22. MILES

TWENTY-TWO

MILES

Bilson snaps his towel on my ass as he walks past me.

“Didn’t hurt,” I say, even as the fucker stings like a bitch.

He lowers his voice over the echoey noise of our teammates’ conversations. “Forgot your ass knows how to take a beating.”

“I’ll have to work harder next time. Can’t have you forgetting a thing like that.”

He disappears into the shower, and my smile drops off my face as I head for my cubby to get changed into my suit. Talking about things here is risky, but I’ve noticed Bilson hasn’t been spy-level stealthy lately. Something’s changed with him, and while I love seeing him more relaxed and confident, I also haven’t asked him about it. The pit in my gut every time I think about it tells me I won’t like the answers.

Even with the warning sirens going off in the back of my brain, I still slump on the bench and lean back to wait for him. My eyes fall closed, blocking out the chaos around me, which isn’t the greatest idea because then I’m alone with my thoughts, and there isn’t a single one I want to listen to.

Our loss was frustrating. Back-to-back fails like that hit me hardest because one game I can shake off; two in a row plain pisses me off. Anaheim were on their game tonight, but that doesn’t excuse me from not following through on the job I have to do. Some days make me question if I even want this, if I’m committed to the NHL when Nashville is the only team for me, and this season, while not terrible, definitely isn’t making me a goalie in demand.

Fingers roughly scruff through my damp hair, and my eyes flick open to find Bilson standing over me in a towel. His eyes are bright, and he looks good, considering we just got beat.

He moves to his own cubby, but a flash of him stepping close, leaning in, lips hovering enticingly close to mine, floods my brain, and I quickly look away to where Finch is tugging his pants up his thighs.

They’re good thighs. Thick. Topped by a hockey butt. Finch also isn’t totally annoying, but when I look at him and try to imagine letting him fuck me, I shudder.

Maybe I’m going off dick?

But like Bilson can hear my thoughts, he drops his towel as he grabs his boxers, and my face goes so rapidly hot I swear I’m about to pass out. So, still interested, apparently.

I didn’t realize the body attached to my walking strap-on made that much of a difference. But being friends first makes sense, I guess. Trust and whatever. I’m friends with Finch, but I don’t exactly want to hang out with him all the time or show up at his house at midnight just because I can’t sleep.

That’s the kind of shit besties do.

And fuck, apparently.

It’s a good thing neither of us is gay and it means nothing. No chance of Bilson falling for me or me getting too attached.

Something uncomfortable prods at my mind, but I go on ignoring that too.

“Ready to go?” I ask once Bilson is dressed.

Even though I kept my eyes firmly forward from the second he got naked, being this close to him has me horny and ready to climb into his bed.

“Ah, actually …”

My head snaps his way, but Bilson isn’t looking at me. He is looking awkward though, and I’m immediately panicked by what that could mean. Is he tired of me already?

“You’re heading out?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay level. Then, before I can stop myself, I add, “Cool. I’ll come too.”

He shifts. “You might not want to be offering that.”

“Why?” I pretend like the idea is only just now dawning on me and didn’t the second he started acting weird. “Oh. Because you wanna hook up? That’s cool. I’ll come and kick the future potential Mrs. Bilson the fifth out. It’s not like that wasn’t our plan all along. Bros helping bros. Too much of a good thing can get boring, after all. Variety is important.”

Acid burns in my stomach. Not over him hooking up, obviously, but because if I’m left babysitting his dumb ass, it means I won’t be able to hook up as well. I’m not stupid enough to fall back on that threesome idea because I have no doubt if we tried it again, Lucia wouldn’t be as forgiving. Bromance or no bromance.

And maybe I wouldn’t like seeing someone else get to use my sex toy.

You’re not supposed to share those things, after all.

Bilson drops onto the bench next to me. “No future Bilsons. Just Oskar Voyjik.”

The acid in my gut increases for a split second before I stop being a fucking idiot. “Ahhh, your queer bros group meetup?”

“Exactly.”

“And I can’t come because I’m not a member.”

He doesn’t answer at first, and when I glance over, he’s rubbing his thick stubble. “It’s not … that. I want you to come, but I didn’t think you …” His dark eyes skim the room, taking in how full it is, and doesn’t say any more.

He doesn’t need to, though, because our mind-reading powers are still going strong.

He didn’t think I’d want to come and have people speculate about me.

Knowing he even considered that reminds me of why we have this bromance. The media can play it up all they like; they’ll never know what it’s really like to be friends with someone like Cody Bilson. They can have our pregame rituals. I’ll keep this.

“Why can’t they have two honorary members?” I ask.

“I’m not going to stop you coming, but you don’t have to put yourself in that position.”

As much as I want to say screw it and go anyway, he’s telling me to think it through. To try to imagine what it will be like if rumors get back to my parents. The Collective meetups are well-known across the teams and even with NHL fans, but outside of that? Does anyone actually care about what they do and, by extension, me?

Nothing came of Bilson and me catching up with Aleks that one time … but they are ex-teammates, so that’s probably different. Plus, the dog-napping might have overshadowed any speculation.

I don’t think going out for a couple of drinks is going to draw that sort of attention.

“Answer me something really quick: would you prefer to have solo time with your friend? I don’t want to smother you or whatever, so if you don’t want me to come, that’s cool. Just say so.” I mean it this time too. If he’s not planning to sleep with someone else, he can do what he likes.

Bilson’s crooked smile crosses his face, but he’s quiet when he says, “Rook, making you come is top of my priorities tonight.”

My dick likes the sound of that.

Bilson laughs at me, but what-the-fuck-ever. It’s no secret by this point how much fun we have, so why would I play games by trying to brush it off?

“Can’t wait to spend the night having Voyjik rub his win in our faces.”

“Oh, good. You know what he’s like already. I was preparing to give you the heads-up.”

“I think everyone in the league knows about Oskar Voyjik’s big mouth.”

We pack up our stuff and grab our gear bags, preparing to head out to the team bus, but the second we step out of the locker room, there’s Voyjik.

He’s across the hall, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His dark blond hair is still wet from the shower, and he’s wearing reflector sunglasses and a shit-eating grin.

“Good game tonight,” he calls after Stoll, who flips him off.

Oskar starts a slow clap. “Wow. That really got one over on me. Pity you waited until after we left the ice.”

Bilson walks right up to him, shaking his head. “I am surprised daily that you don’t receive multiple punches to the face.”

“Even if I did, I’d still be prettier than you.”

I don’t know about prettier. Voyjik took a skate to the face two seasons ago, and while the scar that runs from his cheek to his eye has healed really well, the skin around it is pinched and uneven in places.

I’m ninety percent sure he would have been offered plastic surgery to help fix it—he’s known as one of the hottest men in the league—which means the scar stayed because he wanted it to stay.

Not that I can blame him. It gives him an edge.

“At least CB isn’t wearing sunglasses inside,” I point out. “Do you actively try to be as douchebaggy as possible?”

“Standing up for your man? How bromantic of you.”

Discomfort shifts through me, but Bilson brushes it off. “If your personality was as pretty as your face, maybe you could have friends too.”

“Personality?” Oskar repeats like the word tastes bad. “Who would bother with one of those?”

“Yeah, I’m going to need a drink to deal with you,” Bilson says.

“You know, I get that a lot.”

Bilson throws me a quick look. “You don’t care if Rook tags along, do you?”

“It’s not an official QC thing, so who the hell cares? I mostly wanted to catch up to gloat. It’s not as fun talking about how awesome I am with my team. All I get is ‘blah blah teamwork’ before they tune me out.”

As much as Voyjik might have dominated on the ice tonight, I think I actually like him. Dammit.

While he and Bilson shoot the shit, I use the moment to take him in. He’s one of the few proudly out players, and unlike most of them who keep that side of themselves private, I don’t think anyone missed Voyjik’s infamous CCTV threesome. Now that he’s settled down with his boyfriend, he still has no issues with public displays of affection. I swear he makes sure his boyfriend is at every event possible, and I distinctly remember them at last year’s award show, where neither of them could keep their hands to themselves.

Oskar Voyjik and I live very different lives.

Even if Bilson and I weren’t fucking around and I had a girlfriend, I’d keep things on the down-low because the last thing I want is indecent photos of me out there for my parents to see.

“Coming, Rook?” Voyjik asks, and Bilson backhands his chest.

“Don’t steal my nickname.”

“Oohhh, coming between the bromance?” Oskar laughs. “Tonight is going to be fun.”