Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Rylan

I can’t sleep, and considering we have a game tomorrow, that’s not good. We got to Seattle late this afternoon, went over film and had a healthy dinner, followed by—and this is a direct quote from Coach—“Keep your ass in the hotel. No going out to get laid.” Which really fucking sucks because getting laid would help me relax. Mads is snoring in the bed beside mine. He’d meditated and passed the fuck out, but I’m tossing and turning, with energy to burn and no real way to burn it.

I could rub one out. Mads sleeps like the dead, plus it’s not like we don’t know the other jerks off. But I’m not really in the mood for just a little self-love, so I slip out of bed, tug some joggers on, grab my shoes and socks, and sneak out. It’s eleven, so maybe the gym at the Rockwell is empty. I can walk or do a light jog on the treadmill to tire myself out.

I head to the elevator and hit the button for the eighth floor. We have a contract with the Rockwell hotels, and if we’re playing in a city where they have one, that’s where we stay.

Of course, when I arrive, the first thing I notice is a sign on the door that says the gym is closed for maintenance.

I know they have a bar on the roof. It’s risky because who the fuck knows if it’s busy or not, but I can take a peek…drink some water, and then maybe my brain will shut down enough that I can get some rest for the game tomorrow.

I go that direction despite the voice in my head telling me that if Coach or Volkov, our team captain, find out, they’ll kick my ass. But I must admit that the rush of that possibility is exciting. Playing by the rules is boring.

I take the elevator to the roof, and it feels like I’m climbing Mount Everest, it takes so long, but finally it dings and the doors open to a familiar rooftop bar and restaurant. It’s partly covered, with a patio at the end with panoramic views of the city.

And it’s empty.

Well, mostly empty. A nerdy guy with short, neat, brown hair is standing behind the bar. He looks around my age, shorter than my six feet three, and not as broad or muscular. I wouldn’t put him in the twink category—he’s maybe five eleven, with your typical, everyday build, and wearing jeans and a striped shirt with a suit jacket over it.

He looks up at me with a scowl that is surprisingly cute, and though it’s clear he’s not excited about having a customer, I head over.

“I promise, I won’t be much trouble,” I tell him.

“We close at midnight.”

“That’s fine. I just want a water.”

He fills a small glass with ice water, then hands it over and begins wiping down the counter with a cloth.

Okay…so obviously he doesn’t want to chat, but he’s interesting for some reason, and I’m a chatty motherfucker, so I ask, “Been a bartender here long?”

“I’m not a bartender.”

I cock a brow at him over the rim of the glass and take a drink, looking for any sign that he recognizes me. “Really? Did you rob the place? Knocked out the bartender and I caught you mid-act? But, then, I guess I don’t get why you didn’t pretend to be the one working. I never would have known. Now that I’ve figured out your story, I must save the day, so…should I call the police or just capture you myself?”

The flirting could be a mistake. I don’t know this guy’s sexuality, but something tells me I’m not barking up the wrong tree. When you grow up in a world that tells you straight is the default, you look for yourself in others, recognize similarities to find people like you.

He wrinkles up his nose in a way that’s entirely too fucking cute. “I didn’t…I’m not…you know what? Never mind. It’s been a shitty day, and now I’m closing down the bar when all I want to do is…well, I don’t know what I want to do.”

“Hit me with it.”

“Hit you with what?”

“Your bad day. Though I must point out the role reversal. Usually it’s the bartender talking through the patrons’ problems with them, but I guess since you’re not a bartender, that doesn’t matter.”

“You’re really weird, do you know that?” He crosses his arms.

“Eh. I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m not telling you about my day.”

I shrug. “You don’t have to. I couldn’t sleep, and the gym is closed. You’re alone up here, except for the hog-tied bartender and me. I thought you might want to take advantage and talk to a stranger who will never see you again.”

Something seems to flash in his brown eyes, like what I just said was the right thing and he’s focused on it, but then he shakes his head, silently talking himself out of it.

“There’s no hog-tied bartender, which you know, so I don’t know why I’m arguing with you about it.”

“That’s on you, not me,” I tease.

He scowls.

My cock twitches slightly behind my joggers. Clearly this guy is interesting to me.

“You could always leave,” he throws at me.

“Where’s the fun in that? I have a bartender to rescue and a kidnapper to annoy.” I take another drink of my water, enjoying myself. It feels freeing, just sitting here casually flirting with him like this. “It wasn’t my first hope for the night, which was getting laid, or my second, which was to work out, but I’m finding myself much more entertained than I would have thought.”

His face flushes pink, and something shifts in his gaze. It’s almost…calculating? I’m not sure if that’s the right word. It has a negative connotation, and I don’t think my bartender is like that, but he’s working through something.

“That was my plan for the night too—the first one. Not the second one because gyms are my version of hell, but I was going to get laid. Just with some random man. I’ll have you know, you’re looking at a self-proclaimed slut.”

A laugh jumps out of my mouth, loud and surprising even to me. That’s not on my top-one-thousand list of things I thought he’d say, but I don’t really know the guy. I don’t have much room to be thinking anything about him. “Welcome to the slut club. Are you a new member?”

“Tonight was going to be my first night, and I was looking forward to it. It’s got to be better than other clubs I’ve been a member of.”

His comment strikes me as odd, but then, this whole conversation is weird. We’re talking about being slutty and kidnapped bartenders and whatever else our brains can think of. So I keep it going, play off our club theme. “Chess is cool, but it’s not sex.”

“I was never a member of a chess club, and you play?”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“Damn it. Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

I wave off his concern. Now that he’s relaxed a little, he’s not as grumpy anymore. “No worries. I’m giving you shit, but back to the previous topic, what’s made you decide to become a slut?”

“You don’t think I can do it, do you? I totally could. I could have all the no-strings-attached sex I want. Like a whole lot of sex.”

This strange, intriguing man makes me chuckle again. He’s good at it, and somehow, I don’t think that’s something he realizes about himself. I don’t know what has me feeling that way, but sometimes you can just tell with people. And I’m enjoying him even more because there’s zero recognition in his gaze that he’s talking to Rylan Pierce. It’s not as if that never happens. Not everyone is into hockey, but being recognized happens more than I’d like, and as much as I enjoy the spotlight and love the sport, sometimes I just want to be with someone new. “I’m not doubting your ability to have a whole lot of sex. All the no-strings-attached sex you want. Hell, I’d have some of that sex with you if you wanted.”

The words are meant playfully. Would I hook up with this guy? Fuck yes, but I said that mainly because he seems to think I doubt him, and, well, also because he already had my cock twitching earlier, so I continue on that path.

But when my little sex fiend’s eyeballs nearly fall out of his head, his mouth dropping open like he can’t imagine how I would say something like that to him, I’m glad I let the words out. And the building pressure in my balls proves I mean them.

“Shut up.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better. I’m not sad. I’m angry. And frustrated that I’ve never really just let go and had fun. I want to experience all that life has to offer without it having to be something serious.”

Shit. So apparently this guy doesn’t see himself clearly, doesn’t see how intriguing or good-looking he is. I don’t know what he’s angry about, but his firm tone says he’s serious about this. “I’m not lying. You’re hot. And I hope that enjoying sex is also on your list of reasons.”

“I’m hopefully optimistic that my past experiences were more because of the other guys and not me.”

“Sounds like you’re choosing the wrong guys. You’re way too fun to be bad in the sack.”

He studies me again, something I’m realizing he does when I give him a compliment, like he’s searching for something or waiting for a punchline. Whoever this guy has dated must have done a number on him.

“I’ll tell you what…you can refill my water, and then I’m just going to sit here and finish my drink. If when I’m done you decide you want to go somewhere and hook up tonight, you let me know. I hate to say this, but it has to be soon. I can’t be out late. But if you’re not interested, no harm, no foul. You just let me walk out of this bar, and we never have to see each other again.”

Well, unless I see him next time we’re playing in Seattle, but I don’t mention that.

“Deal?” I ask.

“Deal,” he replies.