8. MILES

EIGHT

MILES

Still can’t believe I stole my teammate a rat, and then he has the audacity to think my pets are weird. We snag the very back of the plane, our coaches up front, and I let Bilson drop into the row before I follow him. He’s wearing a very baggy hoody and has Killer tucked inside the front pocket.

“If we can keep him quiet until we get into the air, there’s nothing they’ll be able to do then. It’s not like they’ll dump him in Edmonton or ship him back to Seattle,” I say.

“I don’t want to test that out.” His hands are stuffed in the front of the hoodie, stroking the dograt, and with the way it’s sitting over his lap …

I glance down suggestively. “Enjoying yourself?”

He doesn’t take the bait. “Of course I am. I have my widdle squish face back.” He drops his voice as Killer’s bug-eyed head pokes out. “My widdle bubby wubby is happy to be back with daddy waddy too, aren’t you?”

“Tell me women call you daddy waddy in bed.”

That finally gets Bilson’s attention. “How the hell did I end up friends with the goalie? I bet your strange ass would love to be called that, wouldn’t you?”

“Nah, I’m more, uh …” How do I tell him I’m a guy who loves being given direction and praise when I’ve done a good job? “Whatever the opposite of a Daddy is.”

“A Mommy?”

I crack up laughing. “When it comes to fucking, I’m not the one in control.”

“Huh.” He looks shocked by that information. “You’re such a cocky shit I thought you would have been all about showing off what you can do.”

“Oh, I show off the goods all right, and they can use any part of me they like.”

“So … how does that work?”

“You need me to explain sex to you?”

He scowls. “No, I mean … anything anything? Even …” His eyes dart down, and I know what he’s getting at.

“Have I been pegged? Oh yeah. A few times.”

“How the hell did you get to that point?”

I shrug. “A few of my frat brothers were dating dudes, said how good being fucked was. I wanted to try it, and I hit up a sorority sister I was friends with. Turns out they were right.”

“Wow …”

“It’s a whole new world out there, Grandpa.” Then, because I really need to bring it up, I add, “You’re lucky I didn’t hook up with your ex. I would have taught her so much.”

He sends a glare my way. “You did want to stay?”

I could keep messing with him, but Bilson’s friendship is important, and I want to make sure there’s no doubt. “No way. One of the things I learned from my brothers is we respect each other. It’s the same with the team. You’re all always going to be a thousand times more important to me than a hookup.” The next part is hard to get out. “I don’t know if you saw, but we did kiss. I swear it wasn’t planned, but I really wanted to get your dog back, and I was scrambling to figure out how to shake her so I could sneak off.”

“I saw.”

I brace myself for him to yell at me.

“And it was all worth it to have this sweet, widdle angel back.”

Killer’s tongue lolls out as he pants happily, Bilson’s large hand swamping his head with each pat.

I cross my arms and glare at the dograt. “You could say thank you. Just saying.”

“Aww, is Rook feeling left out?” Bilson stops patting the mutant and scratches me behind the ears instead. “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?”

“Fuck off.” I slap his hand away, embarrassed to admit how much I like the attention. Apparently, my standards are so low I’ll take being told I’ve done a good job, even if it’s patronizing.

And I’m being treated like an animal.

“Can’t win,” Bilson says.

Killer yaps in reply, and the quiet conversation around us dies. Stoll and Coach both look backward down the aisle, and I’m scared for a whole second that we’ve been busted when they turn back around.

Thankfully, the idea of a player bringing a dog on board is so wild Coach would assume he imagined the sound rather than the reality.

I let out a relieved breath, but then Killer yaps again.

This time, the noise gets more attention, and so I do the only thing I can think of: I bark.

More heads turn our way.

“What are you doing?” Finch asks.

“Trying out a new pregame ritual, what do you think?” I bark a few times, loudly, as Bilson coaxes Killer back into his pocket.

“I think you need to shut up. Stoll’s trying to sleep.”

“What’s more important? Sleep or the W?”

No one answers. I bark again for good measure.

Coach looks torn between telling me to quit it, and scared if he does, we’ll lose the next game.

“How long is this ritual of yours going to last?” he asks instead.

I glance at Bilson’s lap, where Killer has settled again. “I think I’m done, but I can never really be sure. Sometimes the need to bark just takes over, you know?” I tap Jorgensen’s shoulder, who’s sitting in front of me. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“Rookie, I drink a lot, and yet I can confidently say I’ve never had the urge.”

There are sniggers up and down the plane, along with some muttered “fucking goalies.”

But the attention is off us.

I hold up my fist between us, and Bilson taps it with his.

“You’re barking mad, is what you are.”

Somehow, he makes it sound like a compliment.

When we takeout the win against Edmonton, instead of celebrating, Bilson says he’s staying in with Killer. It’s tempting to go out—I sorely want to get my dick wet since it’s been … too much math to math, but I don’t.

Instead, I walk down the hall, bottle of vodka in hand, and use the key card I swiped from him earlier to barge into his room. He throws the blanket over his lap like I’ve busted him jacking off.

“Killer or beating off?” I ask. “This could be a drinking game.”

He lifts the blanket back off his dograt. “Most people knock, asshole.”

“Why would I knock when I have a key?”

“You have a …” He glances at his nightstand. “Sneaky shit.”

“Why, thank you.” I set the vodka down on the table and find two glasses, then duck back up the hall to fill the metal bucket with ice. When I’m back, Bilson is already taking up most of the small couch, so I shove him over and push into the space beside him. “We have a real problem.”

“Problem?”

“Obviously.” I pull out Stone and Seddy, giving them a quick nip of vodka before pouring me and Bilson a drink. “We won tonight.”

“How is that a problem?”

“Because I made a new ritual. And then we won. By a fucking lot. So now, obviously, we are going to have to fucking bark before every fucking game.”

“We?”

“Yes, we. It was your dograt that got us into this mess, and why would I do it solo when I can drag you into it with me?”

“I’m not barking.”

“Kiss and bark, bro. We got this.”

“We don’t got this.”

“Wow, no sense of teamwork.” I take a burning sip of my drink.

“Why are you here? I thought me and my baby were going to have a quiet night in.”

“Wow.” I stare at him. “Woooow. Here I was, thinking you’d want company, and I’m already being ditched for the dog. I get it.” I go to stand when Bilson tugs me back down again. We’re so close that I almost land in his lap before he shoves me back off him.

“I meant that I thought you’d be out hooking up.”

“You and me both. It’s been soooo long.”

“Why? You’re not celibate.”

“No, but you’re a cockblock, CB. I was going to the night of the bet, and then you plowed me with alcohol. And then I was planning to in Seattle, and instead, I picked up your ex-wife and took home dograt.”

Bilson laughs. “Doesn’t explain what you’re doing here now though.”

It doesn’t, does it? Why didn’t I go out with the team? I’m friends with them. If we went to a sports bar, it wouldn’t have been too hard to pick up, but … I chose vodka and bromance instead.

The thing is, I miss this. The closeness with other guys. Not just friends but people I can talk to, be bromotional with, not have to always put on the cocky and confident act. Sometimes I want to be able to say when I’m having issues and know I’ve got a friend who’ll listen.

My frat brothers will always be that; we have a bromotions night through the chat every week, but it’s not the same. Sitting here, in person, it’s just right.

Bilson might intimidate me with his long career and incredible skill, but he’s an easy guy to be friends with.

Which is why I’m sitting on his stupid small couch, drinking vodka dry, wallowing about not hooking up when I could be doing exactly that. I could not fucking imagine trying to go celibate.

“When do you think your Amish streak will end?” I ask.

“You know nothing about the Amish, do you?”

“I know they wear those stupid hats. There’s no way they’re not virgins.”

“Do me a favor and never say that shit ever to anyone out loud.”

I pretend to think about it to rile him up. “Can’t make any promises.”

He ignores me. “It’s getting so hard I swear I’m at half-mast the majority of the time, and when I’m not, it’s because I’m jerking off in the shower.”

“Wow, not even in bed? What happened to romance?”

“Shut up, Miles.”

I pretend to gasp. “You first-named me. You’re serious.”

“I am serious.” He presses down on his groin, and I follow the movement. “I’m starting to think I need to see a doctor about this.”

“There’s plenty of doctors in porn.”

He groans and presses down harder.

“Okay, okay, very serious and sad.” I take another sip as I think through his problem. He doesn’t want to hook up because he’s worried about falling in love and whatever, but there is no way he’s that pathetic.

“I miss sex,” he complains.

Okay, so he is that pathetic. “What about this? If you don’t want to hook up because you don’t trust yourself, you just need a wingman. Not to pick up but kick out. I can do that. My momma always taught me to be a gentleman and walk guests to the door.”

His eyebrows knit, and I can tell he’s thinking about it. “What … you’d just hang around until I was done?”

“Maybe … or you could text me. If we shared a room on the road, it’d be easier. Take a bed each … threesome …”

His eyes bug from his head.

It’s hilarious. “I forgot you’re an old man. Gotta take it easy on your missionary generation.”

“First, I’m friends with Ezra Palaszczuk—I know moves you’d never be able to come up with. Second, we’re the same fucking generation, you punk.”

Says the guy who almost wet himself over the thought of a threesome.

Bilson drops his head back against the couch. “Ezra and Anton are so lucky.”

“Why?”

“Because they have each other. Traveling, at home, it doesn’t matter. They can fuck whenever they like.”

“You’d sleep with a teammate?”

“W-what? Uh—what are you—Jesus, Rook. No. That’s not what I … I mean they don’t have to worry about all the land mines that come with finding a stranger to get off with.”

He’s got a point there. Greek Row was great because the houses were all so close together, and with the number of parties we had, it wasn’t much effort. I was a Sigma boy, for fuck’s sake. We were hot property. It might be similar in the NHL, but I haven’t even begun to experience that, and on the one night I have a chance to, I don’t take it.

Having a partner here with me sounds pretty ideal.

I glance over at where Bilson is still slumped, staring at the ceiling, stubbled throat stretched back and Adam’s apple bulging. Am I attracted to dudes? No. Did I wonder what the big deal was when all my brothers started coupling up? You betcha.

My gaze strays down to where, true to his word, Bilson’s dick is partially tenting his shorts. Poor thing.

He needs to do something about that.

And so do I, considering I’m suffering from the same issue.

“My offer stands,” I say. “If you need help to get off, I’m your guy.”

He laughs loudly. “Add that to the list of things you’re not allowed to say out loud again.”

“That didn’t come out right.”

“Olsen.” He pats my thigh, and it’s a struggle not to shake him off. “If you want to hit on me, at least have the balls to do it properly.”