Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys Book 1)

AFTER OUR MORNING skate at the arena, we head back to Ezra’s with a couple of the guys and hang out. It’s low-key while we all try to get in the right mindset, and when my gaze constantly strays to Ezra and whoever he’s talking to, I don’t try to hide it.

I warn myself about getting in too deep, but I think I’m already there. Does it freak me out?

A little. But not because it’s Ezra.

My concerns are centered around coming out. Whether one of us will be traded. If a relationship even works in this high-pressure environment. Sure, we’re making sex work for us now, but I’ve seen way too many of my teammates get wrapped up in a relationship only to have it end in heartbreak or bitter divorces.

There are some people who make it work, but they’re the exception, not the rule.

After everything we’ve been through, I can’t go back to how it was before.

When we’re getting ready to head back to TD Garden, I catch Ezra as he’s leaving his bathroom and shove him back inside. I close the door behind us, push him up against the wall, and bring our mouths together in a searing kiss. “Whose idea was it to invite people over?”

“Diedrich’s,” he says against my lips. “I’m really starting to hate that guy.”

I chuckle and squeeze his ass. “Let’s go win that game, then it’s my turn to take you bare.”

“Normally I’d punch you for jinxing us, but you did get some added magic yesterday.”

I cringe. “The only thing that could make that sentence worse is if you called your cum magic juice.”

“Oh, I like that.”

“I had to open my big mouth.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I would have got there myself eventually. You just gave me a head start.” He brushes his lips against mine. “Plus, we’re playing Buffalo. Those guys have had a rough season. Even by their standards.”

“Maybe I’ll beat my points record. Reckon I can go for six goals this game?”

This time, Ezra does thump me. “Dude. You’re really pushing it.”

We catch up with the rest of the team before it looks suspicious and head for the arena. Even though I’m confident, game days wouldn’t be the same without nerves. We show up in our suits, get changed, and start to warm up. The hours tick closer to the game starting, and half the team gets loud while the others go quiet. It’s no surprise Ezra and I are on opposite ends of the spectrum, and I sit and watch as he kicks a ball back and forth with some of the team.

“You ready, Hayes?” Kosik asks.

“Let’s do this.”

The atmosphere of a live game is like nothing else. I can still remember the first time I walked out with Philly and looked around, completely awed that this is my life. The impact has lessened slightly after a few years, but every now and then, I hit the ice and take it all in.

We’re on the streak of the season, and Buffalo is at the bottom of the table. There’s nothing in this game, but I know not to get too far ahead of myself. Every team is capable of having a good game and a bad one.

And apparently, tonight is one of those times.

As soon as the puck drops, it’s clear something is off. Buffalo doesn’t make a wrong move. They’re constantly in our half, taking shots on goal, and the only thing between them and a high score is Kosik defending like a champ and Griffith shutting down all attempts.

I can barely find the puck, and when I do, no one is where I need them to be. It’s the same when Diedrich makes a steal and flicks it in my direction. I’m too slow to get on top of it, and it lands in the blade of a Buffalo forward.

Our second and third lines are playing better than we are tonight.

By the time the first period ends and we get back to the locker room, Coach is beside himself. He reams us, and I don’t blame him. We’re playing worse than we did when I was first traded.

I meet Ezra’s eyes briefly and have to quickly look away. I’m not the only one playing like shit tonight, but I feel like I’m the only one letting the team down.

An athlete’s ego goes both ways.

The second period is no better than the first, except this time, Buffalo slips two goals past us. Griffith is frustrated, Kosik is starting to get desperate with some of the hits he’s making, and the worse we get, the more I can tell we’re losing Ezra.

He’s in his head, and he’s missing some really easy plays.

Coach tries the new tactic of trying to motivate us before the final period, but I can’t help thinking it’s too little too late.

I try to turn my mindset around. Try to remind myself that two goals is nothing. We can do this. We can get back out there and pull a win out of our asses. It isn’t theirs to celebrate yet.

My brain doesn’t manage to convince my body though. I give away an easy pass, and barely five minutes in, I’m chasing down rookie Ayri Quinn from Buffalo and make a play for the puck too late.

He passes as I reach him, but my blade clips his skates, and he goes down. The ref calls a penalty.

“Fuck.” I pull up beside Ayri and crouch down. “You okay?”

“Jesus, Hayes.” He shoves me as I try to help him to his feet.

Another Buffalo player slams into me from the side, and I’m about to go back in for him when Ezra drags me away.

“Asshole,” I bite out, trying to shove Ezra off.

“You’re already off for two. Don’t make it worse.”

You know things are bad when Ezra is the voice of reason. I shove him away and head for the penalty box, the crowd’s jeers deafening.

I pride myself on playing clean, and as I enter the penalty box for the first time this season, I can feel my ears burning. The weight of an arena full of stares prickles the back of my neck, and I have to force my face to stay passive because I know there are cameras trained on me.

Especially when thirty seconds later, Kosik joins me.

I want to pull out my hair in frustration that the game is quickly slipping away from us. Kosik is right on the edge of the bench, and we’re both glued to the play happening on the ice.

A five-on-three power play is the worst thing to happen right now.

Buffalo charges past the blue line. There are too many of them and not enough of us.

Kosik and I jump to our feet, watching in horror as Ayri gets his payback. He dekes out Ezra and shoots. Griffith is a millisecond too late, and the puck hits the net.

The lamp lights up, and I’m straight back on the ice, but no matter how hard I fight, the seconds tick down. Nothing is smooth. Diedrich and I can’t find each other. Larsen is fuck knows where.

I try a shot back to Ezra, who passes to Diedrich, but it’s intercepted again. I almost throw my goddamn stick.

The buzzer sounds, and as the home crowd around us goes into half-hearted cheers and encouraging applause, I stand there, heaving, barely able to believe the last hour.

We lost.

In a fucking shutout.

I can’t say a word as I shake the other team’s hands and head back to the locker room. Thankfully, it’s only Coach at the press conference tonight, because there’s no way any of us want to go face the media after that mess. We played like a pack of clowns.

The locker room is subdued. I strip down to my undershirt and cool down on a bike, but none of us are talking.

“Next game will be better,” Diedrich says when we head back to the locker room to shower. I nod but don’t look at him. Kosik agrees, and so do some of the others, but I drown them out.

In the NHL, you win games, and you lose games. It just is.

But tonight, I’m not only disappointed, I’m embarrassed. I played like shit. I got a penalty. And I didn’t make even one halfway decent shot on goal.

Then a new worry hits me … what will this do to me and Ez? It’s our first loss since the start of … whatever we are, and the pretense of it being good luck obviously won’t hold weight after tonight’s disaster.

The fact I’m questioning what this monumental loss means for me and Ezra instead of focusing on what this means for the team makes me realize one glaringly obvious detail I might have missed somewhere along the way.

I told myself I wouldn’t fall for him.

I lied.