Will You Be My Escort

by Meg Harding

  The guy hip checks Nicco and stares at Dorian. Intently. It makes him want to take a step closer, makes butterflies zing around his stomach. Forget Mr. Swedish, this guy is something else. “Are you giving this guy pointers on how not to look like an idiot? I don’t know if it’s possible man.”

  And suddenly he’s surrounded by hockey players, all asking him if this or that face is a good look, and is it noticeable that they’ve got a little mascara on? And wow he kind of looks like the makeup artist. One asks him if he can translate the directions into hockey metaphors and Dorian doesn’t even know what that means. Tell them to smile like they just did something good with the puck? Scored a goal? That’s about the extent of his hockey knowledge.

  He honestly feels overwhelmed, and he works with beautiful people on a daily basis. But models don’t normally act like this, and he normally doesn’t find them all that sexually attractive. Dorian’s not a short man, but compared to these guys he’s fun-sized. He has to look up, and why are so many of them not wearing shirts? It’s a winter set. It’s not realistic that they’re not fully dressed. He smiles tightly, working hard to keep from glancing at pecs and abs that look like they belong on photoshopped bodies.

  He’s very conscious of the fact that he probably can’t make some of his normal remarks to these types of guys. Finding a model interested in the same sex is like finding hay in a hay stack. Finding an athlete interested in the same sex is like trying to find the needle. It’s better if you don’t search.

  “You all look fine. The photographer will tell you what to do with your face.”

  Jackson must see his predicament, because he’s wiggling his way into their circle and draping his arm over Dorian’s shoulders a minute later. “You’re popular today.” He holds his hand out to the curly haired guy. “My brother’s a big fan of yours. Not this one”—he points at Dorian—“but my other one. He thinks you’ll be called up to the NHL again, soon.”

  He blinks, shakes Jackson’s hand, a pleased smile curling his plush lips. “Tell him I said thanks. That’s the plan.”

  Jackson smiles. “Will do. Mind if I borrow Dorian? Angie needs to go over some stuff with him.” He pulls Dorian away.

  Dorian waits till they’re out of earshot to demand how Jackson recognized the dark-haired guy. “Aaron watches AHL hockey sometimes. And I’ve gone to games with James. He’s in love with him—which is kind of ironic since he hates their NHL affiliate team. But I think he’s just got a crush.”

  Dorian can definitely see that. He’s halfway there himself. He looks over his shoulder. The guy looks up and smiles when he sees Dorian looking. It makes butterflies dance in his stomach. He smiles in response and turns around quickly, before he can somehow make an ass of himself. “What’s his name?”

  “Eric Belanger. He plays for the Scranton Wild Dogs.”

  “He’s really—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  Dorian elbows him. “Hot. Hot. Hot. Like fire.” He wiggles his eyebrows obnoxiously.

  Jackson groans. “Sometimes you’re a dork.”

  “Always.”

  Jackson keeps him occupied till he’s called onto set with everyone else. Dorian knows he’s just being protective because he’s a weird little brother. Athletes really aren’t the best way to go. Dorian knows that. Down that road lies nothing but heartbreak. Heartbreak in a really nice bow wrapped package….

  Eric sidles up to his side as they watch Nicco pose for a few shots. He looks awkward in front of the camera, his smile forced and his limbs at odds with the rest of him. Dorian can’t help but tense a little, feeling nervous in a way he hasn’t in a long time as Eric’s arm brushes his. “Do you watch hockey?” asks Eric.

  Damn. Dorian blinks, shifting nervously. This answer is not going to make him look good. “Uh, no. Sorry?”

  “Oh. Well…. We’ve got a game tonight. I could get you and your brothers tickets if you want? Maybe you’ll like it.” The offer is thrown out in an off-hand, blasé manner.

  He’s not sure what’s happening right now. Is he being hit on? Is this guy just really friendly? He thinks the AHL is a minor league. Maybe they’re hard up for people to watch the games. “You want me to come to your game?”

  Eric shrugs his big bare shoulders, his pecs dancing as he does. He’s looking nonchalant and a little bored with his surroundings. Dorian doesn’t know what to make of him. “Your brother thinks I’m going to the NHL.”

  His stomach sinks a little with disappointment—he can’t help the little bit of him that had thought he was being hit on and got excited—but James will kill him if he turns down the tickets. “Oh, okay. Um, yeah. That would be great. He’ll be super happy.”

  “Dorian, Eric,” calls Angie Mckell, the photographer, not even looking up from her camera. “Can I get both of you out here with Nicco. Eric to the left, Dorian sit on that rock.”

  This is what Dorian does for a living, and he’s good at it. He forgets about how attractive the people around him are, and he stops thinking about how Eric wants Dorian’s brother to come watch his game. He focuses on his muscles and how he’s moving them, on his face and his mouth and how wide his eyes are. He’s acutely aware of his body as he tries to meet Angie’s creative desires.

  He doesn’t think about any of it till the shoot is over and he’s tugging his regular jacket on, fingers fumbling with the dumb buttons. Eric wanders over, Jaromir—a big goalie for Eric’s team—trailing him. “So, I can give you my number, and you can text me the details so I know how many tickets and what name to leave them under.”

  Right. James’s tickets. “Uh sure, give me a second.” His phone is somewhere around here. It’s definitely in one of his pockets. It takes him a minute, but he does find it. He hands the iPhone over and watches as Eric’s big fingers type in his details. Their hands brush when he hands it back. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” The two of them walk off. Hockey players are weird.

  Dorian waits till he’s in a cab to text Eric. Last name Carlisle. 4 tickets. Jackson and James can double date. Dorian’s going to relax on the couch with an episode of Agent Carter.

  ERIC CAN count two things on one hand: the number of men he’s slept with and the number of people who know he’s gay. And the latter only know because they stumbled in on him the one time he’d risked being sloppy about it. He’d gotten lucky that time. Neither of his friends had cared, but still he’d learned an important lesson. Don’t give your friends your house keys. They will just walk in because they’re mannerless heathens.

  He’s not risked sleeping with anyone since. It was risky to do it just that once. What if he’d gotten called up to the NHL and the guy had realized he had a potentially big news story on his hands? His career is worth more than a lay.

  Needless to say he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing when he invites Dorian to his game. He just knows that he really wants him to be there. It’s the first time he’s ever done anything like this. Normally he keeps hockey as separate from this as possible.

  But the guy is beautiful. There really isn’t any other word for it. His dirty-blond hair is on the shorter side and looks insanely soft. Eric wants to run his hands through it, let the silky looking strands flow over his fingers as he tugs. When he walks by, Eric gets a whiff of vanilla. He’s got muscles, but he’s not bulky like the guys Eric’s used to being around. Eric could easily pick him up, move him around. He doesn’t have scars—at least not noticeable ones—and his teeth aren’t going to be sitting by his plate at mealtime. And he’s a model. A successful one. He’s not going to be looking for the news that will put him on the map. That’s safe. Right?

  Jaromir, one of the two people who knows his secret, stares him down on the cab ride back to their hotel. “Please stop that,” he mutters, banging his head against the window. Guys invite guys to their games all the time. It’s in no way suspicious. And he’d invited the guy’s family. No one’s going to think anything of it. They’ll just think he’s made a f
riend.

  It isn’t till they’re in their shared room that Jaromir smacks him on the back of the head. Hard. “This is a bad idea,” he says. “Models don’t go under the radar.”

  “It’s just a game.” He collapses on his bed, rolling to bury his face in the pillow. It smells like hotel laundry detergent. He wrinkles his nose and turns his head to the side. He’ll breathe through his mouth. Modeling is oddly tiring work. He likes hockey. He doesn’t so much like the excess publicity stuff that comes with it. He just feels out of place standing in front of a camera without a stick in his hand. “It’s not like this is going to lead to anything.” In his fantasies it definitely will, but he’s realistic enough to know it doesn’t work like that in the real world. But he can try, if only so he can look back at this moment and say well I made an attempt.

  Jaromir grunts, and Eric hears the other bed dip under his weight. He drops right off to sleep, his snores filling the room, but Eric is left unable to really settle. Asking Dorian to come to his game was impulsive—and unlike him—but Eric had had a hell of a time keeping his eyes off him. Which was saying something since they kept sticking the poor guy in parkas that hid damn near everything. Does he have an Eskimo fetish he’d never thought about? He’s from Canada. He doesn’t think so. They wear lots of clothes all the time.

  So it probably wasn’t the clothes. Maybe it was the way Dorian looked so comfortable once he got to work? He’d been tense when everyone had been chatting, but once the camera had landed on him, he’d become calm and relaxed. His entire body language had done a 180. It kind of reminded Eric of when hockey players took to the ice. Dorian was in his element, and that was… good.

  If he keeps thinking, he’s not going to be able to nap. And then he’s going to be tired for his game. Which is going to lead to him underperforming. No one is impressed by someone looking like an idiot on the ice. He needs to get his mind to pipe down for a little. He can think of only one way to accomplish that in a timely manner. He glances at Jaromir, but his head is turned away, and he’s still snoring. That’s a green light, then. He shifts to his back and slides his hand down his pants. A quick orgasm might be what he needs to knock himself out.

  “Don’t even think about it,” growls Jaromir.

  Eric nearly hits himself in the face he jerks his hand away from his dick so quickly. “Fuck man,” he says, covering his eyes and feeling his cheeks heat with embarrassment.

  “Shower like a normal person if you’re going to do that.”

  “You are the worst roommate,” he whines. “Come the fuck on.”

  One of Jaromir’s extra pillows lands on his face. “We’ve got an hour to nap. Shut up.”

  He keeps the pillow over his face and presses it down, screaming silently into it like that will relieve his frustration. It doesn’t, but the darkness over his face makes it feel more like night, and he keeps his eyes shut tight. Counting backward from ten, over and over, finally lulls him into a halfway decent nap that leaves him snappish upon waking.

  And undeniably nervous.

  He’s shaking a little as he skates onto the ice, more anxious than the time he skated out for his first AHL game. He looks toward the seats he’d reserved for Dorian and his brothers while he does his warmup lap, and they’re all filled. But not one of the guys in the seats is Dorian. His stomach sinks. He recognizes the brother—the one who did some of the makeup at the shoot—and there’s another blond with them who bears a family resemblance. He has no clue who the dark-haired man or the redhead seated between the two is.

  He looks away, grits his teeth. It’s fine. Nothing was going to happen anyway, and clearly Dorian isn’t interested in him. And why would he have been? He’s a model. He doesn’t need a hockey player on his arm…. And there he goes sliding into self-pity town. He shakes his head. Everything is okay. He’ll just funnel all his frustration into his game. Who knows, maybe these guys will go home and brag about him to Dorian. If he wasn’t in front of a decent-sized crowd of people, he’d smack himself. That is not putting Dorian from his mind.

  He circles around to Jaromir, bangs their helmets together. Jaromir’s his goalie, and this is part of their game ritual. They bump fists.

  He’s got enough time left for a few stretches, and then it’s game time. He’s a forward on the first line, and he wins the faceoff and races for the Manhattan Hatters goal. It’s a fast-paced game, and his disappointment in things turns into a determined drive to score no matter what. No matter what turns out to be a bad thing. He ends up in the penalty box three times—twice for high sticking and once for interference. It isn’t till he tries to beat the hell out of a defenseman on the other team that he gets pulled from the game and benched. But hey, he does manage to score two goals. So he hasn’t been a complete fuckup.

  Coach Smith glares at him. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he yells.

  “Nothing, Coach.” He looks anywhere but at him. He can’t believe he’s playing like this. He’s not that guy. He’s the guy who scores and sets an example.

  He gets a chance to redeem himself in the third period, and by some miracle he manages to assist on one goal and not get sent to the sin bin. His entire team keeps giving him looks, though, and he knows he’s acting cranky and tense, but he feels cranky and tense. He’s never been great at hiding his feelings.

  Despite the three goals they get, they lose by two. Both of which are scored on the penalty kill plays caused by Eric.

  Jaromir and Nicco—the only other person that knows about him—corner him by his locker. “What the hell?” hisses Nicco, words running together in a way it took Eric months to get used to. “Since when are you Mr. Off his Rocker?”

  He looks around, but none of his team is looking at him. He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Can we do this later? I don’t want to go into it right now.”

  Nicco’s eyes widen as he clues in to what this is about. “Oh man,” he says. “I missed something, didn’t I?”

  Eric says no at the same time Jaromir says yes. He closes his eyes. “Later. All right?”

  If he can get them—and himself—drunk enough back at the hotel, maybe he can pretend today didn’t happen, and they’ll forget to ask him questions.

  More from Meg Harding

  A Carlisles Novel

  Bastien isn’t used to bad reviews. His French restaurant is the toast of the town, and when a well-known critic insults it, he’s left off-kilter. Luckily for him he’s found a distraction. He’s just met an attractive writer at his niece’s school bake sale. He’s into food, into Bastien and the touch of kink they share, and there’s a chemistry between them that might make the perfect recipe.

  James isn’t expecting to meet a good-looking French chef at a bake sale, but he’s not going to let the chance slide. It comes as a surprise when the chef turns out to be the owner of a place he knows—and has reviewed—and it puts James in a sticky situation. So he might have to omit some pertinent information to make it work… at least for now.

  Ex-business owner and soon to be ex-husband Jake has had some rotten luck of late. His world is tumbling down around him, but it’s time to dust himself off and move on. Buying and fixing up the most dilapidated home he can find might be just the thing to get him back on track.

  But Jake gets more than he bargained for when he meets former lawyer turned landscaper Dakota. Dakota is smart and ridiculously sexy—and Jake doesn’t have a clue how to act around him. After several gardening mishaps, Jake is sure Dakota thinks he’s completely inept.

  Turns out Dakota is thinking something else entirely. And as Dakota gives Jake advice, an ear to listen, and helps him work through his issues, Jake realizes flowers aren’t the only thing blooming between them.

  Three years ago Andrew Wilson and Flynn Barnett were in a relationship, until Flynn made a mistake that nearly cost Andrew his life. Andrew walked away from the FBI, his home, and his partner, and started over back in Montreal, running a restaurant.

  Fast forward to
the present and Andrew is knee-deep in preparations for his sister’s wedding. When an ex-colleague calls to ask for one last favor, the last person he expects to walk through his door is Flynn, in need of a place to stay. Only thing is, Andrew can’t say no.

  Two weeks of wedding hijinks bring back all the old feelings that have simmered below the surface. Caught in a cycle of fighting and making up, the two men try to figure out if there’s anything they can salvage. And even if there is, Andrew can’t be sure this time will be any different.

  Dustin Charleston has just been traded to the Arizona Hares hockey team. As an otter, he’s not too pleased by this. Arizona is dry, he’s leaving his home behind, and he has to move in with a stranger. Things take an even steeper plunge when he meets his roommate.

  Chandler Kipling is the captain of the Hares, a least weasel, and he’s got a bit of a thing for his new teammate. Too bad that teammate seems to hate him. And Chandler’s romantic strategies leave something to be desired. Will Dustin be able to get the message he’s trying to send? With a little time, their nightmare might turn into a dream—if they can get past their differences.

  A story from the Dreamspinner Press 2016 Daily Dose package A Walk on the Wild Side.

  Colin wants to spend the Christmas holiday with his family, but a blizzard settles in and his flight is cancelled. Unwilling to accept this, he strikes out on his own and crashes his car. Where he ends up might be better than where he was going, though.

  Logan was content to wait out the blizzard and spend the holiday alone, but when a frozen-solid Colin ends up on his doorstep, he’s not going to turn him away. He takes him in and shows him Christmas spent with a stranger really doesn’t have to be awkward after all.