by Eden Finley
Tommy ruffles my hair as if he finds my heckling cute instead of the wicked trash talk I’m trying for. “Just think about it.”
We’re finally served drinks, and I gulp mine down so fast I order another one straightaway before the bartender can run off again. My defenses are down for all of five seconds while I’m distracted with the bartender, and I can only blame myself for not anticipating Tommy’s big brother antics.
Someone brushes by me, and next thing I know, Tommy hip-checks me into them.
“You’re a dead man,” I say through gritted teeth.
“What did you say?” a masculine voice says behind me.
Shit. I put on a smile and turn to face the poor guy Tommy’s picked as some sort of target for me. “Sorry. My friend can be a bit—”
My words die when I come face to face with my blond Superman. Strong jaw, nerdy framed glasses that he didn’t have in Boston and don’t suit his pretty boy face but somehow make him look even better, and a chin dimple that could make anyone—man or woman—want to touch it. Or lick it.
With the glasses, he’s no longer Superman but an actual Clark Kent. And that makes him hotter.
Huh, who knew I liked nerd kink?
Recognition sets in for him too. His mouth hangs open.
We both forget how to use our words. I suddenly can’t remember how to talk, what I was saying, or what my name is.
Clark composes himself first. “A bit …”
“Uh …”
“Rough,” Tommy says for me. “Sorry about that.” He claps my shoulder. “This guy here can help you with getting a new drink.”
It’s only then I notice the beer dripping off the lapels of Clark’s tux jacket. He fills out the royal blue suit perfectly with tight lines wrapped over an even tighter body. He’s tall—well, still shorter than me, but most people are—and lean, and I try not to stare.
“My brother-in-law is waving me over, so I’m out,” Tommy says.
He’s totally lying. Maddox is at the other end of the bar talking with Matt, but I don’t care. I practically shove him in their direction.
Before Tommy goes, he leans in to whisper in my ear. “At least make a friend, you loner.” With a slap to the back of my head, Tommy walks off.
Clark watches Tommy leave. “Did he call you a loser?”
The tips of my ears burn, and I can only hope they’re not bright red, but being a loser is probably less sad than being a loner. “Smack talk,” I say, finally finding my voice. I shrug. “Hockey players.”
“You both kind of look more like corporate businessmen.”
I laugh and shake my head. “You. It’s … you.”
He points to his chest. “Clark. Did you forget your boyfriend’s name?”
“Ooh, I didn’t get the chance to tell you. We broke up. You cheated on me.”
“Wow, I’m an asshole.”
“Yeah. You are. Although in my mind, I walked in on you and that random guy and joined in, but I wasn’t going to tell my family that part of the made-up story.”
Clark groans. “Fucking tease.”
“Drink? I’ll replace the one Tommy spilled.”
His lips quirk. “Sure. I’ll let you buy me one.”
“It’s open bar.”
“Even better. I’ll buy you one.”
I turn back, and of course, the bartender’s at the other end again. “I think we’re in the wrong spot. It’s like the Bermuda Triangle for service. It took us forever to get this one.” I hold up my glass. “What’ll you have?”
“Scotch.”
Without even thinking, I lean in and catch the scent of beer. Then I look down at his hand where his now almost-empty bottle is. “Pretty sure that’s beer.”
“Hockey players are smart, huh?”
“Dumb as doornails, really.”
“At least you can be self-deprecating.”
“Always an admirable trait,” I say as serious as I can.
Clark lifts his bottle. “A friend gave this to me earlier when I arrived. Not a huge fan of beer, so I’ve been nursing it all night.”
“Ah, so it’s not a total loss that your suit drank more than you.”
“Except now I have to pay to dry clean the rental.” He gestures to his wet chest, and I have to fight the urge to run my hand over it.
You’re in public, which means kindergarten rules—hands to yourself.
I wish I’d remembered this rule six months ago, because God knows how many times I’ve jerked off thinking about this guy and that kiss we shared. Talking to him now, it doesn’t feel like six months has passed—it’s as if we’ve taken off from where we left it—but at the same time, it feels like I’ve been fantasizing about him forever.
And now he’s here in front of me looking adorably wet and teasing me.
“Send the bill to the B’s,” I say. “Serves Tommy right for being a dick.”
A passing bartender takes pity on us, and we quickly order two scotches.
After we’re given new drinks, Clark turns to me. “So, what’s hockey like to play? I wanted to talk to you about it that night, but … well, yeah, a lot of things didn’t happen that night that I wanted.”
The glint in his eye has me wanting to ask him to get out of here and do exactly what Tommy told me to—hook up and walk away—but I’m going to be good. Because I’m worried once wouldn’t be enough with Clark. He’s been vital in the moving-on process from Ash, and while I think I’m completely over my ex, I’m still not in a position to be with someone. I’ll never be ready for that until I’m out, and I can’t come out until my career is stable.
Right. Hockey. He asked a question about hockey.
“It’s exhausting,” I say. “But worth it.”
“I bet the money helps.”
“Is that another dig at the dry cleaning bill?” I keep my tone light, because I get the sense he’s fucking with me. “Tickets to this place were what … a thousand bucks a head? I think you can afford it.”
“I, uh”—he takes a sip of scotch—“was given my ticket.”
I cock my head. Tommy and I were given comped tickets too, but that’s because Maddox and Damon wanted us to make an appearance as a favor to Matt and his husband. They needed big names attending as a selling point for other big names. It makes me wonder who this guy is to warrant a free invite.
“What do you actually do for a living? Because it’s obvious you’re not in corporate business.”
He mumbles through another sip, as if he doesn’t want to tell me.
I can barely hear him. “A rider?” Do not make a “that sounds promising” joke.
“Writer,” he says more clearly.
“Oh, dear God, take my money,” I joke. “You poor thing, you’re probably starving. I can probably bribe a guy to give you a whole tray of appetizers too.”
“I see you’ve inherited some of your dad’s dry wit, but I do all right. I can manage a little dry cleaning.”
I reach for some napkins over the bar. “Let’s see if we can fix it.”
My movements are as reflexive as slashing someone on the ice. I don’t mean to do it, and I know I shouldn’t, but for some reason, my hand does it anyway. I rub the stain forming on his suit, but it’s no use. And then I realize I’m touching his chest. A really nice chest. Now my hand refuses to pull away, as if it knows it’s touching greatness.
“S-sorry.” I drop my hand as if his suit burns my skin, which is probably even more suspicious to anyone watching than touching him in the first place.
“Don’t sweat it. It’s not every day I have a hot guy’s hands on me.” The corners of his mouth tip up ever so slightly.
The quick response is on the tip of my tongue. “That can’t be true. You’re hot.”
Fuck, I shouldn’t be doing this.
Why the fuck not? a little voice says. I think it’s coming from my dick.
Clark continues to stare blankly at me, as if he’s having the same war going on in his head as I am
, but when he opens his mouth and I expect him to say we should get out of here, that’s not at all what comes out. “Ollie, I need you to know something. More specifically, I need you to know my real name.”
“Okaaay.” I drag out the word, confused by what his name has to do with anything.
His eyes widen as a hand lands on my shoulder.
“Great, you two have met,” my agent, Damon, says next to me.
“Beatle!” Matt Jackson’s husband says and crash-tackles Clark into a hug.
Beetle? What type of name is Beetle?
“We were supposed to meet?” I manage to ask.
“Ollie, this is Lennon Hawkins,” Damon says. “He’s a friend and works for Sporting Health Magazine.”
My head spins, all the blood drains from my face, and I barely hear anything past Lennon’s name.
Lennon. Fucking. Hawkins.
Suddenly, I know why I had issues with those articles. The reason it seemed like they knew my secret is because the person behind them does.
“You? You wrote those articles about me?”
I’m so pucked.
Chapter Four
LENNON
My palms sweat. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. I feel like I’m back in high school, surrounded by jocks who wanna pick on the gay kid. Only this time, it’s not because I’m gay. It’s because I’m—
“A reporter,” Ollie says, his jaw tight. “You’re a reporter.”
“Not the kind you’re thinking,” Damon says. “He’s a decent one.”
The flirty guy I’ve been talking to is replaced with an angry bear of a hockey player. “Decent? Lennon Hawkins thinks I’m a talentless pigeon.”
What the fuck? “Whoa, I did not write that.”
Ollie pales even more. “R-reporter,” he whispers, no doubt realizing someone in the media knows his biggest secret.
I wonder if he’s doing what I’ve been doing ever since he bumped into me—remembering what his mouth tastes like. His strong hands, hard body … Focus, Lennon!
“I work for Sporting Health,” I emphasize. “We’re not a tabloid.” I will not out you I want to say but can’t with Damon and Noah here.
Ollie shakes his head, abandons his drink, and walks away before I get a chance to explain. Damon calls after him, but Ollie’s massive body doesn’t slow down.
I’ve been preparing for this meeting ever since my editor reassigned me to hockey after I started writing articles about Ollie. The past six months have been a whirlwind, and I never meant for this to happen. I wrote the first article on a whim, because I found myself going home every night and watching old clips of Ollie’s games. He has so much fucking talent it’d make any sports fanatic cry to see how amazing he is on the ice. But that’s the thing; no one was seeing it, because Tommy Novak’s star shines too bright.
My articles on him got a lot of hits, more than any article the regular hockey guy had written recently, so as easy as that, Harry gave me the Eastern Conference to cover while Kevin got moved aside. He’s still covering the Western Conference, but he’s about as happy with the move as I was. I had little say in being transferred from baseball and football. That’s how my industry works. Shit pay, unstable jobs, and cutthroat coworkers who’ll steal your job if you drop the proverbial ball. Not that I meant to be cutthroat. I wrote an article, saved it in the work cloud thinking I could maybe pitch it to my editor or shop it around to other magazines for freelance pay, and then the next day, I had a phone call from Harry asking why I’d never expressed my interest in covering hockey before.
Because I’d never had a hockey player’s tongue down my throat before.
Now my editor has sent me to follow the Dragons’ journey to the playoffs.
I’d totally blame this run-in on fate being an asshole—I was never supposed to see Ollie again—but I can’t really do that. I’m the one who wrote that article because I couldn’t help stalking him and his career.
If anything, I should call myself an asshole for putting us both in this situation.
I thought I’d have a few more days before I’d need to explain, though. I was ready to meet him at the arena and tell him the deal and reassure him. In private. Running into him here, and then the way his face lit up when he saw me, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not right away. I wanted that spark, that connection we had six months ago, to last a little bit longer.
Now, I can’t do anything but watch him leave. A part of me says to run after him, but angry jocks were a nightmare to navigate back in high school and college, and I think it’s scarred me from ever trying to rationalize with a raging meathead.
“You think Ollie’s a talentless pigeon?” Damon asks.
My gaze breaks away from Ollie’s retreating ass and meets the gaze of another raging meathead, albeit a retired jock.
“You wrote that? Not cool,” Noah says. “Wait, what’s a pigeon?”
Damon continues to glare at me. “Someone who isn’t good enough to score goals on his own and takes advantage of their teammate’s skill.”
“I did not say that,” I argue.
I never said he was talentless. If anything, he has enough talent to be huge. While his stats are impressive, he could be one of the biggest contenders in the league.
“If we want to get technical, I said a trade would be beneficial for him so he could get out of Boston because his talent was being overshadowed by Novak. I thought hockey players had thick skin?”
Damon sighs. “Nah, just thick skulls. I’ll go talk to him.”
Noah remains with a knowing look on his face. “You didn’t tell him who you were, did you?”
I adjust my glasses, which don’t need adjusting, and don’t answer. I usually wear contacts, but I ran out and haven’t had a chance to order more since coming to New York, so I’m all self-conscious about being my nerdy self again.
“You’d think you would’ve learned your lesson after me,” Noah says. “I would’ve kicked your ass if Damon let me.”
When I met Noah in a bar, I hit on him and tried to get a scoop about his now husband. It backfired, but it’s how we became friends.
“I won’t print anything he said,” I reassure Noah.
“I know that, but Ollie won’t. He’s probably freaking out right now. What did he say to make him run out of here?”
I sip my drink. “Nothing, really.” Except, you know, outed himself to me and didn’t know I was a reporter. “Hockey is exhausting is probably the worst thing he said. No one would care about that.”
Noah’s eyes narrow, and I wonder if he knows I’m lying.
“How’re things in Chicago?” I ask, changing the subject.
Noah knows it but placates me anyway. “Windy.”
“I miss it already.”
I could be in New York for a few months if the Dragons make the playoffs. They’re only one win away from cinching their spot, and if they manage to do it, I’ll be following them to each of their games. I think my boss is hoping for a Cinderella ending—the underdog story of the year. However, from my research, I’ve learned the Dragons are known for cracking under pressure, so I’m not entirely sure my stay in New York will be long.
“While you’re here, I can hook you up with Matt’s brother,” Noah says. “He’ll be able to get you into clubs and all that shit. I’d do it myself, but Matt and I are going on a much-needed vacation next week.”
“Sounds great.” Totally lying. I’d rather stab my eyes out with a pen. I’m not the clubbing type. Nothing is a faster boner killer for guys than me doing the robot.
“Where are you staying?” Noah asks.
“The cheapest hotel the magazine could find. It’s above a Chinese restaurant, somehow smells like Indian food, and it still costs a fortune.”
We have a budget for travel expenses, but I’m still paying out of pocket. The only other option was to stay in Jersey, and I didn’t want to do that commute.
“You should come stay at our place. Save the magazi
ne some money. I doubt Jet would mind having a roommate while we’re gone.”
“You do realize I could be here until the end of the hockey playoffs, right? That’s three months.”
He grabs my shoulder. “After what you did for us, we owe you.”
Did for them? All I did was keep my word that I wouldn’t print anything about his and Matt’s personal problems. I don’t want to be that kind of reporter.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Come by whenever.”
“Thanks. I might take you up on that. I’m paid up until the end of the week, but after that, I’m all yours.”
“Done,” Noah says. “And one last question. You’re not going to torment Ollie, are you? I haven’t seen a guy run away from someone faster.”
“No. I’ll apologize for not telling him who I was. Hopefully, start over.”
“Are you going to apologize for writing all that pigeon stuff? You say you didn’t mean it offensively, but it’s pretty clear he took offense.”
“I still maintain my article was favorable.”
“You’re so fucked,” Noah says. “You haven’t been around professional athletes much, have you?”
Well, no, I haven’t. I’m usually in the press box at games and in the pit at press conferences. Mass interviews, mass answers, and nothing personal. I’m never given the opportunity to ask a question. There are bigger magazines and outlets that get priority. Like Sports Illustrated and Fox Sports.
“Just because you’re married to one doesn’t make you an expert,” I say.
“I’ve spent time with Matt’s entire team. Trust me, there are more egos and diva attitudes in the NFL than on RuPaul’s Drag Race. Have fun with that.” He walks away, but I call after him.
“Hockey players aren’t like football players though.”
I screwed up, and I need to explain, but Ollie will take it okay, right?
All I get is a laugh in return.
Shit.
Noah may have a point. As I wait by the player’s entry at the Dragons arena, I get more glares than smiles. It’s no doubt because of my press pass. Or maybe they’re wondering why I’m not with the rest of the “vultures” who are here to report on the morning skate. The team plays Toronto tomorrow night, and if they win, they’re going to the playoffs, which will be the first time they’ve made it in the past five years.
