All I knew right now was that it had been about two weeks since that night, and I still couldn’t get Luca out of my head. Because I was embarrassed by my failure to go through with it? Because I was still lonely? Because Luca was so goddamned hot and I’d let him slip through my fingers? Probably all of that.
My phone chirped, pulling me out of my thoughts, and I picked it up. On the screen was a group text from Quinn, our starting goalie:
Anyone want to grab beers at Hanley’s tonight?
Within a couple of minutes, the other guys started responding. Some had to bow out, but several said they were in. Eight o’clock tonight, they’d be at the sports bar where we sometimes hung out. It would be loud and rowdy because hockey players, and it definitely wouldn’t be boring. It would also be a hell of a distraction and a reason to get out of this condo before I lost what was left of my mind.
So I sent, See you boys tonight.
Considering how many of my teammates usually spent the first part of the off season vacationing, I was surprised at how many people showed up. By the time I walked into Hanley’s, the back room was crowded with at least a dozen teammates, plus some members of the front office and coaching staff. It was mostly the single guys, but a few of the attached guys were here too. Some had their wives or girlfriends with them. Some came alone. Coach Henderson had even brought his sons, the younger of whom had recently turned twenty-one, and he and Bauer were showing them some trick shots on the pool table.
I said hello to a few people on my way to the bar. As I was standing in line, Smitty sidled up next to me, a mostly-finished pint glass in his hand.
Waggling an eyebrow, he asked, “So? How did it go?”
“Huh?” But then I made the connection, and I dropped my gaze. “Oh. Um.”
“What?” He nudged my arm. “Don’t tell me you didn’t do it.”
“I…” I looked up at the list of drinks above the bar even though I’d memorized it ages ago. “I just don’t think it’s for me.”
“Back to Tinder?”
That was a safe enough escape from this line of questioning, so I shrugged and turned to him. “Pretty much. Not that I’ve had much luck there, but the summer is still young.”
He laughed. “That’s the spirit.”
I just chuckled, and he mercifully let the subject drop.
Once I had a beer in hand and he’d had his topped off, we found a table near the edge of the room and sat down. We were close to where the rest of the guys were hanging out, so we shot the shit with people and caught up as if it had been longer than two weeks since we’d all seen each other. Funny how when you spent months on end on top of each other, being apart for even a couple of weeks felt weird. Maybe that was why I’d been such a wreck when I’d come home from the playoffs. Maybe instead of hiring an escort, I should’ve just invited some of my buddies to come over and hang out.
Except I did still want to get laid. Or at least be touched. Pretty sure that wasn’t something I could ask of one of my teammates.
Ah, well. This was better than nothing. I wouldn’t bitch.
“Dude, shut up,” Smitty snapped at someone. Apparently I’d been staring into my beer and zoning out, and I looked up to see what was going on.
“Don’t act like it isn’t true,” Deacon said to Smitty with a sneer.
Smitty rolled his eyes. “Fuck off, Deek.”
Deacon gave him the finger, but he kept walking.
Smitty shook his head and muttered, “That guy, I swear.”
I just quietly sipped my beer. I didn’t even know what the hell they’d been arguing about, but this wasn’t new. Deacon and Smitty had known each other since college, and their mutual animosity had grown steadily since then. There’d been some speculation that it had started either after Deacon had sucker-punched Smitty during a practice game, or that Smitty—upon learning that Deacon was a homophobic jackass—had flirted with him in front of some other players. No one really knew for sure, and neither of them had ever said what really happened. Not where I could hear it, anyway.
Coach Henderson had threatened on multiple occasions to trade one of them if they didn’t get their act together. I was ninety-nine percent certain the only thing stopping him was that Smitty was one of the best defensemen in the entire League and Deacon was consistently among the top five scorers in the Western division. If they were slightly less great at hockey, one or both of them would’ve been long gone.
But since they could both play circles around almost anyone, the rest of us had to grit our teeth and put up with them snarling at each other now and then.
Smitty was still glowering, and I gave his shin a light kick. “Hey. Quit stewing.”
“I’m not stewing,” he muttered into his beer. “Just sick of that asshole.”
Since Smitty wasn’t looking, I stole the opportunity to roll my eyes before schooling my tone. “Okay, but you’re both here. Why let him ruin your good time?”
He glared at me, but only for a second. Sighing, he gazed into his beer. “Yeah. You’re right.” He glanced in Deacon’s direction, shook his head, and faced me again. “So, you want to throw some darts after Grant and Turgenev are done?”
I smiled, grateful for the change of direction. “You think you can actually hit the target this time?”
“Hey!” He kicked me harder than I’d kicked him. “Fuck you.”
I laughed even as I reached down to rub my shin. “I’ll take that as a ‘no, I still suck.’”
“Yeah, you wish I sucked,” he muttered.
I just chuckled. It was a running joke on the team and throughout the League that it was only a matter of time before we—being two single gay dudes on the same team—hooked up. We sometimes teased fans and reporters about it just to keep them guessing, too. Like the time we’d gone to a charity event and someone asked if we were there as dates. Without missing a beat, Smitty had taken my elbow and proudly announced that we were. Later the same evening, when we’d been talking to a reporter, she’d asked about it. We’d both played stupid, acting as if we not only didn’t know what she meant about us being dates, but that we had no idea who she was even talking about.
“Smitty, who?” I’d asked while he’d been standing right there.
Hey, if they were going to speculate about and ask about our personal lives, they could deal with it when we trolled them.
“Oh, hey.” Smitty gestured with his beer. “Grant and Turgenev are done.”
I turned, and sure enough, our teammates were wiping their score from the chalkboard, so we got up and went over to claim their place.
We played darts and drank and shot the shit with our teammates. It beat the hell out of spending the night home alone, but keeping my enthusiasm going was a challenge. Every time a conversation hit a lull or a game ended, my energy flagged hard. It was like it took everything I had to convince everyone around me—myself included—that I wanted to be here.
I did want to be here, though. I was out of the house. I was around people. Maybe I wasn’t getting laid or even touching anyone, but these walls were less likely to close in than the ones at home. I’d take it.