Chapter 2

2

CALEB

Graham Adler.

No way.

Oh, the fucking irony. He doesn’t have a clue who I am, but I sure as fuck know who he is. I take a chance and switch on my flashlight under the pretense of looking for one of those elevator phones. I shine it near the door and spot the small compartment with a picture of a phone on it, and just as quickly move the beam of light over his face once again. He squints, but sure enough, I recognize those kind hazel eyes.

“Shit, sorry,” I say and lower the light. I leave it on, though, and place my cell on the ground, letting it illuminate the small space. “I wanted to see if there was one of those emergency phones.” I nod toward the panel near the door.

“Oh my God, you’re a genius,” he says and the expression on his face, that sweet excitement in his tone, I’m surprised I didn’t realize who he was as soon as he spoke in the first place.

Graham Adler is my secret addiction.

He flings open the small metal hatch, only to find it empty. Groaning, his face falls into his hands, sending a damp tumble of golden blond waves over his forehead. Sweat beads along my own hairline as I watch him sink to the floor, designer tux be damned.

“We’re so fucked.” He tugs at his open collar, popping another button. My eyes track his hand like it’s a puck flying toward the net.

Those familiar, capable hands.

I clear my throat. “It could be worse, at least the building isn’t on fire.” He shoots a weary glance in my direction, and I laugh. “I mean…”

“It’s one hundred degrees in here, might as well be on fire.”

Without overthinking it, I lower my gaze and shoot my shot. “I figure you’d be used to the heat… since you’re always in the kitchen.”

“Wait… y-you… How?—”

“I watch your videos religiously.” It’s cute how his mouth pops open. “Graham Cracks an Egg? Right? I tried to make that dessert… shit, what was it called? You made it last week…” I scratch my head trying not to stare at the way he’s pinned his bottom lip between his teeth, or how his cheeks have gone a deeper shade of pink that I assume has more to do with being recognized, and less to do with the fact the temperature has risen at least three more degrees in the last two minutes. “I think it was French.”

“ Profiterole ?” he whispers, and a small smile starts to spread across his handsome face.

“That’s it.” I rub the damp skin on the back of my neck, a weird surge of embarrassment coursing through me as I wrap my head around being the fan for once. “I totally botched it. The entire endeavor was a failure.”

“You… Sports guy, goalie man, seriously watch my cooking tutorials?”

His channel is more than cooking tutorials. He has his own aesthetic; this sort of old-world-meets-modern vibe that’s easy to get lost in. The chopping, the sizzle, those sexy hands kneading dough, what can I say, it gets me going.

“ Sports guys, goalie man ?”

“Sorry, I’m doing it again… the whole assumptions thing.”

“To be fair, I suck at cooking, but I love food, and I don’t know, your page is… interesting.”

He raises a doubtful brow and my gaze snags on his Adam’s apple as he swallows. He looks different in real life. Better. More etched, hard lines and intense angles. Maybe it’s the tux, or maybe it’s the stubble on his jaw and the way it pulses as he fidgets under my appraisal.

“I’ve never…I like trying my hand at French cuisine but honestly, I’m just an amateur foodie, an eating connoisseur, really. I have a decent following but…” His words stall in his throat.

“I’m one of them,” I say. “For the last six months at least.”

I found him one night when I was mindlessly scrolling on my phone, trying to shut off my brain after a shit loss last season. His smile grabbed my attention. I was lying in bed, overthinking every goal I’d let slip by, and there he was, all soft eyes and big smiles, covered in flour, laughing at something that had gone over my head, because baking? I didn’t know or care. He was a hot guy, making something that looked edible as fuck, and I was there for it. I tapped the follow button, and my addiction was born.

“I’ve tried a few of your recipes, all of which turn into utter abominations. I tried once to make cookies for the team, and they give me shit for it all the time.”

“Because they were bad?” he asks, and I nod.

“Yeah, and now they call me Betty to mess with me.”

“Betty?”

“Betty Crocker.” I shrug. “It shouldn’t bother me, but it hits a sore spot I guess.”

“Because you can’t bake?”

“Because I’m gay.” I force a smile and shake my head at my honesty. “Every time they call me Betty, I feel like they know somehow. The stereotypes and shit. It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous, I don’t know.”

This man. He’s a stranger regardless of how well I know his face, yet I can’t seem to shut my damn mouth. Did I really admit to him I was gay? I never allow myself to even think of the word most of the time. My smile is too heavy to hold, and I let my eyes drift to the crack in the elevator doors. With zero out NHL players, hiding who I am? It’s become a way of life. Over time, after many failed attempts to get me to hang out, cruise the bars, get me out of my so-called shell, my team finally assumed I was overly dedicated to winning. I’d gotten good at selling my “no distractions” policy. When in reality, my loneliness wore me down day by day. I’m a thirty-year-old goalie. If I’m lucky my knees will give me at least two more seasons, and then what? When will I get to stop hiding? When will I get to begin a life that belongs to me?

“Being a gay athlete isn’t unheard of,” he says, and the innocence in his tone revives my smile.

“It’s not. But it depends on a lot of things. I’m sure I’m not the only gay player in the NHL. Statistics prove I’m not, but no one has come out yet. A few have in the minor leagues, and college players, but active NHL players? Not a single one.”

“Wow.” The corners of his mouth tip down, his brows bunching as he processes what I’ve said. “That’s… fucking depressing.”

“Tell me about it.”

He stares at me, and I count the seconds as his gaze falls to my mouth and lingers before trailing back up to my eyes. “How do you…” He chews the inside of his cheek and shakes his head. “God, never mind, it’s none of my business.”

“What?”

He hiccups a laugh and sighs, tipping his head back against the elevator wall. “How do you… date?”

“I don’t.”

Graham’s eyes widen and he sits up straight like he’s been struck by lightning. “Wait… like at all? No secret rent boys or side pieces?”

I crack up and rub my chin, my smile actually making my jaw hurt. “No. I’m basically a monk at this point.”

“Jesus.”

“I know.”

My dick protests against the forced celibacy bullshit, and twitches at the sight of Graham licking his lips. Fuck, I have to get out of this elevator. I pick up my phone and switch off the flashlight, needing space from the sexy chef sitting less than ten feet away from me. The smell of his sweat mixed with his woodsy cologne saturates the tight space, sinking into my lungs with every breath I take. The heady combination is enough to make me think about things I never allow. Things like lips and hands and skin and kissing strangers. Like here in this hidden corner of the world, I can be the guy I hide from every day, take the things I want and not worry for one goddamn second about the consequences.

“I don’t know how you survive,” he says, and I want to tell him I’m not surviving. I’m slowly drowning, and he’s the first breath of air I’ve had in such a long time. He huffs out a humorless laugh and I suddenly wish I hadn’t turned off the flashlight, needing to see those expressive eyes. “Though, dating isn’t all it’s cracked up to be either.”

“No?”

“God, no. Trust me, maybe you have the right idea.” He scoffs like he doesn’t believe the words he’s said. “I always thought I’d get married before Jace, and then he found Rob and I’m… I’m…”

“Alone?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and I worry I’ve overstepped. He moves, the soft scrape of his shoes against the floor echoes in the small space. The hot air stirs around my body, and another bead of sweat trickles down the back of my t-shirt.

“In a way,” he says, and I jump. He’s closer now, close enough that if I reached out, I had no doubt I’d touch him. “I date, but it never works out. I tend to pick guys who run away at the first sign of commitment.”

“Maybe subconsciously you don’t want commitment either.”

“Maybe.”

Maybe you want to kiss a stranger in an elevator too?

I smile at my hopeful thoughts as I lift my legs and rest my forearms on my knees.

It’s this small ass box. All this heat and honesty is getting to me.

“I didn’t even want to come to Vegas,” I admit. “A few of my teammates come here every year in the off season, a couple of weeks before camp, a last chance to party. I always say no when they ask me to tag along.”

“And this time?” he asks, and I swear I can feel his breath on the skin of my cheek, my neck. “What made you say yes?”

I was losing my battle with sanity. How long had we been in here, twenty minutes? An hour?

“This time?” I lean back, tugging on my shirt, fanning the fabric away from my sweat-soaked skin. “I didn’t want to let the loneliness win.”