by Leigh Carman
I glance over and see that Van has the sheets balled up in his fists. His eyes glitter with an emotion I can’t quite pinpoint. Is he pissed? Disappointed? I hold my breath and wait for Van to respond.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I whisper.
Van’s face softens, and he tugs on my arm, pulling me onto his lap. “It’s not you, baby,” he says, his warm breath on my face, his mouth mere inches from mine. “It’s that asshole ex of yours.” Van closes his eyes and shakes his head. When he opens them, he meets my worried gaze, and his fingers press into my hips. “I could give a shit about the photos, Toby. What I care about, who I care about, is you. I hate what that prick did to you.” The muscles in Van’s cheek twitch.
“I’m okay now,” I whisper as I run a finger over his clenched jaw.
“If I ever see that motherfucker again,” Van growls.
“You won’t. He’s going to jail, Van.” I adjust my position on his lap, and Van hisses as I move my legs to straddle his thick thighs. Van moves his hands to wrap his arms around me. “I just want you to know I can’t guarantee the pictures won’t get printed someday.”
“I could give a fuck about pictures, Toby. That bastard hurt you. That’s what I care about.”
“He did. But he’s gone.” I place my hands on either side of his handsome face and hold him close. “I have you now. You’d never hurt me.”
“I wouldn’t,” Van says, brushing his nose against my cheek. He pulls back with a jerk and regards me, gaping, as if just putting two and two together. “Wait a minute. You mentioned something about making money from software and…. Christ, Toby, you paid that fucker a million dollars.” He tilts his head and stares at me with a curious expression. “How much money do you have, exactly?”
My face bursts into flames, and I drop my gaze as I mumble, “I sold the program for twenty million dollars.”
When I peek back up at Van, he’s goggling at me. “Twenty million….” Something flashes across his face, and he narrows his eyes at me. “Why in the hell are you living in that shitty apartment?”
I shrug. “Austin was the one who loved the money. A lot. He wanted to live in a house like your old one. Cold, emotionless, screaming of wealth. It made me feel sick, like the money was tainted somehow.”
“Baby,” Van breathes and puts his arms around me. He runs his hands up and down my back. “I have plenty of money for both of us. If you want to donate yours or start a charity, or hell, just let it sit there, I don’t care. You don’t have to use it if it makes you feel bad.”
“Maybe,” I agree. Though the thought of starting a charity sounds pretty good. “What about a foundation to help gay kids in sports? Speak to schools and try to change the homophobic attitudes people have.”
Van hugs me tighter. “That would be great, baby.”
I revel in the feel of his warm body around mine, protecting me, loving me. “I love you.”
“Me too, baby. So much. Now—” Van lightly smacks my ass. “—let’s get you all moved in. I’m ready to start the rest of my life.”
I climb off his lap, grinning. “Sounds good to me.”
Van
Two months later.
I TAKE a deep breath and look around. The stadium in Dallas is enormous. One of the most modern facilities in the NFL, along with ours in LA. The stands are filled to capacity, the Wild Cats navy and yellow standing out against the orange and white of our opponents.
“Archer! Wake up!” Cal slaps my back, pulling me out of my reverie.
“I’m here, I’m here,” I laugh.
Cal slings an arm around my shoulders. “Back-to-back Super Bowls. Who woulda thought?” He takes his turn glancing around the big stadium.
“I know. I can’t believe it.” It has been a crazy couple of months since coming out. Not everyone has been kind, but I pretty much expected some of the players to act like assholes. Hell, some of the players are assholes.
Shockingly, Colton Rivers pulled me aside one day and asked me to lunch. I was taking a bite of my sandwich when he confessed he’s bisexual and has been seeing Walt, our trainer, for over a year. He’s not ready to come out yet, and I get it. Plus, he said Walt would have a harder time. There would be guys who wouldn’t want a gay man touching their bodies in the manner required by the trainer.
“Toby get situated at your place?” Cal asks.
I peek over Cal’s shoulder to see Toby and Leo sitting in the players’ section with some of the wives and girlfriends. It’s hard to miss Leo and his bleached head of hair. Today it’s tousled into another fauxhawk, this time with pink tips. Leo throws his head back and laughs with one of the women. Toby is grinning at them both while they talk.
“Yep. He’s good.” Toby looks over, and our eyes meet. He winks, and I can’t help but smile back.
“You are so whipped, man,” Cal laughs.
I smack his abs but grin. “I know.”
Coach calls us all off the field, practice time over. Ronnie and Justice avoid me like the plague, which is no skin off my back. Most of the team is fine with me, though a few shoot me strange looks now and then, as if waiting to catch me ogling their ass. The rest could give a shit who I love.
The most surprising thing about my coming out was a few weeks later, when a seasoned player from another team announced he was gay. Then a top college prospect, predicted to go first in the draft this spring. We’re making progress, one step at a time.
Coach calls us together for our pregame pep talk. Then it’s time. When we take to the field, our fans cheer louder than ever, some of them clutching rainbow flags in their hands as they shout and holler.
I find Toby in the stands again and give him a wave. He holds up his own rainbow flag, and I grin behind my face mask.
No matter what happens today, tomorrow, the next day, I have what I want, who I want, to make me happy. Right now, standing on the field at the Super Bowl, I’m shocked at how much my life has changed in the past year. I’m surrounded by my team, with my man looking on, no longer hiding from the world, and I’m going to enjoy every single moment I’ve been blessed with.
Toby moved in and is looking into starting a foundation for gay youth in sports and has never been happier.
Regardless of the outcome of tonight’s game, the ring that’s been burning a hole in my pocket is hidden in my locker for later, guaranteeing that tonight will be the best night of my life. I have no doubt Toby will say yes to my proposal, making me the luckiest bastard on earth.
Exclusive Excerpt
Two-Man Advantage
A Players of LA Novel
By Leigh Carman
A hockey star skating on the edge of a catastrophe.
A PR specialist so adept, he’s called “the Fixer.”
Working together will be the biggest challenge of both their careers.
The LA Vikings hockey team is fed up the violent outbursts of its huge, intimidating enforcer, Viktor Novak. Hounded by a homophobic and domineering father, Viktor takes out his frustrations by spilling blood—on and off the ice. Now he has one last chance to clean up his image, or his career is over.
That’s where Bowen Miller comes in.
Bo has taken on the hardest cases and succeeded—by micromanaging every aspect of a client’s life—at the expense of his own happiness. But in the stubborn, hot mess that is Viktor, Bo might have met his match—both in and out of the bedroom. One man is out of control, and one controls everything. But when sex and attraction come into play, those roles are open to negotiation.
Coming Soon to
www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Prologue
THE GOOD thing about everyone thinking you’re a complete fuckup? No one has any expectations ruined when you fail.
—Viktor Novak, Left Wing for the LA Vikings
Chapter 1
Viktor
YOU EVER have one of those days where nothing goes right? And I don’t mean a “stubbed your big toe and managed to hit every single
red light” kind of day. I mean the kind of day where so much shit goes fucking wrong you honestly begin to believe someone up there somewhere is laughing their ass off at your expense.
Yeah, that’s the kind of day I’m having.
Still wearing my skates, I stomp from the bench to the locker room and haul back my arm, whipping it forward to hurl my stick at the dark cherry cabinets lining the walls. Each polished wood cubby has a shiny brass plaque inscribed with a player’s name and number. With a satisfying crack, the stick takes a huge divot out of the wood above Sandusky’s locker, leaving a big ugly gouge, but I could give a fuck. After being ejected from the game with three minutes to go and my team down by one goal, they’re lucky I didn’t whip off a skate and throw it blade first at the ref, nicking an artery instead of a fancy wood cabinet.
I strip and shower so fast, by the time my teammates file in, my pants are on as well as a white tee that exposes the bright sleeve of tattoos I have down one arm. Their silence combined with the multiple scowls shot in my direction say enough to let me know we not only lost the game, but they all pretty much blame me for said loss. Of course I was fighting—again—and was tossed out—again—giving the Bruins the advantage of a power play in the final minutes of the game.
It’s not my fault that motherfucking Romanov hooked me and the refs didn’t call it! “Novak! Get your ass in my office. Now!”
A low grumble rises from my teammates, about me getting another “Viktor Novak hat trick.” (When you get into three fights in one game and get tossed.) Their mumbling is background noise to the accompaniment of my walk of shame to Coach Bouchard’s office. Coach B, as we call him—or Jimmy when he’s in a good mood, which is never—appears angrier than usual, and the man is angry a lot. Hell, he’s head coach for an NHL team. Most of the coaches hover somewhere between foaming at the mouth and mushroom-cloud-nuclear 90 percent of their waking hours.
“Close the goddamn door, Novak,” he says in a dangerously low voice with his back to me as he throws his suit coat on his chair, yanks off his tie, and shoves his already rolled-up sleeves farther up his thick forearms. Without warning, Jimmy spins around, his face near purple with rage. “Fucking Christ, Vik!” He slams his fists down on his desk, rattling the clutter scattered across the top. “Can’t you control yourself for one game? Just one fucking game!” Coach holds up a single finger, waving it under my nose.
“Coach, I—”
“I don’t want to hear your bullshit, Novak.” Jimmy drops into his chair, the poor thing creaking miserably under his muscular bulk. For a guy who hasn’t played professional hockey in years, Coach B is still a big man. “Sit,” he barks, pointing a thick finger at a chair.
I scowl but sink into it, still furious over the penalty that got me ejected from the game. Isaac Romanov, defenseman for the Boston Bruins, hooked me, causing me to crash to the ground. The refs didn’t call the penalty, even though I know they saw him do it. That was the third time he’d pulled the same shit tonight. I was pissed but holding it together until Romanov skated past me and shouted “faggot.” That’s what it finally took for me to lose control of my very, very volatile temper.
“You charged another player, flipped off his helmet, and elbowed him in the face, Novak!” Coach pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger, making a concerted effort to keep his breathing steady. “Three fights in one goddamn game. Again! Not only that, there was blood pouring from Romanov’s nose spilling everywhere, on his uniform, on the ice….” Coach pauses to control his steadily rising voice. “And did you forget that tonight was donation night for the children’s hospital? There are a couple hundred kids crying in the stands because of your gruesome little display!” Coach B drops his hand and stares, dark eyes trapping me from across the messy expanse of desk. Instantly I feel like a little kid again, disappointing my dad as usual, my father giving me the pitying look he used to make me feel like shit. Me. The loser, the bad seed, the one who couldn’t—and still can’t—live up to my dad’s expectations and likely never will. “Upper management has been watching you, Vik. They’re tired of the penalties and the violence. Tonight crossed the line.”
I jump to my feet. “That’s total bullshit, Coach! Fans love the fighting! It’s why half of them buy tickets!” I sweep my hand toward the stadium. “They come just to see me brawl! They fucking love me!”
“You may be right, Vik, but management doesn’t want to frighten children. They want to win. They want a goddamn Stanley Cup, and so do I. That’s not going to happen with my best player constantly disrupting the game, sitting on his ass in the penalty box instead of being a productive member of the team. It isn’t the Viktor Novak show out there no matter how much you want to believe it!”
I shrink back, not so much from Coach’s tone, but his cutting words. “I play my heart out for this team, Jimmy.”
“You may think you’re playing for the team, Vik, but you’re not. You’re playing against whatever shit is stuck in your head.”
“That’s a bunch of psychobabble bullcrap, Coach.”
“It’s not, Vik. You are not an enforcer. You’re a winger. You should be leading this goddamn team. Hell, you should be captain. The fighting has gotten worse and worse to the point it’s costing us wins as well as your reputation on the ice, my reputation as a coach, and our reputation as a club! You think those kids or that hospital will ever associate with the Vikings again?” Coach B slumps in his chair and sighs, causing my stomach to clench. I can tell whatever he’s about to say isn’t going to be good. “They want to suspend you for four games.”
Furious, I leap to my feet again. “You can’t bench me, I’m your best goddamn player. Come on, Coach! That’s fucking insane!”
Coach holds up a hand. “Upper management wants your image improved. Fans are also beginning to resent you for costing the team wins, even if they enjoy the fights and wear your jersey. Wins we could have had in the bag if you were on the ice instead of brooding like a big fucking baby in the penalty box.”
I open my mouth to speak, but Coach cuts me off.
“They’re bringing in a public relations specialist, a crisis manager, to make you likable again and to teach you to control your goddamn temper. If you can prove your dedication to the team, they’ll drop the suspension to one game.”
“Coach—”
“Save your breath. The decision has already been made, Vik. Go home. Get some sleep. If you don’t agree to this, you will not be traveling with the team on our next trip or playing in the next two home games.”
“Coach!”
“If you like your job you will shut the fuck up right now, Novak.” Coach’s eyes are bulging, and his face is an odd shade of magenta. “You will do everything the specialist says or make no mistake, I’ll trade you to the worst team in the league where you can freeze your nuts off riding the bench for the rest of your natural life!” Spittle flies from Coach’s lips as he hands me my ass on a skewer.
I snap my mouth shut, swallowing back the vitriol I so desperately want to unleash. No way would the Vikings trade me. Not a chance in hell. Threats or not, it’s all bullshit. My contract is too big, and I’m too much of an asset. Or am I?
“I’m setting up an appointment with the fixer. Hopefully he can meet Monday morning. I’ll have Dom send you the info. You will be there, awake, alert, and ready to do whatever the fuck the relations specialist says. You got all that through your thick skull, or have you taken too many hits to the head to process it?”
Teeth grinding, I speak through tight lips. For now, I go along with it, even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to tell Coach to fuck off. Only years of submitting to my father has me choking out a response. “Yes, Coach.”
“Now get the fuck out of my sight.”
I stand up, resisting the urge to pick up the flimsy chair and smash it against the wall, and storm out of Coach’s office. Of course the press has gathered into a rabid crowd, packed around the locker room exit, shouting q
uestions about my ejection from the game and spewing inflammatory remarks to get me to react. Anything to poke the angry bear into giving them a tabloid-worthy sound bite for their pathetic little columns and blogs. I shove in my earbuds, crank up some loud beats, and pass by without so much as a glance in their direction.
After having more than my share of parking-lot altercations with pushy reporters, all of which ended up with one of them shoved against a car and nearly pissing their pants in fear, no one follows me to my truck anymore. I climb into my gunmetal-gray Ford Raptor and tear out of the complex, the loud snarl of my modified, supercharged engine drowning out the noise of Los Angeles at night.
Naturally I get caught in the tangle of traffic leaving the arena, which only serves to increase my already sky-high blood pressure. Thank fuck my windows are tinted dark and my truck is jacked high enough off the ground so people in the surrounding cars can’t see in. The last thing I need is some angry jerk-off fan spouting shit over my role in the Viking’s loss tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time I got in an altercation with a fan, but it might be my last if Coach was serious about me changing my attitude.
Halfway home and still fuming, my phone rings. I groan when I see the name on my truck’s integrated Bluetooth display.
Sergey.
Reluctantly, I hit the Answer button on my steering wheel, and immediately regret it. “What the hell were you thinking, little bro?”
My jaw pulses as I tamp down the urge to tell my brother to fuck off. “Well, good evening to you, Serg,” I say sarcastically, tightening my grip on the wheel. “Shouldn’t you be on the ice right now?”
