by Amy Aislin
“Okay, I know this might be a stupid question.” Mitch reappeared at Christian’s side and offered him his second beer of the night. Christian didn’t particularly want it, but it seemed rude to refuse, so he took it. He’d just have to nurse it slowly so he wasn’t hammered later, in case he was the one who had to drive home. “What does a digital marketer do?”
For some reason, Mitch had glommed onto Christian when he and Riley had first arrived and hadn’t let him go since. It was flattering and yet kind of weird. Mitch was a good-looking guy: an inch or two shorter than Christian’s own six feet, fit, curly brown hair, light brown eyes, strong jaw covered in what appeared to be a permanent five o’clock shadow. He wasn’t flirting so much as feeling Christian out. For what, Christian had no idea, but whatever it was, it wasn’t sexual. Yeah Christian’s gaydar might be blowing up like Times Square at midnight, but Mitch wasn’t angling for a hookup. There was something else he wanted. Christian wished he’d dispense with the pleasantries and just ask already. Why did people feel like they needed to beat around the bush?
“Well.” Christian took a sip of his beer and thought about how best to answer that. “We do a lot of different things and some of us are really specialized. We can do anything from study analytics so we know who to target, design websites, analyze performance. We develop the best strategies to market a product or a brand—”
“You do all that?” Mitch interrupted to ask.
Christian shrugged. “Yeah.”
“You design websites, too?”
“I do.” It was his favorite part. Sadly, he didn’t get to do much of it.
Mitch rubbed a hand along his jaw and peered at something over Christian’s shoulder. “I have a…friend. An author. Whose first book—well, second. First under this pen name. Anyway.” He waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter. He’s just been signed by an indie publishing house. They’re willing to help with creating a website but the royalties they’re asking for if they do are a bit ridiculous. We thought it might be better to just hire a web designer, but I get the feeling they’re overcharging us in their estimates. He could do it himself, you know, one of those free ones…no?”
Christian was shaking his head. “They don’t have the best platforms. Don’t get me wrong, they’re user-friendly and if you upgrade to a paid subscription, you get a lot more functionality. But unless you know what you’re doing, the paid ones don’t make sense. Yet if you want reach, you need something more than a free one.”
Mitch let out an impatient breath. “Yeah, that’s what we figured.”
“Here.” Christian took his phone out of his pocket. “Have you seen Riley’s website for Warm Glow?”
“Yeah. He doesn’t have the menu on there.”
Christian swallowed a chuckle. “Here’s the new one I designed for him.” He passed Mitch his phone. While Mitch tapped through the various pages of what was, admittedly, a very nice website with a mobile-friendly design, Christian sought Riley out and found him still in discussion with his old coach on the other side of the room.
Earlier, when they’d arrived, Riley had introduced Mitch to Christian with a “This is the guy you’re looking for.” Christian hadn’t paid any attention at the time because he was in a room full of hockey players. Toronto hockey players. His team. His and Riley’s team. They’d gotten never-ending grief from their parents for not being Montreal fans, but when they were small Montreal had seemed so far away.
He wasn’t ashamed to admit it: He was totally starstruck. Sometimes he forgot that Riley had played with these guys. He hadn’t been kidding when he told Riley that hockey players were celebrities in Canada. But to him, Riley was just…Riley.
“Can you do something like this for an author?” Mitch handed him back his phone. “All interactive and clean and nice and—” He gestured at the phone. “—that?”
Ten minutes later Christian had a potential first client for the freelance web design business he hadn’t even known he wanted. Second client if you counted Riley, which Christian didn’t seeing as Riley wasn’t paying him. In fact, Christian had forked over the money for his website upgrades himself.
But whatever. His first client!
Potential client.
Right, right. He still had to meet with Mitch’s author friend, provide an estimate. But still. If it proved fruitful, it might be a sign it was time to become his own boss.
* * *
This party was such a typical hockey player party, Riley had to laugh. The WAGs—wives and girlfriends—sat together on the couches in the living room drinking champagne and munching on finger foods. There was a group of players huddled around the food in the kitchen as if they expected it to disappear at any moment. A few guys were watching the Pittsburgh vs Buffalo game in one room, and others were playing NHL 17 on the PlayStation in another.
More than one ex-teammate had given Riley shit for not keeping in better touch.
Truth was he’d found it too hard to be around these guys after his injury. Knowing they still had the ability to play professionally and that he’d never get to do so again? Those first couple of months after he got hurt weren’t exactly shining moments for him and he’d pulled further and further away from his friends. Once he’d finally gotten over his whole woe-is-me funkitude, he’d been so embarrassed at his own behavior that he still hadn’t reached out to his teammates.
He was emotionally mature like that.
But they hadn’t given up on him. Not once, as much as he would’ve liked them to in the beginning.
Man, it was great being in the same room with these guys again. As much as he loved Warm Glow and working with Sam, he missed hockey. Missed the feeling of family being part of a team gave him.
“How’s the bakery treating you, Deschamps?”
Riley tuned back into the conversation he was having with his old goaltending coach. The man had been just as devastated as Riley when he’d found out Riley couldn’t play anymore.
“Keeps me busy,” Riley said noncommittally. He was sure the last thing Coach Davenport expected him to do once he recuperated was to open a bakery.
“Have you given any thought to what we discussed a few months ago?”
Translation: What do you think you’re doing with your life, Deschamps? If you really want to run a bakery for the rest of your life I’ll stop hounding you. But is it really what you want? And think hard before you answer that.
Coach Davenport was the type of person whose words held subtext.
“Actually, I have,” Riley admitted.
Coach nodded. “Good. I have a friend who’s an assistant coach for the Milton Trailblazers, an OHL team.” OHL. The Ontario Hockey League. One of three major junior ice hockey leagues that made up the Canadian Hockey League. Riley’s palms started to sweat. “They’re looking for a goaltending coach. They haven’t had one in a few years and their game’s starting to suffer. Is your email address still the same? I’ll forward your contact info to my friend there.”
Translation: I’m going to set up an interview for you. My coaching friend will email you the details. You better show up. Don’t let me down, Deschamps.
Riley liked that Coach didn’t ask if Riley wanted him to send his friend his contact info. Simply ran over him, not allowing him to say no. Not that Riley would. Not anymore. Sure, he’d needed the space from hockey for a while but two years was enough. He was ready to get back into the game. The noncompetitive rec league he was currently part of that only played a game twice a month was all well and fine. But it didn’t fill that part of him that needed the adrenaline rush of a hockey puck shot at him thirty times a game.
He’d loved coaching that kid on Christmas Eve, the one who’d been so bundled he could barely move his arms to shoot the puck. Yeah, the kid couldn’t find the net with a compass, but he’d had heart and enthusiasm. And that was all it took for a kid to want to learn.
Trying to bank his own enthusiasm, Riley heaved a dose of reality on the conversation. “I’ve ne
ver coached, though. I might suck.”
“You might,” Coach said, not one to mince words. “And I suspect they’ll give you a trial period before signing you on permanently. But you’ve been playing goalie since you were, what, seven? Eight? My guess is you’ll be a natural.”
His heart pounded at the thought of those kids—teenagers—looking to him for advice, for guidance, for instruction. Leadership. Mentorship. He’d never be able to live with himself if he let them down.
But would he regret it if he let himself down by not jumping on this opportunity?
* * *
From across the room, Christian watched Riley finish his discussion with his old coach. As soon as the other man walked away, Riley’s eyes scanned the room, searching. Not finding what they were looking for until they landed on—
Him. Christian’s stomach fluttered at the smile that bloomed on Riley’s face. Needing to be near him, Christian said a polite “Excuse me” to Mitch and made his way over. The front door opened when he was halfway across the room and a tall, jacked dude walked in.
Holy hockey players, Batman! Eyes wide, he double-timed to Riley and clutched his arm.
“Riles,” he whispered, shaking Riley’s arm. “Riles.”
Riley was looking at him like he had eight heads. “What?”
“That’s Alex Dean.”
“Yeah.”
“The Alex Dean. One of the greatest defensemen in the history of the NHL. Alex. Dean.”
He was in the same room as Alex Dean. Somebody pinch him.
“He had fifty-two points last season,” Christian informed Riley. “And he saw more ice time than any other defenseman in the league.” Alex Dean was his hero. “Do you think he’ll talk to me? No,” Christian answered his own question. “No, of course he won’t. He’s way too cool for school.”
“Who are you, right now?”
“Is he single? He was with someone for a really long time but nobody knows if that’s still a thing or not.”
“It is. Not that it matters,” Riley growled. “He can’t have you.”
The possessiveness momentarily distracted Christian from Alex Dean.
“I’ll introduce you if you want. Not,” Riley continued, pointing a finger in his face, “so you can sleep with him. Strictly so you can, I don’t know…get his autograph? Or whatever.”
“What? No! What will I say? What will I do?”
“Just be yourself.” Riley stared at him for a second. “Okay, not this self.” He waved a hand at Christian as if to encompass all the weirdness he was currently emitting. “This self is freaking me out a bit.”
“But it’s Alex Dean.”
“No shit,” Riley deadpanned.
“Did I hear my name?”
They turned at the voice and oh. Good. God. Alex Dean was even more jacked in person. And that damn scar across his eyebrow shouldn’t have been hot, yet it made his face even more ruggedly handsome.
“Hey, man.” Riley offered Alex Dean his hand. “How’s it going?”
Christian watched as Riley chatted with Alex Dean as if they were friends. Of course, they were. How had Christian never put two and two together? They’d played on the same goddamn team.
“It’s good to see you on your feet, Desie,” Alex Dean said. Desie was the nickname somebody had given Riley years ago, when they’d played hockey in elementary school. Because apparently “Deschamps” was just too unwieldy for little anglophone kids.
“Is this your guy?” Alex Dean nodded at Christian. “The one in Vancouver?”
Riley had talked about him with Alex Dean? He was going to swoon.
“Alex, meet Christian. He’s a huge fan, it seems.”
Christian shook his hand and proceeded to vomit verbal diarrhea all over Alex Dean’s perfectly clean shoes. That play against Boston? Man, that was so epic, Christian had rewound it a dozen times. And that fight with Ottawa’s defenseman? Christian knew Alex’d kick his ass. And that game against Cleveland last year when he’d scored a hat trick? That was fucking awesome!
“I am so sorry,” Riley said to Alex Dean, big, shocked eyes on Christian.
Alex Dean only laughed. “It’s okay. It’s always nice to meet a fan. It was nice to meet you, Christian. I’m going to go grab a drink. Desie, don’t be a stranger.”
Christian needed a drink of his own after that. He’d lost his beer somewhere. Probably set it on a table but now he couldn’t remember which one. Oh well.
“That was Alex Dean.”
Riley rolled his eyes.
“I scared him away, didn’t I?” Whatever, he didn’t even care. “My life is made. I can die happy now.”
Chuckling, Riley grabbed his face in his hands and kissed him. With tongue. Lots of tongue. Right there in front of a dozen pro athletes and their spouses and girlfriends.
“Wanna go home now?” Riley asked. “It’s eleven.”
Eleven. The time they’d agreed was a hard stop. Because as much fun as it was to hang out with a bunch of hockey players, it turned out neither one of them wanted to be here. Riley came because he’d made a commitment weeks ago. Christian tagged along because he had no other New Year’s Eve plans—his ultracool plans to spend the night with his mom got kiboshed when she flounced out of the house dressed to the nines to party with her friends down the street. And his less cool, extremely relaxing, yet super old-person plan to stay home alone and watch the ball drop on TV got nixed when Riley showed up at seven thirty and told him to get dressed because they were going to a party.
Sure. Christian went. Because when one of them led, the other one followed. Just like always.
“Yes,” Christian said. He leaned forward and pressed a quick, hard kiss to Riley’s mouth. “Let’s go home.”
Riley’s grin was so naughty Christian’s dick took notice in his pants. Why couldn’t the goddamn party be in Oakville? Now they’d have what was likely a forty-minute drive home before Christian could jump Riley’s bones.
They wound their way through partygoers, Riley calling out goodbyes. Christian stared at his ass in front of them as they walked. And then walked into said ass when Riley stopped because he couldn’t find the host to say thanks and Happy New Year.
Christian stood impatiently by, watching Riley stand on his tippy toes to peer above heads in search of Mitch. He growled in frustration when Riley put his hand on his shoulder, using Christian as extra leverage. If they didn’t get going now, they’d still be on the road, stuck in the car when midnight hit. And Christian wanted to be in something else when that happened. Something named Riley. Or the other way around; he wasn’t about to get picky about who did who.
“I’ll just send them a text,” Riley said. They finally shrugged on coats and slipped into boots and left the house.
It was quiet on the street, the only sounds the muted conversations coming from the house and his and Riley’s footsteps crunching in the snow. Christian was happy to see Riley walking pain-free again. Their snowboarding day had really fucked him up.
It hurt Christian to see Riley in pain and it hurt that there wasn’t anything he could do to help. And it hurt him that Riley couldn’t play anymore, not professionally at least. All that hard work flushed down the drain because a lunatic on skates hadn’t stopped before crashing into him.
Riley’s car was parked on the street right in front of the house—primo parking in The Annex. They’d gotten here early (so they could leave early) and lucked out.
“I’ll drive,” Riley said. “I haven’t had anything to drink.”
“No?” Christian opened the passenger side door. Riley walked around the car to the other side. “What were you drinking?”
“Ginger ale.”
How come no one had offered him ginger ale?
A sound pierced the night. A quiet chuckle so unexpected on the deadened street it made Christian turn. There, on the side of Mitch’s house, Christian could barely make out two forms. They were hidden by the dark, but the street light was bright en
ough that he could see the puckered scar on the taller one’s face—the one leaning against the side of the house—and the curly hair of the shorter one, who was tucked into the V of the jacked one’s legs.
Holy shit! He all but flew into the car.
“Riles!”
Something in his tone must’ve alerted Riley because the man paused in the act of putting on his seatbelt to look at him warily.
“I swear to God, if this is about Alex Dean again…”
“I just saw him making out with Mitch Greyson on the side of the house!”
Clicking his seatbelt into place, Riley snorted and started the car.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Oh, I believe you. It’s just old news. Well, old to me anyway.”
Christian blinked at him. “I don’t know what that means.”
Riley’s smile was gently amused and he reached out to put his hand around Christian’s neck. “T. Babe. They’re married.” He kissed Christian’s cheek before pulling away from the curb.
Married? The giant, jacked defenseman and the asshole left-winger who was actually a closeted nice guy?
“Wow. That is so much jerk off fodder.”
“Hey!” Riley protested, laughing. “What am I? Chopped liver?”
“Aw, Riley, honey, never.” Christian squeezed his guy’s thigh. “You’re not liver. You’re the steak to my mashed potatoes.”
Riley navigated out of The Annex and onto Spadina, heading south toward the Gardiner Expressway. Somewhere in the middle of Chinatown he must’ve felt Christian’s stare because he looked over briefly before returning his attention to the road.
“Oh! That was you trying to be funny.”
Trying?
Christian sighed and rested his head against the headrest. “My brand of humor is lost on you.”
They made it home faster than they should’ve owing to the lack of cars on the roads. Apparently, everyone was already at the parties they needed to be at. They drove mostly in a contented silence, each of them ignoring the giant Rocky Mountain-sized elephant in the car named Christian Flies Back to Vancouver in Three Days.
