by Rachel Reid
Rozanov turned and beamed at Ryan like he was delighted to see him. “Price! Thank god you are here. This goblin is bothering me.”
Ryan pressed his lips together. Goblin was an amusingly accurate description of Dallas Kent.
“Eat my nuts, Rozanov!” Kent snarled.
Rozanov made a face. “No fucking thank you.”
Behind him, Ryan heard Wyatt bark out a laugh. Ryan turned and shook his head at him.
“Sorry!” Wyatt held up his giant glove. “Sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.”
Both Rozanov and Kent had skated off to their benches, so Ryan said, “Don’t encourage Rozanov.”
“I think I might love him.”
Ryan had no beef with Rozanov. He’d played with him in Boston—had won the Stanley Cup with him, in fact—and while they hadn’t exactly been friends, Rozanov had always been nice enough to him. He was the opposite of Ryan in almost every way—flashy, and confident to the point of being obnoxious—but Ryan respected him.
Despite Rozanov and Kent sniping at each other throughout, the game was pretty relaxing for Ryan. Fun, even. Ottawa didn’t really have a proper enforcer, so he’d known it was unlikely he’d be getting into any actual fights. He spent most of the game pulling Ottawa players away from Toronto players after the whistle, and chatting with Wyatt.
And, oddly, Rozanov.
“How’s Toronto?” Rozanov asked him during a break in the second period.
“Not bad.”
“Sucks that you have to play with Kent, though.”
Ryan didn’t reply to that. “How’s Ottawa?”
“Not as bad as I thought it would be.”
Ryan didn’t think Ottawa suited Rozanov at all. He’d been as surprised as everyone else when Ottawa had announced Rozanov’s signing in July. Ilya Rozanov was flashy and loud, with his European sports car collection and his reputation as a ladies’ man. Ryan would have expected him to go somewhere like New York or L.A. or maybe Florida, since a player as talented as Rozanov could choose who he signed with. Ottawa was a seemingly random and baffling choice.
In the third period, something incredible happened: Ryan scored a goal. He’d had the puck at the blue line and, not seeing any better options, had just fired the puck at the net, hoping someone would get a rebound opportunity out of it. But the Ottawa goalie had missed it, and it had ended up streaking over his shoulder and hitting the back of the net.
“Holy shit, Price,” Rozanov chirped as Ryan skated past the Ottawa bench. “I didn’t know you could do that!”
Ryan bit his lip, but he couldn’t stop the goofy grin that took over his face. He’d scored only a handful of goals during his NHL career, so each one was pretty exciting. When he reached his own bench he was met by a chorus of “Attaboy, Pricey!” and “Nice one, Pricey!” He knew, as he sat on the bench, that there would be a close-up of his face on the televised broadcast right now. He tried to look cool.
The game ended with Toronto winning 5–2, and the team just had time to shower and put on their suits before they needed to board a plane to Montreal. Ryan was not a fan of days that involved two flights and a game, but it was probably better to get the flight over with now than to spend a night worrying about it. He didn’t understand why teams needed to fly from Ottawa to Montreal anyway. It was such a short drive.
He was exhausted, mentally and physically, by the time he fell on his bed in his Montreal hotel room. Unlike Ottawa, Montreal had a very good team, thanks in part to their star player, Shane Hollander, having an outstanding start to his season. Ryan would have to get as much rest as possible before the game tomorrow night.
But there was a text message on his phone.
From Fabian.
You scored a goal!
Ryan checked, and then double-checked, to make sure the message was from Fabian. Because it didn’t make any sense that he had watched the game. Then Ryan texted back, You watched the game?
Fabian: I was at a bar to see a friend’s band and the game was on.
Ryan: And you watched it?
Fabian: Not closely. But I saw a blue jersey with “Price” on the back so I watched for a bit.
Ryan smiled and replied with, How did I look?
He wished he could take the question back, but Fabian was already typing a reply. It seemed to take forever for his response to show up on Ryan’s phone.
Fabian: Tiny, mostly. But there was one close-up shot of you where you looked kind of...intense. And sweaty.
Oh. Ryan had no idea what to say to that. But Fabian added, It was a good look with a winky face emoji.
Ryan snorted and wrote, If you say so.
Fabian: I do say so. And then I saw you score that goal. It might be the first time I felt excited about a hockey thing.
Ryan: Happy to be your first.
Oh god. What the fuck, Ryan? What was it about Fabian that made Ryan playful? He was never playful.
Fabian: Where are you now?
Ryan: Montreal. We flew here right after the game. Another game tomorrow night.
Fabian: At least the flight is over.
Ryan: Yep. Where are you?
Fabian: Home. Trying to figure out a song.
Ryan: It’s late.
Fabian: I know. But I won’t be able to sleep until I work this out.
Ryan smiled, and wished he could see Fabian right now. He imagined his hair being disheveled from Fabian running his hand through it as he worked. Maybe he was wearing pajamas or something cozy.
Ryan: Don’t stay up too late. I’ll see you on Monday, ok?
Fabian: Ok, superstar.
* * *
Ryan took his tea the same way his mother did—orange pekoe with a big splash of milk. Unfortunately, his Columbus hotel room only had powdered coffee whitener, so the tea tasted terrible.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall and trying to process everything he had just discussed in his Skype session with his therapist. Or, more importantly, what he hadn’t discussed with her. Like the fact that Fabian brushing his delicate fingers over Ryan’s bruised knuckles had nearly made Ryan’s knees go out. Surely it had more to do with how long it had been since Ryan had last been touched by another man, but god, it had affected him. And then there’d been that chaste kiss Fabian had pressed to Ryan’s cheek last week, which Ryan swore he could still feel on his skin.
He could have also talked about the fact that he was feeling real sexual desire for the first time in a very long time. Or the fact that, as much as he liked imagining laying Fabian on top of the clothing that was strewn all over the mattress in his charming little apartment and kissing his elegant neck, Ryan was too insecure to actually attempt intimacy with anyone.
He should talk about these things, but he just couldn’t. It was too embarrassing to get into, even with a professional therapist. So when she’d asked if he had anything else he wanted to talk about, he’d just said, “Nope. I think that’s about it for today.”
Coward.
Fabian hadn’t texted him since their brief conversation in Montreal the other night, which wasn’t surprising. Frankly, the surprising thing was that he had texted Ryan in the first place. That he had watched Ryan play hockey.
Ryan picked up his phone now, just in case.
There was a message, but it was from Wyatt. I can’t believe our day off is in Columbus.
Ryan: Bored?
Wyatt: Did you know there is a Drainage Hall of Fame here?
Ryan grinned, and wrote, I heard the lines are pretty crazy this time of year, though.
Wyatt didn’t respond right away, and Ryan started to worry that he didn’t get his joke.
Wyatt: Maybe we can buy a speed pass. Skip the lines.
Ryan: What are you really doing today?
Wyatt: I was thinking about doing literally anything
else. Wanna grab lunch?
Ryan: Yeah!
* * *
“Holy shit! Check it out, Pricey!” Wyatt held up a seemingly random issue of a comic book that he’d pulled out of a long box crammed full of comics. When Ryan didn’t respond with the level of excitement Wyatt obviously thought this treasure warranted, Wyatt explained, “I’ve been looking for this for years. It’s the only Norm Breyfogle Batman comic I don’t have.”
“Oh. Cool.”
Wyatt kissed the plastic wrapper on the comic. “I love Columbus!”
Ryan laughed and followed Wyatt to another box of comics. It had, in fact, been an enjoyable afternoon. Wyatt found a really nice brewpub for the two of them to have lunch at, and after lunch (and a couple of beers) they’d wandered around downtown Columbus, which wasn’t a bad place at all. Then Wyatt had led them to this comic shop, which Ryan suspected had been his plan all along.
The afternoon had been a good distraction. If Wyatt hadn’t invited him out, Ryan probably would have spent the day in his hotel room, daydreaming about Fabian. He needed to stop wishing for impossible Fabian-related things, like kissing his sexy mouth. Fabian, he was sure, hadn’t wanted to kiss him now any more than he had when they’d been teenagers. Fabian probably had a boyfriend. Or a lineup of beautiful men who wanted to kiss him. Or, most likely, both.
And Ryan was still a dumb hockey player. Still much too large, much too awkward, much too boring for brilliant, gorgeous, confident Fabian.
“You heard about the party, right?” Wyatt asked as he inspected another bagged comic.
“Party?”
“Yeah. Kent’s birthday party.”
Ugh. “Oh. I think I heard some of the guys talking about that. Are you going?”
“Sure. Team party. Of course I’m going. Aren’t you?”
He almost said no, but he remembered his coach’s warning that he wanted Ryan to be a team player off the ice, as well as on. “When is it?”
“Next Friday at Kent’s house. Kent’s mansion, I should say.”
Next Friday. Why did that seem like a significant day? Ryan pondered it as Wyatt moved on to examining the shelves of colorful books that lined one wall of the comic shop. Ryan pulled a book with a bright pink spine off the shelf and flipped through it. The story looked very weird and confusing, full of bizarre-looking alien characters and floating heads yelling things in outer space. He put it back.
“Maybe there will be a cute guy at the party for you,” Wyatt said with a grin. Ryan rolled his eyes. “What? You never know.”
“I’m not going to meet someone at Dallas Kent’s fucking birthday party.”
Birthday party. Right. Next Friday night was when Fabian and his friends were going to that club to celebrate Tarek’s birthday. Damn. It was probably unlikely that Ryan would have actually joined them at that club anyway. But it sure sounded more appealing than a party celebrating Dallas goddamned Kent.
“You should read this,” Wyatt said. He handed Ryan a thick book that said Daredevil on it. “It’s about a sad sack who sacrifices his body every night to save others. You’d like it.”
Ryan attempted a menacing glare. “I’m not a sad sack,” he lied.
“You know what? Most superhero comics are about self-sacrificing sad sacks, now that I think about it.”
“You saying I’m a superhero?”
“No question.” Wyatt grabbed another book off the shelf and added to a small stack he had built on the floor. “Speaking of, have you thought any more about visiting the community center with me?”
Ryan hadn’t thought about it at all. “You still want me to?”
“Definitely. Like I said, the kids will love you. I’ll let you know next time I go, okay?”
“Sure. I guess. If you really think they’d want me there.”
“Trust me, it’ll be great. You’ll love them.” Wyatt hefted the stack of books off the floor and handed it to Ryan with a playful smile.
Ryan rolled his eyes and accepted the heavy pile. “How are you even going to fit these in your suitcase?”
“Easy. I’ll throw some of my clothes in the garbage.”
Ryan snorted and shook his head. He took the books to the counter so Wyatt could pay for them.
“Well,” Wyatt said a few minutes later when they were standing outside the store. “We could just go back to the hotel. Or...we could go check out the world’s largest gavel.”
“What?”
Wyatt looked at his phone. “It’s outside the Supreme Court Building.” He frowned. “Oh. It’s only the second-largest gavel now. They built a bigger one in Illinois.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“Yeah. Fuck that. I’m not lugging these books around Columbus just to look at the second-largest gavel. Largest or nothing. Let’s head back.”
It seemed Ryan would have time to daydream about kissing Fabian after all.
Chapter Eleven
When Ryan arrived at the café on Monday night, Fabian was nowhere to be seen. There was a small stage—really just a slightly elevated corner of the room—which was empty besides a stool and a microphone stand. A few patrons sat at tables, but it was mostly quiet in the room.
Ryan did not like this situation at all.
Maybe he should text Fabian to confirm that this open mic was still happening, and that Fabian would indeed be coming to it. Maybe Ryan had gotten the location wrong. Maybe he should just leave and apologize later if he needed to.
Oh god. Ryan had just been standing, frozen, at the café entrance and now people were staring at him.
He made a decision, and went to the counter to order something. He could sit and nurse a beverage for a bit, and if Fabian didn’t show up, he could leave.
The barista was a young woman who looked far cooler than Ryan could ever hope to be, but she smiled warmly when he approached the counter. “You here for the open mic?”
“Uh, yeah. I was worried I was in the wrong place maybe.”
“Nope. It’s not usually a big crowd. Mondays, y’know?”
“Right.”
“Are you playing tonight?”
For a moment, Ryan thought she recognized him and was asking about a hockey game. Then he realized what she was actually asking him.
“Me? God, no. No. I’m here to see a...friend.”
“Ah. Can I get you something?”
Ryan ordered a tea, and wished he had noticed before that the café was licensed. He would have preferred a beer. But she was already preparing his orange pekoe, so he didn’t say anything.
He found an empty table, sat, and waited, staring at the steam rising off his tea like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Then he remembered that he had an e-book on his phone he could read. Thank god for books.
He had been comfortably reading for about half an hour when he heard Fabian’s voice behind him. Ryan turned and saw both Fabian and Vanessa, and a third person—a young Black man—who Ryan didn’t recognize.
Fabian spotted him immediately and waved. He seemed to have brought only his violin tonight.
“You came!” he said cheerfully when he reached the table. He fell into the chair next to Ryan while Vanessa and the other man pulled chairs over from nearby tables to join them. “Have you been waiting long? I should have warned you that this thing always starts late.”
“It’s okay. I was reading.”
“Oh good. You remember Vanessa? And this is Marcus, her roommate and one of our very best friends. Marcus, this is Ryan.”
Marcus extended a hand. “Oh, I have been dying to meet you.”
Ryan warily shook his hand, and Fabian slapped Marcus’s arm. “Don’t listen to him, Ryan. He’s just trying to embarrass me.”
Ryan tried not to think too much about what that might mean. Instead he said, “It’s a lot quieter
here than it was at your show.” He noticed that Fabian was dressed very casually—jeans, a black sweater, and just a trace of eyeliner. When Fabian leaned forward, Ryan could see his collarbone peeking out of the wide neck of the sweater.
“Oh, this place is dead,” Fabian said casually. “I like that, though. It’s a good place to try stuff out.”
“The place would be packed if people knew he was playing tonight,” Vanessa said.
“As if.” Then Fabian smiled. “Well, yes. Probably. But it’s a very small room.”
“So you play for the Guardians?” Marcus said.
“Yes. Last I heard anyway.” It was a joke that would work better in hockey circles, but Marcus smiled politely.
“You played Saturday night. The bar I work at shows the games early in the evening. I didn’t see the end. Did you win?”
“We did. It was a good one.”
“What are you drinking?” Fabian asked. “I’ll buy a round.”
“Um, tea.”
“You’re not buying me anything, Fabian,” Vanessa scolded. “Sit down.”
“I’ll buy,” Ryan said. “I was thinking of getting a beer, and hockey pays pretty well, so...”
“I’ll bet it does,” Marcus purred. “I like your new friend, Fabian.”
Ryan stood, and Fabian offered to go with him. Ryan was grateful because he was worried he would forget everyone’s orders. When they were away from the table, Fabian said, “Sorry about them. They’re sort of...overly interested in you.”
“Really? Why?”
And for a moment it really looked like Fabian might be blushing a bit. “I don’t know. I guess because they know how I feel about hockey players and they probably think it’s funny that I—” He shook his head. “They’re just being dumb. You’re a curiosity because you’re new.”
“Okay.”
They ordered everyone’s drinks and Ryan paid. Everyone had ordered a beer or a wine, so they didn’t have to wait long for them. Ryan picked up two pints of beer and was about to carry them to the table when Fabian put a hand on his arm. “Wait.”
