Off the Ice

by Avon Gale

  Sitting on the sidelines while the Venom played in the Stanley Cup playoffs? All he could do was watch.

  The first round wasn’t too bad. The Venom played the Pittsburgh Condors, and won the series in five games. The most stressful moment for Sebastian had been during the last game, which had been in Atlanta and had gone to sudden-death overtime. He’d been so on edge that at one point he’d turned to Tabby Bellamy and said, “How do you do this?”

  She’d grinned at him. “You just do. But before you ask, no. You never get used to it.”

  Sebastian had dragged both hands through his hair and ignored R.J.’s smirking next to him. R.J., who was now dating his colleague Maura, was planning to bring her along to the games if the Venom ended up facing Maura’s favorite team, the New York Admirals.

  When the puck had found the back of the net thirteen minutes into the double-overtime period, Sebastian wasn’t sure he’d ever screamed so loudly in his life. He’d high-fived everyone around him in the arena, which was going crazy. He had to admit that sports were maybe a little more fun than he’d thought. Tristan had been wound up as hell after the game...right until the second he’d gotten to Sebastian’s apartment after all the interviews. He’d passed out almost immediately, and their victory celebration had had to wait until the morning. Sebastian couldn’t blame him, given how long Tristan had spent on the ice.

  Sebastian got a bit of ribbing from Maura about the series against the New York Admirals, and since Tristan had scored Maura tickets for the game, it was kind of interesting to have someone there rooting for the other team. It would have been an interesting sociological experiment, if Sebastian weren’t experiencing sports-nerves for the first time in his life. It didn’t help that he was in the middle of grading final exams, either. He had no idea how Tristan managed to deal with the stress of uncertainty—like taking exams for the rest of your life, in front of twenty thousand people.

  He did figure out how to deal with Tristan’s stress in private, however. The night before the sixth game against the Admirals, Sebastian was grading papers and trying to ignore Tristan pacing a hole through his floor. It wasn’t only the pacing that was making it hard for Sebastian to concentrate. Tristan was tense in a way that he usually only was on the ice, shoulders stiff and jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might crack from the pressure. Sebastian couldn’t blame him, not with the grueling schedule of playing a competitive sport and all the travel involved, but it was still driving him crazy. Waves of anxiety poured out of Tristan, making Sebastian finally put his papers down and say in a firm voice, “Come over here.”

  Tristan made his way over, his eyes wide. He had a bit of a bruise on his left cheekbone from getting a cross-check to the face (which had not been called as a penalty, something that still incensed Sebastian), and blond scruff from his playoff beard. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I know I’m probably driving you nuts, huh. I can go work out if you want.”

  Sebastian did want to give him a workout, but he had a much better idea. “No. I’ll worry that you’ll hurt yourself, and then I’d have to explain to your entire hockey team that their star defenseman can’t play because I got annoyed by him pacing and made him go use the elliptical.”

  “I was thinking I’d lift.” A smile curved the edge of Tristan’s mouth.

  “Oh, okay, great. Then it’d be, ‘Sorry, Tristan has a fractured ankle because he dropped a weight on himself.’”

  Tristan crossed his arms and scowled. With the beard, he looked like a very cranky hipster Viking. “Hey. I’m not the one who drops weights. Ahem.” He coughed into his fist, a very poorly disguised, “Sebastian.”

  Sebastian gave him his professor look. “Someone overestimated the amount of weight I could lift.”

  “You run marathons, though.”

  “Tristan, get on your knees,” Sebastian ordered, spreading his legs and pointing to the space between. It never failed to give him a thrill when Tristan complied, quickly and eagerly, steadying himself with his hands on Sebastian’s thighs. He looked pleased with himself.

  Sebastian picked up one of the exams he had left to grade, undoing his pants with his free hand. “Suck me off. Don’t rush it, either. I have six papers left, and you better not make me come before I’m finished grading them.”

  Tristan slid his warm fingers over Sebastian’s dick, starting to stroke it slowly. “Is my giving you a blowjob gonna mean they get better grades, since I’m so good at it?”

  Sebastian reached out and casually smacked him across the face, then spoke with calculated dismissiveness. “I want to hear you sucking me, not speaking.”

  Tristan made a sound, but applied himself to the task at hand admirably. He sucked Sebastian with all his pent-up nerves and enthusiasm, which got Sebastian to the edge before he’d even finished the first paper. He slapped him again, loving the way Tristan’s eyes went hot and unfocused, the way Tristan’s face still turned red even though it was covered by blond scruff. “Take your time. Remember you’re supposed to make this last.” He grabbed Tristan’s chin with his hand, forcing his gaze up and speaking sharply. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

  Tristan moaned around his dick, and Sebastian went back to grading. He was definitely going to have to redo them, since he was only pretending to pay attention to the answers and was way too distracted by Tristan’s mouth. At the end, he gave up entirely and grabbed Tristan’s head with two hands, holding him steady and saying, “Get yourself off before I finish or you can go to bed hard.”

  Sebastian saw Tristan’s elbow moving as he jacked himself off, and Sebastian half closed his eyes and let himself fuck Tristan’s throat rough and fast. Tristan might have technically come a few seconds after Sebastian, but he was too caught up in his own orgasm to care.

  “Thanks for that,” Tristan said, later, when they were in bed. He yawned. “That really did help. You know if we win tomorrow, it’ll be a thing, right? Like a superstition blowjob.”

  “I guess I can handle that,” Sebastian drawled, then turned his head so he could kiss him. “If you don’t win, that better not mean I don’t ever get another one, though.”

  Tristan laughed, and it wasn’t long before he fell asleep. Sebastian stroked his hand through Tristan’s hair a few times, then sighed, got out of bed, and went to finish grading.

  The Venom won the next game, ensuring that Sebastian’s cock would not go unsucked during the rest of the playoffs. He knew by now how seriously Tristan took his pregame superstitions, though apparently he should be glad Tristan wasn’t a goalie.

  Sebastian’s grades were all turned in by the time the Venom met the Memphis Marauders in the Eastern Conference final. The fact that the two teams were arch-rivals made the already intense series even more so, and Sebastian wasn’t sure he could handle the Stanley Cup Final if it was somehow worse. He was hoarse after the second game, had decided he hated the Memphis Marauders, and found himself muttering to R.J. about the refs having a clear anti-Venom bias until R.J. lost the battle to keep a straight face and cracked up laughing.

  Whatever. This was stupid. Why did anyone do this to themselves? Why did Sebastian care so much? Maura tried giving him a book about the sociology of sports fans, but he could barely read a take-out menu right now, much less a book. He couldn’t comprehend the stress Tristan was under, and he was torn between wanting his boyfriend’s team to make the Cup Final and also secretly hoping Tristan would be able to shave at some point.

  The beard was nice, but it was getting a bit mountain-man-ish for his tastes.

  The series went to seven games, and everyone who wasn’t a fan of either team was thrilled about the “excitement of a game seven.” Sebastian wanted to find those people and glare at them for an hour or two, because there was nothing exciting about this. Especially since the game was in Memphis, and he’d already decided he hated the city, the stupid one-way streets downtown, and their barbe
que. Who put coleslaw on barbeque anyway?

  Of course the game went to overtime—not once, but twice. Sebastian stood with his arms crossed, scarcely blinking, the roar of the crowd deafening as they watched the players race up and down the ice. He couldn’t even imagine how exhausted Tristan was by then, given how long he’d been out there.

  When one of the Marauders scored on Norell, the Venom’s starting goalie (who Sebastian privately thought shouldn’t have played this game), Sebastian felt a pang of disappointment as fans around him erupted into wild cheers. Of course the Memphis crowd was elated. He hoped whoever they played in the final destroyed them and their hateful barbeque. Sebastian stood, trembling with the release of all the tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying, and watched with pride as his boyfriend skated through the handshake line and shook hands with his competitors.

  “I don’t think I could do that,” R.J. said, watching next to him. Sebastian was glad he’d been able to make the trip, even though he’d spent the entire game silent and glaring at the ice as if he could mentally will the Venom to win.

  “I know I couldn’t,” Sebastian muttered, but he and R.J. gave each other a fist bump and a wry smile as they slipped out of the crowd, leaving the Marauders celebrating on the ice and the fans cheering ecstatically.

  Tristan was disappointed but composed when Sebastian found him after the game. Sebastian had brought his car down, intending to convince Tristan either way to come home with him instead of on the team plane. Tristan didn’t seem to need much convincing. His eyes were a bit red, and his smile wasn’t the thousand-watt version Sebastian had hoped to see, but he still looked...beautiful. Triumphant even in defeat, and why shouldn’t he? It had been an incredible, grueling two months, and to get this far was impressive in and of itself.

  Still. Sebastian pushed him gently against the GTO and kissed him. “I found us a hotel room for the night. We can fuck, or I’ll order you a brownie sundae and we can watch a movie. Whatever you want.” He paused. “As long as maybe you shave, first.”

  Tristan’s laugh was low, but it rumbled through him. He wrapped his arms around Sebastian and hugged him tight. “Thanks. I’m bummed, I mean, obviously. We were so fucking close.” His voice sounded a little choked. The Memphis breeze—already hot in May—stirred his damp hair. “But I’m glad you were there. Glad you’re here. It helps a lot.” He sniffed again. “Sorry. Ugh. This probably seems really stupid, right?”

  “Listen to me,” Sebastian said, taking Tristan’s face in his hands. “You fought hard and you lost. You’re allowed to be upset. Hell, Tris, I’m upset and this is the first year I’ve followed a team in any sport, ever. I can’t imagine how you feel, but if you want to cry, then cry.”

  Tristan hiccupped and put his face against Sebastian’s neck. His breath—and yeah, maybe a few tears—was warm on Sebastian’s skin. “I know. It’s part of it. But, man. You dream about winning games like this as a kid, you know? Not losing.”

  “I dreamed about fucking a hot blond hockey player over the hood of my GTO,” Sebastian murmured, running his hands up and down Tristan’s broad, muscled back.

  “Mmm. That sounds nice.” Tristan sagged against him a bit. “But maybe, first, that brownie sundae. Or, fuck, maybe a beer. I think I’ve earned it.”

  “I think you definitely have. Me too.” Sebastian pulled back and kissed him.

  Tristan kissed him back, then rested his forehead against Sebastian’s. “I hate this part, though. The part where I realize hockey is really over, and I won’t be on the ice again until next season. October seems a long way away.”

  It seemed way too soon to have to go through all of this again to Sebastian, but he kept that opinion to himself. “You’ll have classes this summer,” he reminded Tristan. “And since I won’t be teaching any of them...you can always help me grade papers.”

  Tristan smiled, then laughed. “Sounds good to me.”

  * * *

  Don’t miss Goalie Interference and Trade Deadline, the next books in the Hat Trick series by Avon Gale and Piper Vaughn!

  Reviews are an invaluable tool when it comes to spreading the word about great reads. Please consider leaving an honest review for this or any of Carina Press’s other titles that you’ve read on your favorite retailer or review site.

  It’s goalie vs. goalie in this brand-new enemies-to-lovers hockey romance from Avon Gale and Piper Vaughn...

  Read on for an excerpt from Goalie Interference, book two in the Hat Trick series.

  Emmitt woke up tangled in sheets and a hell of a tequila headache.

  He normally would have ignored the sound of his phone ringing, especially in Cabo with international rates being so absurdly high. But the ringtone was the one he’d set for his agent, and that was one call Emmitt wanted to take.

  Emmitt grabbed his phone from where it rested on top of his clothes pile and pulled on his boxer-briefs. He walked to the balcony door, slipping quietly outside. The second he left the air conditioned coolness of the room, the heat hit him in an oppressive, suffocating wave. Jesus, it was hot here. He blinked against the bright sun, moving quickly to the shaded area of the balcony as he pressed the “call accept” button. “Hey, Scott.”

  “Emmitt. How’s Cabo treating you?” Scott’s smooth voice came across the line. Emmitt doubted his agent was wincing in the sunlight, fighting off a tequila hangover and sticky from salt-and-lime-encrusted body shots. He was probably in an office somewhere, in the air conditioning, wearing a tie.

  Emmitt grinned and collapsed in the deck lounge chair. Hangover and stickiness aside, he was in a goddamn great mood and, if this call went the way he hoped it would, that mood was only going to get better. “Can’t complain. What’s up?” He knew his agent hated small talk.

  “I have some news.”

  Emmitt’s smile faded a bit, and his stomach churned gently with nerves. He told himself to ignore it, that it was just the remnants of tequila, beer and a long night, but he couldn’t help it. His instincts were the one thing he trusted, and they were telling him to beware some incoming bullshit. Scott never said “some news” if it was good.

  “Oh, yeah?” Emmitt bent one knee, running a hand over his head. He kept his hair short during the season, but it’d grown out a bit since the Final. He’d shaved the playoff beard the morning after the epic party following their win and didn’t miss it for a second.

  “This might come as a bit of a shock,” Scott said.

  Goddamn it. That was the last thing you wanted to hear from your agent. Emmitt wished he’d grabbed a bottle of water from the hotel fridge before coming outside. It was so humid that a light sheen of moisture was beading on his skin. “What is it?”

  “You’ve been traded.”

  “What the fuck.” Emmitt swung his feet over the lounger and braced them on the tile of the balcony. The sharp tang of sea air and the roar of the waves faded into the background as he tried to wrap his brain around what he was hearing. “The Raiders fucking traded me? I won them a goddamn Calder Cup!”

  Emmitt wasn’t exaggerating either. His team had played well, but he’d led the AHL the previous season in shutouts. His stellar season in net had been the primary factor in the Raiders winning the championship.

  “Yes, and you proved yourself a valuable asset. Sometimes teams need to trade their valuable assets.”

  Scott kept talking, but Emmitt was barely listening. Instead, he braced his elbows on his knees and stared down at the patterned tile. He’d been so sure that after the season he’d had—the shutouts, the Cup win—the Marauders would want him up on their roster full-time. He’d worked his ass off to impress them, and apparently he’d done it. He’d impressed them so much, they’d traded his ass somewhere else.

  Here he thought the worst thing that could happen would be spending another season with the Raiders, the Marauders’ AHL team. It had never occu
rred to him the Marauders would think he was more valuable on the trade market than between the pipes.

  “...good deal from Atlanta, it really is.”

  Blinking, Emmitt snapped his head up. Which was a mistake, thanks to his hangover and the heat, but...what? “What? Atlanta?”

  “The Venom,” Scott repeated. He sounded amused. “In the National Hockey League. That’s your new team.”

  “Are you fucking with me?” Emmitt didn’t even know how to process this, because he’d been dreaming about this moment since he’d first given serious thought to playing hockey professionally. He was dizzy and the sun was too bright, and the headache throbbed and he didn’t even care. “If you’re fucking with me, dude—”

  “I’m totally not,” Scott said, chuckling. “And, I’m allowed to tell you that you’ll most likely have a spot on the Venom’s roster.”

  “What happened to Norell?” Emmitt asked, referring to the Venom’s starting goalie.

  “Traded,” said Scott. “To the Admirals, for a couple of draft picks. It was an interesting deal.”

  “So they’re going with Mori?” Emmitt stood up, staring off at the bright, turquoise gleam of the sea beyond the glittering pale blue of the infinity pool. The swim-up bar was deserted, a far cry from the raucous party it had been the night before. Everyone was probably sleeping it off like sensible vacationers.

  Was it too early for a celebratory cocktail? No, his enthusiasm assured him.

  Yes, his dehydrated and tequila-soaked veins protested.

  “It seems like it,” Scott agreed. “But you’re both young enough, you know, if you put up a good showing in camp...”

  Emmitt knew Scott was trying to imply—without promising—he might have a shot at the starting spot on the Venom if he brought his A-game to practice. Which, of course he would. Emmitt didn’t have any other game. He grinned. “I did it. I made it to the fucking NHL, man!”