coming from this man’s mouth. As his dream man exited, another man who was not nearly as attractive walked into the shop.
“Holy shit!” the new customer said, jerking a thumb toward the door. “That was Scott Hunter!”
“Huh?”
The man looked at Kip like he was very dumb. “Scott Hunter.”
“You mean, like, the hockey player guy?” Kip said.
“What?” came a voice from behind him. Maria stood in the doorway to the back room. “Did I seriously miss Scott Hunter?”
“I don’t think... Do you really think that was him?” Kip asked.
The customer nodded. “Oh yeah. Definitely. Surprised he shows his face around town, the way he’s been stinking up the ice lately.”
“He’s not doing well?” Kip did have some awareness of who Scott Hunter was, of course—everyone did, sports fan or not. He was the star center and team captain of the New York Admirals. Three years ago he had led Team USA to Olympic gold. But Kip mostly knew him for his Hugo Boss ads. He was a big fan of those ads.
Kip liked hockey just fine, but he hadn’t been following the NHL too closely. Scott Hunter had always been, to his knowledge, celebrated and beloved in this town. The King of New York, really. But apparently Kip had missed something.
“Yeah, he’s been terrible this season,” the customer continued. “Hasn’t scored a goal since November! Don’t know what they’re paying him all that money for. They should trade the bum.”
“Well...” Kip said, not sure how to finish. It was ridiculous, but he felt personally offended by this guy’s criticisms, and was compelled to defend Scott Hunter. “Maybe he’s just going through some stuff.”
The customer snorted. “He can go through it in the summer. W
e’re not gonna make the playoffs this year if he keeps this shit up.”
Kip still felt inexplicably angry, but shrugged it off and gave the guy his smoothie so he would leave.
When they were alone again, Maria said, “Was Scott Hunter really in here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, now that that guy mentioned it, I think it had to be. I was kind of distracted by how hot he was, but, yeah, he definitely looked like Hunter. And, uh, he gave me a huge tip.”
“How huge? We have to split it, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. It was like a thirteen-dollar tip!”
“What?”
“Well, if it was Hunter, that’s probably, like, nothing, right? He probably doesn’t care about money at all.”
“Must be nice.”
“Yeah.”
“Soooo,” Maria said, leaning over into Kip’s personal space, “he was hot?”
“Oh my god.” Kip grinned. “He was volcanic. He didn’t look real.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Workout clothes. He’d just been running, I think. Really tight workout clothes.”
“Oh my god.”
“Yup.”
“I can’t believe I missed it. If he comes back, you have to tell me. Even if I’m in the bathroom, just get me!”
“Sure, that won’t be weird.”
Maria started loading the freshly chopped fruit and vegetables into the fridges. Kip helped. They worked quietly for a few minutes.
“Hey,” Kip said, “he said my name.”
“Who? Hunter? He actually said the word ‘Kip’?”
“Yeah,” Kip said dreamily.
“God, I’ll bet when he says it, it doesn’t even sound dumb.”
Kip threw a strawberry at her.
* * *
Kip saw the headline the next morning on the train: Night of the Hunter! He leaned forward a little to read the front page of the paper of the passenger sitting opposite him. Apparently Hunter had scored a hat trick last night and got two assists in a 7–1 trouncing of Washington. Kip smiled. He felt oddly proud of him.
