by Eden Finley
Even though he’s being an ass, I can’t help but find him entertaining. “That’s way too long for a headline. And good to know you think of yourself as pretty.”
He looks as if he doesn’t know if I’m mocking him or not.
“Not that you’ll believe me, but my article will say you saved the whole team. Congratulations on making the playoffs.” See, at least one of us can be mature.
Ollie blinks at me, and his shaggy, unstyled hair falls into his eyes. It’s the only time I’ve seen his hair unruly and not slicked back. I think I like it even better than the wet look.
No. Stop liking Ollie things. He’s no different than the others.
“You were awesome,” Jet says, pulling Ollie’s attention away from me.
Oh sure, he’ll shake Jet’s hand and give him a smile. “Thanks, man. You totally didn’t suck as game DJ either. Even if some of your song choices … were, uh … inventive.”
“You were listening? I woulda thought you’d be too busy kicking ass and taking names.”
Ollie laughs, and I hate that I like the deep rumble as it vibrates through the loud club. “I caught snippets.”
“My personal favorite was Bieber’s ‘Love Yourself’ when Toronto started a fight,” I say.
Ollie smiles in my direction, but then his face drops as if he realized he’s not allowed to like anything that comes out my mouth.
“Everyone knows that song is code for go fuck yourself,” Jet says. “I found it appropriate.”
“Yo, Strömberg! Over here,” Ollie’s line mate Kessler yells out.
Ollie stumbles away from us, seemingly forgetting the girl who was patiently waiting behind him.
Someone else hands Ollie another drink, and he gets caught up talking to them. He’s well and truly on his way to being buzzed.
Jet leads us back to the less crowded side of the bar where Camille and Ava are with fresh drinks. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks me.
“No. But can we leave yet?”
“We just got here. Go get another drink.”
If I wasn’t living with the guy, I’d be tempted to ditch him right about now, so instead, I head to the bar and wonder exactly how I’ve become Jet’s puppet. I’ll have to ask Matt and Noah how they ever say no to him.
Despite my protests, as the night wears on, we actually have fun. I drink a few more, and the PR rep and I end up having a lot in common. We both went to Saratoga and both minored in sports management although she graduated a few years before I was even a freshman. She majored in communications, whereas I majored in journalism.
Throughout our chat, my gaze keeps finding Ollie, and he’s getting sloppier by the minute. I know he’s stupid drunk when he looks over at me and he smiles.
Then he looks at the girl who’s been following him around like a puppy, and he sways as he tries to concentrate on what she’s saying. It almost looks as if she’s speaking alien with the way his forehead scrunches.
Ollie sways a bit more, and I realize he’s more than stupid drunk. His official level of drunkenness is probably around three-quarters of the way to shitfaced. That’s only a few steps below “I can’t remember my address” and right on the verge of asking profound questions like “Do penguins have nipples?”
His friend grabs him by the hand, and he follows her out of the bar after wolf whistles and back slaps from his team.
Ugh. The sickly feeling coming from my gut can’t be jealousy. I don’t have that right. But as I watch them leave together, there’s no doubt something inside me doesn’t like it.
I finish off my fifth drink and send Jet a telepathic please can we get out of here now? And I’ve either gained superpowers I’m unaware of or my face gives me away, because Jet nods at me.
“Was that number five?”
“Yup.”
He relents and stands. “Okay, I did promise him I’d let him go home after that.”
“I feel like I should be offended you’re running out of here as soon as possible,” Ava says. “Am I that boring?”
“No, hon”—I lean in and kiss her cheek—“you made my night tolerable.” While a certain hockey player made it almost unbearable.
“Not your scene?” she asks.
“Not really.”
Jet and I make our way outside, but as I go to ask which way the subway is to get back to Noah’s place, I see Ollie’s lips on that girl’s mouth.
They’re by the curb, just kissing away like Ollie does this all the time.
So much for being gay, gay, gay, gay, gay as he pointed out the other day to me in the pressroom. The lengths some of these closeted guys will go to …
I swallow my irrational disappointment and go to leave when Jet pulls me back.
“Quick—look like you’re wasted,” he says.
“Uh, do what now?”
“Just do it.” He grabs the back of my neck and pushes my head down, forcing me to hunch over.
“What the fuck?” I try to shake him off me, but for a smaller guy, he’s surprisingly strong.
“We’re saving him from the jersey chaser.”
“In hockey, they’re puck bunnies.” I try to push him off me again. “And by the look of him, he doesn’t need saving.”
“Friends don’t let friends do stupid drunken things. You’d know this if you had any friends.”
Touché. Apart from Noah, I don’t really have anyone. I relax under Jet’s hand and follow his lead.
Chapter Seven
OLLIE
This feels … wrong. So wrong. And not because I’m kissing a woman, but because my lips are tingly. And numb.
Like my fingers.
And my ears.
Wait … can I normally feel my ears? Can anyone?
I wonder if this is as weird for her as it is for me, because there’s no spark. It’s not horrible, but I’m counting the seconds for her to pull back because pushing her off me would be rude … right? Or maybe I like leaning on her because I don’t have to think about standing upright.
She breaks the kiss, and yep, definitely using her to remain standing. We both stumble and then laugh.
“I really hope you don’t take offense to this, but …” She averts her shiny gaze away from me. “That felt like kissing my brother.”
“You kiss your brother?” I wonder what she’d say if she knew I’d rather kiss her brother.
She lets out a little giggle and slaps my shoulder, and I try not to lose my balance again. “No. You know what I mean.”
“Sorry,” I slur. It kinda comes out as Shlorry. “I’m, like, all kinds of drunk.”
Ash always used to warn me about leading puck bunnies on, but until tonight, I’ve never hung around them long enough for them to get the wrong idea. A hello and a selfie for social media is usually the extent of it. Never done the kissing thing. That’s definitely new.
“Ollie, I need a hand,” an urgent voice says beside us.
I turn, slightly dazed. Jet stands there, trying to hold up Lennon-fucking-Hawkins who’s hunched over and holding onto his stomach. “Wha… huh?” I ask.
“Lennon got super drunk and doesn’t feel well. I can’t hold him up on my own.” Jet glances at the girl and then back at me. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need your help.”
Reflexively, albeit slower and more wobbly than usual, I’m by his side and helping hold him up. Momentarily, I forget I’m mad at him. He grips me tight, and I hate that it feels good. He feels good against me. Just like kissing him in the stairwell of the Honey Bee did months ago.
“You should take the cab and get your friend home,” what’s her face says.
There’s a cab? My head snaps to the yellow car waiting by the sidewalk.
“Thanks,” Jet says to the woman who I should know her name but don’t, “but we’ve got him from here. You take this one, and we’ll get the next one.”
“Are you sure—”
Jet turns on his Southern charm. “Now, what kinda gentlemen would we be if we l
eft a pretty girl on the street in the middle of the night?” It does the trick, and she gets into the cab with a sweet smile aimed in Jet’s direction.
Phew.
When the cab’s gone and around the corner, Lennon stands full height, knocking me backward.
I stumble and almost fall, but they’re both there to hold me up. I throw my arms around their shoulders, and one of them smells delicious. Like spiced vanilla. I think it’s Lennon, but I can’t be sure, so I lean in Jet’s direction for elimination purposes because he’s safer. Less Lennon-y.
“Whoa there, big guy,” Jet says.
“I’m fline. Uh … fline.” Ugh, why can’t I say fine.
“Yeah, you look it,” Lennon says.
My head lolls in his direction. “Aren’t you the drunk one here?”
He shakes his head. “Not even close.”
“You looked like you needed help,” Jet says.
“She looked like she was trying to eat your face,” Lennon adds. “And I know how pretty you think it is. Thought you might’ve wanted to keep it that way.”
I don’t mean to laugh, and my head tells me not to, but I’m starting to think my body isn’t attached to my brain right now.
“Brain don’t feel drunk. Body not listening.” That makes sense … doesn’t it?
“Okay, caveman,” Jet says, “how about we get you a cab?”
“I dunno even how it happened,” I slur some more. “I didn’t buy any drinks.”
Lennon chuckles. “You, Mr. Big Shot, had people buying you drinks all night.”
“Oh, right. Because I’m fucking awesome.”
Lennon pats my back. “Humility is an admirable trait. Just sayin’.”
“But did you see that goal? That shit is why I fucking do this. Ash always said it was a meaningless game—there are bigger things in life and other bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.”
“Who’s Ash?” Jet asks.
“A shithead,” I answer.
“Thanks for the clarification,” Jet says sarcastically.
A cab appears from nowhere, and they help me into the back seat.
“What’s your address?” Lennon asks. He has one hand on the door and stares down at me with an expression that’s either pissed off or amused. It’s weird he can pull off both at the same time and look hot while he does it.
I blink at him, my mind empty. “Umm …”
“That’s what I thought.” Lennon pushes me into the middle seat and gets in next to me while Jet runs around the cab and boxes me in on the other side.
“It’s not my fault I don’t know my address yet. I know how to get there.” I look around, but everything’s kinda blurry. “Yeah, bang a left.” I point. “I think …”
Jet rattles off an address, and when the cab starts moving, my stomach churns. That can’t be good.
“You’ve been here for months,” Lennon says.
“Numbered streets are hard.” The words are mumbled, but Lennon still finds them amusing.
“Tell me ’bout it,” Jet says. “Took me forever to work it out.”
The car turns a corner, and the alcohol threatens to make a reappearance. Urngh. I close my eyes and throw my head back on the seat.
Jet and Lennon talk, but I don’t take in what they say—something about giants not being able to hold their alcohol—and the next thing I know, I’m being shaken awake.
“Come on, big guy,” Jet says. “You’re twice our size and a bitch to carry.”
My eyes slowly crack open, and I’m hanging halfway out the cab.
“Maybe we should drag him,” Lennon says.
“There you go being all nice again.”
“Hey, I’m always nice.”
“I can walk.” I can totally walk.
My legs tell me that I’m lying. Seriously, I didn’t drink that much, did I? When I fall out of the cab, Lennon and Jet pull me up by my arms and help me to the steps leading up to an expensive-looking brownstone.
I groan. “Fuck. Stairs.”
Jet and Lennon laugh as they help me tackle them.
As soon as we cross the threshold one hundred years later, I mutter, “Thanks. And not for the stairs. But, like … you know … things.”
“Things?” Jet asks, his tone mocking.
“Thanks for saving me from that chick.”
“Woulda thought a straight guy like you would’ve been pissed,” Lennon says.
God, his knowing attitude is annoying. “Fuck off, you know I’m gay.” And apparently my mouth has no filter now.
“Well, I didn’t know,” Jet says, “but I suspected because you totally checked me out when we met.”
I straighten up. “No, I didn’t.” I look at Lennon. “I swear I didn’t.”
Lennon shrugs as if it’s no big deal, and that pisses me off. Can’t he care even a little bit?
“I was looking at your tats,” I say to Jet.
“Sure you were,” Jet says. “That’s what all the straight boys say when they wanna go gay.”
Thumping in my brain rhythmically pounds, and I think it’s the alcohol, but then Lennon grumbles as if he can hear the pounding too.
“Do they seriously ever stop?” he asks.
“Who?” I’m confused.
“Matt and Noah,” Jet says. “And no, they don’t. But they leave for Fiji in a few days for a long vacation.”
Is he saying they’re doing what I think they’re doing? “Wait … they’re …”
Jet slams the front door hard. “That should alert them to our presence.” The sex noises don’t stop. “Shoulda known they wouldn’t have cared.”
“I think it’s sweet. In a perverted way,” I say.
Lennon huffs a small laugh. “I think I like drunk Ollie.”
“Bullshit. You hate me.”
“Think you’ve got that the wrong way around there, buddy.” He slaps my shoulder.
“Mmm, true. You don’t hate me. You think I’m shit at hockey.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re great at hockey. The best. We should give you the number ninety-nine jersey and tell Gretzky to move over. There’s a new legend in town.”
“Gretzky’s number’s retired. But you’d know that if you knew anything about hockey. Which you don’t. Which is why I hate your ass.”
“Wait … you hate me or hate my ass?” Lennon appears more amused than offended.
“Your ass. I want to hate you but can’t.”
“What’s wrong with my ass?” His smile pisses me off.
“It’s a great ass,” I mumble.
“He has a point. It’s a really nice ass,” Jet says.
Ah shit. Stupid mouth. “For the love of Gretzky, this is why I don’t drink. Like ever. Mouth. Stop. Talking.”
“Who knew all you needed to bust open that closet door was alcohol,” Jet says.
“I’m not closeted,” I argue. “I mean … not really. Just, you know … to the NHL. My family and friends back home know. Ooh, the great and powerful Tommy Novak knows. That counts.” Neither of them says anything, and I realize I’m rambling. “Oh my God, shut up,” I say to myself.
Jet grabs my arm. “How about we tackle these stairs, you can sleep it off, and we’ll talk when you’re sober.”
“More stairs?” I ask, my voice coming out as a whine.
“One more set,” Jet says.
“Ugh, you sound like my trainer. When I get to the top, are you going to tell me one more set again? That asshole does it to me every time.”
“Just the one. I promise,” Jet says.
“He says that too!”
Lennon laughs, and I find myself smiling back at him.
Damn it.
Mad, Ollie. You’re supposed to be mad.
Ash always used to complain that I don’t get hangovers. The worst I generally get is a headache. Today is one of the few times in my life I wish I wasn’t like that. The stupid shit I said and did isn’t distorted or blurry or something I could easily forget.
; I wince when I remember being passed drink after drink, and I took them no questions asked. Then I remember the girl, the obvious come-ons that I ignored to keep gazing at Lennon across the bar, wishing he could be anyone else but … him. A journalist who calls me on hiding shit. Because that’s why I’m truly pissed, isn’t it? It’s not that he thinks I’m talentless, which is bullshit. I know he doesn’t think that. I used that girl last night to distract me from gravitating toward Lennon, and then I walked her out anyway when I wasn’t interested. God, I’m an idiot. And an asshole.
If it weren’t for Lennon and Jet, I might not have gotten away from her so easily without blurting out I’m gay …
Oh, fuck. I told Jet I’m gay.
I tell myself not to panic, because it’s Jet. He’s Matt Jackson’s little brother. He’d know what kind of position I’m in.
Doesn’t help settle my stomach, though.
The sun streams into Lennon’s bedroom, where they dumped me because it was the closest room off the stairs and they were exhausted from hauling my ass up them.
I try to psych myself up to go out there and face the fallout from last night, but a note on the bedside table catches my eye. It sits on an open laptop with an arrow pointing to the screen. It reads: Truce? Click here—L.
I hit the space bar, and the computer comes back to life from power-saving mode, opening to Lennon’s article that was posted this morning by his magazine.
For the first time in my history of nonexistent hangovers, I might actually be sick.
Strömberg Trade Saves Dragons.
While we won’t see an end of speculation over the success of Strömberg’s trade until the end of the playoffs, it could have been all over last night with the Dragons’ epic battle to take Toronto down.
The Dragons have had a rocky season, beginning strong but suffering losses due to injuries, trades, and obvious tension on the ice.
Last night’s game was brutal, ending in a desperate fight to stay alive. In the last second of the last minute in an overtime period, Ollie Strömberg skated like his life depended on it.
Having been traded from Boston earlier this season, he had the need to prove himself to his new team. Without the overshadowing Novak figure dimming his light, Strömberg proved his rising stardom worthy.
