1. Paul

"What wouldthe press say if I just skipped the awards ceremony this year?"

My PA, a lovely and patient woman if ever there was one, gave me a quirked eyebrow in reply as she buttered her half bagel. I sighed as dramatically as an anxious hockey player from Ontario could. Dee passed me the platter that held two fat bagels, lightly toasted, then took a bite of hers.

"Are you on death's door?" she asked around her bite, her hand in front of her mouth to shield me from seeing her eat and talk. As if we'd not seen the very worst of each other several times over. Dee was my best friend, my EPA, and the sister that I'd never had. We had tried dating once, way back in my college days when I'd thought that I might be able to get into girls if I just tried it. Nope. Nope. Nope. Thankfully, Dee was also "trying it out" and had reached the same conclusion. Big nope for her on the penis. We'd both ended up laughing at our miserable attempts to be straight and never parted for more than a few weeks of vacation since then. Those college days were twenty years ago now.

"Not exactly," I answered, plucking a plain bagel from the tray and slathering it with low-cal whipped cream cheese. Just because it was the off-season now didn't mean I could skip eating as healthily as I could. Given my advanced age—thirty-eight was ancient in the NHL—I had to work twice as hard to maintain my playing weight and speed. There were schools of young Steelheads swimming around me, eyeing my position as first line center and team captain with envy. "I did scratch that mosquito bite until it bled. Could be a problem."

Her sigh was legendary. She snapped her fingers, long pink nails flashing in the morning sun glinting off Lake Michigan. I held my forearm out, my mouth a paper cut line as she examined the tiny scab.

"It's fine." She released my arm and then sat back, her lips smeared with butter, to study me. "Is this reticence to attend due to Marshall being there?"

"Probably," I confessed as much as my pride would allow. My sight drifted to the lake again as it always did. The water calmed me. I'd spent several years living near Toronto and had spent every waking moment as a young boy either playing hockey or sailing on Lake Ontario. This was why when I signed my first big contract with the Steelheads, I bought this condo penthouse in a new high-rise setting right on Rogers Beach.

"Probably?" she prodded, knowing me even better than I knew myself.

"Okay, yes. Marshall will be there with that cute Russian goalie he's dating. Cute young Russian goalie. And I have no one in my life."

"Thank you for calling me a no one." She gave me that curt little flippy head move that she'd picked up from dating a trans drag queen a few years ago.

"I didn't mean it like that." I located a sailboat on the lake. God, I wished that were me. I should be sailing now instead of bitching about being single. Dwelling on my lonely state would get me nowhere. Being on the water—be it soft or hard as I used to say as a kid—was part of me. "I meant that our breakup was kind of a thing and now he's jumped into this torrid affair with an all-star goalie and I'm just?—"

"Just in the running for the trophy that says you were the most valuable to your team. Just the winning captain of this year's Stanley Cup team. Just the sexiest gay man in sports as voted by the Queer Sports Writers Guild four times in a row." She held up four buttery fingers. "Can Marshall say all that?"

"No, he cannot." Smiling at my friend I could cop to feeling a little bit of pettiness over the fact that Marshall's team couldn't even snag a wildcard slot last season while I'd taken the Cup out for a sail then to Dee's for a family meal that ended up with her new wife filling the top section with hot chicken wing dip. You'd think after a year that need to poke my ex in the eye would have faded. "Still, I'd hate to have to sit there with my hands in my lap while he and Maxim make googly eyes at each other."

"You're such a romantic," she said while wiping her fingers on a cloth napkin that my housekeeper, Mrs. Banks, would tut over while trying to remove the greasy stains. "Always thinking that life is better if you're part of a duo."

"Says the woman who got married last year and gifted her wife with a Buccini DeLonge cashmere blanket for two so you both could cuddle under it in the winter because she gets chilly."

Dee's face went all dreamy as it always did when we talked about Laura. "Okay, so you got me on that one." She snapped back to our breakfast, eyeing me as if she were Anubis weighing my heart on his scales, and then dug into the huge purse hanging over the back of her chair. Eyebrows beetled, I waited and chewed as she pulled out her overstuffed wallet and removed a sleek black business card. She slid it across the table, taking care to avoid a dollop of butter on the glass tabletop. "Call these people." She tapped the card with a flamingo pink nail. "They're the best in the world. Discreet. Incredibly skilled at matching up clients with dates."

My eyebrows flew up my brow. "An escort service?!"

"Okay, can we not sound so appalled about sex workers?" I paled a bit. Yeah, that was a bad one on me. "Secondly, it's not that kind of business. It's only for the wealthy and no sexual anything is part of any arrangements made."

"And you know of this rich person's super-secret matching service how?"

"You pay me incredibly well." Right. I did. I made tons of bank. Millions per year bank. She earned every penny too. "It's an executive service. Think of it as a life concierge service for the discriminating and moneyed set. I met Laura through them."

"Really?" That was not the story that I'd heard. Dee had told everyone that they'd met at an Ice Cube and LL Cool J reunion tour concert. "You told me that?—"

"I know what I told people and why. Because everyone would have clutched their pearls just like you had."

Damn it. I hated being a ninny. "I'm sorry. I'm terribly vanilla for being a supposedly flamboyant gay man."

"It's fine. Anyone who knows you would never say you were flamboyant."

"But, darling, don't you know that all gay men are?"

"Oh right, how foolish of me. Just like all lesbians are butch." We sighed at the stigmas. "Anyway, we did go to that concert together, and we just had our first date for a fundraiser for the National Center for Lesbian Rights. I had needed a date." She made a face. I pointed a finger coated with whipped cream cheese at her. "I know, do not even say it. I'd just broken up with Shasta and didn't want to go alone."

"That is just what I'm going through, but you're giving me shit about being a romantic ass."

"I never said romantic ass. I just said romantic."

"So are you." I added a "Nyah" just to get her goat.

She snickered. "Just how old are you?

"Old enough to think that you and Laura are an amazing couple and that I'm so glad your rental date worked out so well. I highly doubt that lightning will strike twice."

"Just call them. You never know. The perfect man might be out there looking to spend a weekend in a luxury resort with the Paul Rohan." I rolled my eyes. She gave the card a final little shove. Knowing I'd never call, I played along, picking it up and flipping it over to read the elegantly embossed email address. "You will have to mention my name as admittance is only via being invited by a member."

I arched a brow. Wow, talk about exclusive. I wasn't really into waving my successes around like a banner. Hockey players were humble men and women. I was a simple, if somewhat regimented, guy. During the season, it was breakfast at six, morning skate at nine, workout and/or run for an hour, lunch, nap at one, game at seven, home and in bed by midnight if not sooner. Sure, it was kind of staid and a little boring as Marshall had whined about for two years, but that strict lifestyle had paid great dividends. I'd helped lead my team to the Cup and was now a finalist for a coveted and prestigious award. Marshall had started golfing in April. So ha-ha-ha to those who say I'm boring and regimented. Nothing wrong with structure. Just ask my dad, a retired Canadian army lieutenant general, how he felt about a disciplined daily routine.

"Now, can we get back to your itinerary for the rest of the week?" Dee asked, pulling me from my admiration for my well-plotted life. I slid the card into my phone case that doubled as a cardholder and then dove back into this trip to Florida in five days. Leaving things to chance wasn't my style at all.

* * *

Later that night, I stumbled over a small article about Marshall and his new beau. Being part of a duo that had set the hockey world on its ear a few years ago, Marshall still gathered some social media bang from being my one-time boyfriend.

I'd been one of the very first hockey players to come out, something that had been met with lots of love and an equal amount of hate. I'd made my announcement, then Marshall quickly followed. We were quite the thing for about fifteen minutes and then, as scandal does, our searing time in the spotlight faded. The haters still lingered, but they were few and far between unless we did something exceptionally bad like not make the playoffs—"damn queers can't play hockey and should stick to knitting"—or something exceptionally good like winning the Cup—"damn queers are pandered by the officials and should stick to knitting"—so the fact that my face had been all over was luring the bigots out.

One was commenting on a picture that Marshall had posted on his Instagram account. Nothing flamingly gay or anything, just him and Maxim having a cocktail in a West Palm Beach hotel. I ignored the troll who was making stupid comments about butt sex and focused on my ex.

Carrying my phone out to my patio, I sat in a padded lawn chair as a sliver of the moon climbed into the now darkened sky. Marshall looked really happy. I'd not seen a smile so wide on him when we were together. It hurt to know that I'd been the reason he'd been so unhappy. It also hurt to know that I had to attend the awards while smiling and nodding at the crowds while my ex was so damn giddy two rows behind me. Spitefulness didn't sit well with me.

Rolling my phone over, I popped open the small latch and pulled out several business cards, tossing each one to the wrought iron table that matched my chair until I found the Elite Connections card. It was heavy, rich vellum. Obviously printed in a shop that catered to those who wanted only the best. I'd not given much thought to my cards. Dee had ordered them for me to hand out when needed. My business acumen was low. I pushed pucks for a living.

I blew out a long breath, cheeks billowed, and then inhaled the scent of the lake deeply into my lungs. Tapping the card to my knee, I pondered for several long minutes. Then I turned my phone over to gaze at two happy gay men sipping outlandish drinks out of coconuts and realized that I wanted that more than I wanted any damn award. Even if just for a few days of pretend affection.

That was what I missed so terribly. Could I find that kind of emotion with an escort? Probably not. If I did this crazy thing, it would be purely business. An exchange of cash for companionship. Not cold per se but chilled. The man they matched for me might be quite nice, even pleasant, and we could possibly have a fine, professional time.

Sounds kind of blasé to me.

Blasé was fine. Rushing into an affair was not my speed. I planned things out, took my time, and made sure to avoid any outlandish behaviors or silliness.

And now you sound like your grandfather.

Shit. Yeah, I did. Next I'll be yelling at kids to get off my lawn. Crap. Be that as it may, I couldn't change who I was born to be. Still, though, I did yearn for what I'd lost. That warm body curled up beside you in bed every night, that sleepy smile over breakfast, the dull little chores that a couple shared. I'd thought Marshall had been my forever mate, but that went titties up, so maybe I needed to stop looking in the very limited dating pool of out gay hockey players. Perhaps I should shake out a new rug to cover that boring old Paul Rocha floor.

"Great, now I'm comparing myself to worn linoleum," I mumbled to myself. I really didn't want to be bright green-and-white lattice style 70s style flooring. But if I wasn't outdated Congoleum then what the hell was I, and who would want to walk on me? Okay, this flooring comparison had to stop.

Before I could change my mind, I made the call to Dee, disturbing her evening with Laura, for which I apologized profusely before she could say anything other than hello.

"I know this is probably too late, but do you think you could discreetly contact Elite and?—"

"It's not too late at all," Dee said and whispered something to Laura. "I'm so glad you're finally climbing out of that pit of funk you've been in and are looking to date?—"

My eyes flared. "This is not a date. It's a business arrangement and I have not been in a funk pit."

"Laura, tell him," Dee said, passing the phone to her wife.

"You've been a funk pit the size of Wrigley Field, honey," Laura replied and handed the phone off to Dee.

"That's an exaggeration," I stated with a faint smile at how the two of them had tag-teamed me. It happened all the time. Not everyone had an interracial, interfaith lesbian married couple clucking over them. "It's only the size of the dugout." Dee snickered. "Now, I know you know me rather well, so I'll leave it to you to describe the sort of man that I'd like to have as a companion."

"I'll get it sorted."

"He has to be my age preferably, athletic, professional, a man set in his ways with a certain maturity who will be at my side all weekend while displaying style and quiet grace."

"I'm pretty sure the Dowager Countess of Grantham is booked solid for the weekend."

God she was droll. "I'm not looking for a dowager."

"Could have fooled me." I started to bicker. "Paul, trust me. I know just what you need for this event. Let me handle everything." I bit down on the inside of my mouth to stop myself from calling off this whole thing. "I promise I will find just the sort of man you need to lift you from the dugout of funk."

She hung up.

It would be fine. Dee knew me better than I knew myself. I trusted her. She would ensure that I had a man at my side who would be perfectly mannered, stylishly duded out, and courteous.