5. Denny

5

DENNY

S weat dripped from my brow, tickling my nose. I ignored it.

I had strict rules about face-off etiquette. No blinking, no talking, no unnecessary movement. I didn't goad the opponent with silly distractions. I didn't rely on tricks, and I didn't feel the need to intimidate. I didn't need to read anyone else's mind or worry about who they'd pass to on the off chance they should win.

My only focus was the puck. It was mine. All mine.

"How's it goin', Mellon? Got any plans tonight? Hot date? You're not ugly. I could probably hook you up with my ex…or her brother. You into dudes?"

The urge to roll my eyes was strong, but I didn't flinch. My mind and my body worked like a well-oiled machine. Nothing Dallas's forward could say would pull my attention from the circle. Sure, I was new to the NHL, but I'd heard it all. Disparaging remarks about my family, my friends, my girlfriend, my looks, my sexuality…bring it. None of that registered.

When I was on the ice, I had ice in my veins. It was like an elemental sync. I was the ice I skated upon. I was connected to the blades on my feet and the stick in my hands. And once I had the puck, I was unstoppable. I was fast, I was savvy, I played hard and sometimes mean. This was my game, and no one could fucking take this from me.

So, sure moron…I was into dudes. Specifically, the cowboy I couldn't stop thinking about—and propositions. The things I wanted and things he wanted. I should have been freaked out of my mind. He'd seen me at my worst—drunk, naked, slurring, sick. And he knew I was bi. Hank had ammunition to make my life very uncomfortable. Yet all he wanted was an ally.

It was…confusing.

More about that later. I had a face-off to win.

I relaxed into my pose, a firm but supple grip on my stick as the ref slid between us with the puck in hand. A second later, it was on the ice in the center of the circle. A nanosecond later, it was mine.

Told you.

I raced to the blue line and passed to Trinsky, deking around Dallas's enforcer and losing him as I neared the goal. The angle was shit, but I'd practiced this shot till my fingers had bled in high school, and I'd kept it in my back pocket for moments like this when my team needed a mini miracle to pull off a win.

Dallas was a better team, but the fact that this was a tied game with a minute left in the third period meant we had a chance to pull off a win. I just needed Trinsky to play keep-away with Farmer so I could get free and—here it was…a narrow gap in the lower left side of the net that the goalie couldn't defend if Farmer passed to me…now.

The puck hit my stick like a magnet. I boxed out the defender, lowered my hip, and let it fly. And boom! The lamp lit and my teammates swarmed, tapping their sticks to mine and roaring their approval.

Fifty seconds later, we won. It wasn't pretty, but it was a W and damn, it felt really fucking nice.

The crowd stomped their feet, chanting "Hotshot" as I skated the perimeter. With my stick raised and a stupid grin on my face, I soaked up the hometown good vibes. I didn't love the nickname and I wasn't a showboat, but this was my happy place.

I could happily stay out here till well after the lights were turned off, skating, skating, skating. Life was easy on the ice. I was confident, assertive, and decisive. I could lead the team…no problem.

But the familiar claw of uncertainty weaseled its way under my collar as I headed for the tunnel, telling me I was a fraud, a fake. I didn't belong here. My throat tightened with every step, restricting air till I felt like I might choke on my own breath.

Trinsky bumped my elbow, pulling me to the surface. "Nice game, man."

"Thanks."

My entire team was great, but Trinsky especially had gone out of his way to take me under his wing. He was roughly my height, a six-foot-four beast with short dark hair, green eyes, wide shoulders, and colorful tats. I think his first name was Jason or Mason. Don't quote me. Everyone on my team was referred to by their last name or a spur-of-the-moment nickname that stuck. Like Hotshot.

Lucky me.

I hadn't known Trinsky long enough to put him in the same category of cool as my friends back home, but he was getting there. Of all my teammates, I felt the most comfortable around him. He had the protective older brother vibe down pat, and I appreciated it since I rarely saw my actual brother.

"Heads up, Adam is gonna want you to give a few words." Trinsky tipped his chin toward the team's PR guru waiting at the end of the tunnel.

I sighed aloud. "Cover for me? I'm meeting someone tonight."

Yeah, Trinsky's coolness earned him complete sentences.

He cast a curious sideways glance my way. "Sure. Got a hot date, Hotshot?"

"No."

"You're blushing." Trinsky elbowed me and waggled his thick brows comically. "I get it. You're meeting someone who's not your girlfriend."

Okay, cool or not, he was still kind of a bonehead. I rolled my eyes but was saved from further explanation in the melee of bodies as we neared the hallway. I ducked into the locker room, shucking off my jersey and undoing my pads as I hobbled to my section.

As much as I would've loved to make a quick escape, I was contractually obligated to represent the team "to the best of my ability." That clause had been added by my agent, who'd caught on early that I wasn't leading-man material. They didn't need me to be Mr. Charisma. We had plenty of other guys to charm reporters. Like our captain, Oskar Petrov—or Petey.

Petey was a gregarious and funny-as-fuck Russian in his midthirties and a talented goalie. His thick accent made it tricky to understand him sometimes, but he was inspiring, intelligent, and playful.

I overheard Petey mention my name as I hurried to get dressed after showering.

"That last goal was—how do you say…ridiculous, yes? We owe this win to our rookie, the hotshot boy," Petey said, pausing when the locker room chanted, "Hotshot, Hotshot."

My face was on fire as I shoved my feet into my shoes and yanked my sweater over my head. I had to get out of there, and that was me being my usual awkward-as-fuck self.

Yes, I'd been captain of my high school and college teams, but that was thanks to Coach Smitty, who'd been a gifted former AHL defenseman in his own right. He'd tapped me for the job at Elmwood High and he'd refused to take no for an answer. Coach had been tight with my college coach and had advocated on my behalf, suggesting that I'd be considered for a leadership role.

Maybe Coach Terrell had lost a bet to Smitty and owed him one? I'd never been as motivational or charming as Petey, but I'd done all right. And I'd probably never get another shot at it.

No one gave free shots in the NHL. You had to prove yourself every damn night. I'd moved up from third line to second line, but I was gunning for first. I was ambitious, I played to win, and I was willing to work my ass off to improve my game. That right there was the sound bite every reporter was looking for.

It was basic sports jargon—nothing special. But that shit was mine. My goals, my ambitions, the heart and soul of my relationship with the ice wasn't something I could share. The words were too deep to access. I was always left with a suffocating sensation as if there were something obstructing my windpipe. Geez, choking out monosyllabic post-game replies felt a minor miracle some nights.

Like tonight.

A reporter cornered me before I reached the exit and shoved a microphone in my face.

"Congratulations on your win, Denny. The Condors are looking great just in time for the playoffs."

I nodded. "Yeah."

The poor guy hesitated a beat and tried again. "How'd you feel about the game tonight?"

"Good game." The microphone was still there, and the reporter was smiling like he expected insightful repartee. Fuck . You got this, Denny. Say something, anything . "We played hard."

Weak sauce. The reporter knew it and no doubt every hockey fan in the world would agree, but at the moment, it was all I had.

And I had somewhere else to be.

Fifteen minutes later, I parked in the lot the Oak Tavern shared with a taqueria joint, a dry cleaner, a yogurt store, and a bike repair shop. It looked like an unassuming hole-in-the-wall. Of course, I'd googled it beforehand. I wasn't an idiot, for fuck's sake. I would never meet Hank Cunningham in some high-profile bougie sports bar where running into puck bunnies and super fans was a given…especially on a weekend. I tried not to go to those places anyway.

I'd also googled the Cunninghams.

There wasn't much on Hank, per se. He was the youngest of Bruce Cunningham's three kids, twenty-nine years old, graduated from Boulder, and…not much else. His older brother was thirty-three and lived in Texas, his sister was thirty-two and lived in California, and his mom had passed away almost twenty-five years ago. That was it.

But there was a lot of info about Bruce, the lumber pioneer who'd originally hailed from a tiny town near Lubbock, moved to Denver in the seventies and opened a successful lumber enterprise. Another article touched on Bruce's recent health battles, but I didn't delve any further. I wasn't interested in his dad or the mill. I was here because…well, for blackmail reasons.

And to warn Hank to stay away from my grandmother. I'd tried to tell Grams to leave Hank alone too, but she kind of did whatever the hell she wanted, so it was up to me to nip any weird feud or alliance that might pop up between them in the bud.

The Condors were playoff bound, and depending on how far we got, I wouldn't be home for summer for another six weeks or more. I couldn't worry about Grams and Hank.

I did my usual breathing exercises outside the bar and wiped my clammy palms on my jeans before catching the corner of the door just as someone was exiting.

The interior was almost as dark as the Black Horse but much newer. The professionally antiqued mirrors reflecting the bottles on the shelves behind the bar and wagon wheel chandeliers were a little hokey, though probably perfect for an establishment that catered to pool and pinball enthusiasts. Two pool tables ate up the bulk of real estate around the bar, and a row of pinball machines and classic video games lined the walls near the front.

I adjusted my ball cap and lowered my head as I made my way toward the rear, pausing for a beat when I spotted the cowboy straddling a barstool at a high table in the farthest corner of the bar. The fluttery sensation in my chest took me by surprise. Okay, I'd known I was attracted to him, but I'd kind of hoped the feeling had dimmed in light of last weekend's unfortunate episode.

Hank glanced up as I approached, and fuck me, my pulse raced faster than it had on the ice earlier tonight.

Goddamn that hat and that snug-fitted blue flannel shirt. Or was it his crooked smile and that sparkly look in his eyes that hinted at a secret he couldn't wait to share? Or was I the secret?

"Good game, man. I bought you a beer."

"No, thanks." I shook my head. "I'm not drinking."

"You look better than the last time I saw you. Not quite so green around the gills." He fixed me with a teasing once-over as he slid a glass toward me. "You can have my water."

"Did you poison it?"

Hank snickered. "No, I need you alive and kicking."

"Right." I circled my wrist meaningfully. "Let's get this over with. What did you want?"

"Ouch. I can't remember the last time anyone was happy to see me," he groused without heat. "Except Steve the contractor. He likes me okay, but he's being paid well. Our employees do well too, but sadly, they don't like me at all."

"I can't help you with that. Sorry."

Hank sipped his beer and shrugged. "Yes, you can. I'm extorting you, remember?"

"Oh…yeah." I chuckled.

And fuck, I didn't want to be amused. I didn't want to like Hank at all, but it was hard not to appreciate his self-deprecating honesty. He emanated "nice guy" vibes with the right amount of edge. No wonder drunk me had gotten flirty with him. Fortunately, sober me knew he was more than I could handle.

Which was fine since Hank wasn't interested anyway. He wanted my alleged star power, not me.

So why was I grinning like an idiot?

Fuck, I had a bad feeling my eyes were twinkling too. I had to rein that shit in, stat.

"So…let's make a deal," he said, thankfully unaware of my inner detour. "I need an Elmwood buddy. My dad gave me the all-clear to make my offer sexy, so…what'll it be?"

I bugged my eyes out. "Sexy?"

"Yeah, something interesting. If it's money, name your price. Tell me what you want in exchange for your time."

You.

The word tripped to the tip of my tongue. I bit it back and swallowed it, clearing my throat to be sure it was gone.

"I just…want to make sure that whatever I blabbed while I was wasted off my ass stays between us."

"Yeah, but I'll do that for free. You can trust me."

"I don't know you," I retorted.

"True," he conceded, sipping his beer. "But you don't really have a choice. I can't prove that I won't sell you out. It's a trust thing. Let's talk about the sexy angle, 'cause I need an Elmwood buddy like yesterday."

"I can't believe I'm asking this, but…what does an Elmwood buddy do?"

"He shows the new guy the ropes." Hank leaned in. "Introduce me, give me tips on who's who and what to avoid. I suck in Elmwood and I need a champion, a liaison…a friend. That can be you."

I huffed in amusement, feeling strangely at ease. He was charming as fuck and I was not immune. "How can you suck in Elmwood? Everyone is cool there."

He slumped on his stool. "I don't know, but I'm even worse in Wood Hollow. I don't get it. People in Denver like me just fine. Even you like me."

"No, I like your hat." I reached for his water and winked.

I fucking winked.

Me.

That was me flirting. Ugh. Bad, Denny. Bad.

I felt surprisingly relaxed with him. Like I had last weekend when I'd spilled my guts and…other things. The point was, I could talk to him without feeling immediately depleted, and that alone was a minor miracle.

Hank kicked my shin playfully. "Nah, you like me. You did last weekend, anyway."

"I was drunk, and I'm still mortified. Go easy on me." I took a swig of water as if I were knocking back whisky.

"I'll try, but…you shook your dick at me, then fell buck-ass naked in my bed, so c'mon."

My eyes had to be saucer-sized. "I shook my dick at you?"

He inclined his chin and winked in a touché move that made my cock swell against my zipper.

"A week later, I'm still thinking about it," Hank drawled.

Whoa . Was he serious?

"I didn't think I was your type."

Hank snorted. "A dark, broody jock with big muscles…you're everyone's type."

"I don't think of myself that way. At all."

"Well, you are. You're single, easy on the eyes, and successful. You must have puck bunnies following your tail everywhere."

"I don't see any." I glanced over my shoulder as if to double-check. "I don't pay attention, anyway."

"Why not?"

I skewered him with an annoyed look. "I'm not interested in hooking up with random women."

"Or men?"

"I've never done that." I leaned across the table and whisper-hissed, "And I thought we agreed not to discuss this."

He made a button-lip gesture and shrugged. "My bad. I'm just curious. But you were drunk and maybe there were other factors at play, like bad breakup blues or?—"

"No, that wasn't it," I snapped. "I don't want to talk about my ex. You're supposed to be asking about Elmwood…as a friend."

"I know, but I'm working out my pitch for that titillating angle, and I can't help wondering if…" He stared at my mouth as if in a trance, raking his teeth along the side of his lip. "Never mind."

Never mind? Fuck that.

Blood zipped through my veins, sending my heart rate through the ceiling. He was toying with me like a lion pawing at a mouse. What did he want from me? I was too afraid of misreading signals to think we might be on the same page.

Don't ask me what that meant. I wasn't sure what I wanted.

No, that was a damn lie. I knew exactly what I wanted.

"Say it. What are you wondering?" I asked before taking a sip of water.

Hank propped his elbows on the table and tipped his hat. "I'm wondering if we should start over…with a sexier proposition."

My jaw dropped on cue and since I currently had a mouth full of water, it dribbled over my chin. Classy much?

Wait. It got worse.

I set the glass down with a thud , sloshing water over the sides and onto the table. I tried to pull it out of the way but knocked it over instead, spilling the contents directly in Hank's lap.

He jumped up, cursing under his breath and brushing at his jeans ineffectually.

"Damn, I'm sorry." I waved a server over.

She cleaned the watery mess on the table and handed Hank a wad of napkins.

"Thanks."

"No problem. Can I get you—" She froze as she turned to me. "Hey, you're Denny Mellon. The hockey player, right?"

Shit . Could I deny it? No, that was dumb.

"I—yeah. I am."

Her face lit up, and she let out a shrill squeal that echoed throughout the bar.

"I watched the last period on my break, and oh my gosh, you were amazing! Can I get a selfie, please? I never ask, but I can't resist. You're my favorite new player. I'm Kelly, by the way." Her phone was out and she was plastered to my side before I could get a word in.

I swallowed my unease as heads swiveled our way.

Okay, this had happened once or twice. It wasn't a big deal. In fact, it was an honor. I was a hockey fan too. I still got jazzed when I saw some of my idols, and playing with them in the pros was seriously next level. But I wasn't used to the rabid attention off the ice.

I thought I did okay, though. I smiled for the camera, signed a napkin for Kelly, and for the couple next to us. Someone was filming from the pool tables and that was fine too. I mean…I would have preferred to be left alone, but at least no one expected a speech. And their questions were easy.

"How do you like playing for Denver?" Love it.

"You're from here, right?" Yes, I am.

"Do you think we'll bring home the cup this year?" I hope so.

Simple questions, simple answers.

"Thank you! Drinks on the house. How do you feel about wings? Or nachos? Ours are the best," Kelly gushed.

Not sure why that was the moment I froze, but words wouldn't come. Panic threatened for no good fucking reason. I opened my mouth, hoping for the best and prepared for the worst.

Silence hung in the air, vanishing when Hank stepped forward. "We were just on our way out."

Kelly didn't bat an eyelash at his authoritative tone or seem surprised that he'd inserted himself. Hank's "Don't fuck with me" aura was strong, and with his cowboy hat pulled low over his face, he looked mysterious and imposing. And yeah, at that very second, I would have followed him any-fucking-where.

I waved at the small crowd of hockey fans then made my way to the exit with Hank, cool and casual, as if we were the best of friends.

Reality: my pulse was racing, my insides were goo, and my brain was bouncing all over the place. Unexpectedly running into fans was long forgotten now. I wasn't agitated, I was…excited. What was wrong with me?

Oh, I knew the answer to that one. Two words—sexier proposition.

"My jeans are sopping wet and it's your fault," he said, breaking the charged silence in the parking lot.

"Sorry. You could have staged a fit and gotten us out of there sooner." I pointed out, rescuing my keys from my pocket.

"I didn't want to get in the way. And if you don't mind me saying so, you were inspiring back there. Cool under pressure, available but not overeager. You looked like a real star."

"Shut up," I scoffed.

"I'm serious." Hank's lopsided smile was laced with something I couldn't read. Something sultry and maybe even dirty. "It was kinda hot."

Desire rose in my throat and my heart beat like a drum. That was an offhand, teasing comment, not a real flirtation. He was trying to put me at ease and butter me up, but he was obviously blissfully unaware of the effect he had on me.

"Right. I should go." I gestured at my truck.

"But we have unfinished business, Denny."

My mouth was open again.

Don't judge. He did this to me.

I licked my lips nervously and let out a weak huff. "A proposition?"

Hank tipped his hat to meet my gaze. He was maybe an inch shorter than me, but right then and there, he was larger than life. "Okay, but let's call it a trade. I want something, you want something. And if I remember correctly, you said this would be easier if it was just about sex. Now that would be unethical, but we can make a sexier deal."

Oh, my God. Yes. That's what I wanted. A sexy deal.

"How so?" Yeah, my voice fucking cracked. Smooth, Den.

"Well, is there something you want but wouldn't do for yourself?" Yes, yes, yes . "Like…heli-skiing in Whistler, fly fishing in Wyoming or?—"

Huh?

"Dude. Stop." I narrowed my eyes. "What the fuck? Those are not sexy propositions. At all."

He huffed in exasperation. "Help me out, Denny. What do you want?"

"I'll tell you what I don't want. I don't want to go fucking fly fishing. Fishing is not sexy."

Hank threw his hands in the air. "What is sexy to you?"

"Sex is sexy. Sex."

Silence. City silence.

I was vaguely aware of the hum of traffic and laughter in the distance, but I was locked into this moment like I was on the ice–as if this was a real life face-off and we were stuck in time, waiting for the puck to drop.

Hank's nostrils flared as he dragged his tongue over his teeth. "Sex."

Gulp.

I swallowed hard. "Yeah."

He flashed a pirate's smile. "Okay. You want to know what it's like to be with a guy, right? Maybe I can help you."

"How?" My voice rose an octave.

Hank inched closer, like a panther sizing up his next meal. The hungry glint in his eye was predatory and dangerous. "I can find someone for you to get your gay on with."

Wait. What?

" Find someone?"

"Sure. I know a few guys who could be discreet and?—"

"No."

He cocked his head. "No? Am I wrong?"

"I didn't—I don't…"

Hank furrowed his brow. "Did you want something else?"

"Yeah, dummy. You."

He went still and pointed at his chest. "Me. You want me to be your bi experiment?"

I licked my lips. Did I want that?

Fuck, yes.

"Yes, you," I choked out.

"You want me," he repeated. "Are you sure about that?"

Uh…

"Yes," I bluffed. "What do you want in exchange?"

"You know what I want. A town escort. I need to be seen with you in public. You can introduce me as your buddy from Denver or something like that."

"And in private…what do I get?"

He regarded me intently as if seriously mulling over my proposal. Gay sex ed for faux friendship. "It's not a good idea."

"No, it's not," I admitted.

"Okay, good. Forget about it."

"Yeah, and you're too old for me anyway. You said so yourself," I added hastily, smirking at his indignant scowl.

"I'm surprised you remember that," Hank huffed. "Age was never really an issue. You were just drunk as a skunk that night and?—"

"And you were a gentleman."

"Was I?"

Neither of us moved. We stared at each other, awareness buzzing like static electricity between us. I willed him to break the silence, but I opened my mouth first and all kinds of embarrassing things just…fell out.

"I don't know, but I trust you," I said quietly. "This might be my only chance to ever…"

"Be with a man," Hank finished.

"Yeah, so…what do you think?"

When he opened his mouth again, I knew this was a done deal.

"You're on."

I swallowed hard. "Okay, okay…that's good. Uh…what if I don't like it?"

"You will." Hank's eyes sparked. "But if you don't, it's over and we'll try something else. No question. Ultimately, I want the commercial, but public endorsement via friendship might work too. Either way, I guess we both get what we want."

I was practically vibrating with lust. I hadn't come here for this, but damn, I wanted it. I wanted him very much, thank you.

This was the proposition I would never have uttered aloud if it hadn't been for tequila. I'd told him what I wanted that night. I wanted him—the sexy cowboy fantasy. I wanted to ride him, fuck him, turn him inside out, and give myself a taste of this forbidden thing I'd craved for years. But this was…reckless in the extreme.

"Do you really want this? Or is it too much?" I whispered.

"Yeah, it's definitely too much." He chuckled low and filthy. "But Christ, Denny. I'm rock hard."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Hank stepped so close, his breath feathering my cheek. "If we weren't in a public parking lot, I'd back you against that truck and stick my tongue down your throat. I'd unbuckle your jeans, slide my hand under your boxer briefs, and grab your cock. I'd stroke you, squeeze your balls, slip my finger in your ass, and you'd beg for more. You want me to suck you? No problem. I love giving head. I love rimming, I love fucking…giving and receiving. Do you want to fuck me too or?—"

"Got it." I was fighting for air here—panting like a dog in heat.

"So…what'll it be? My place or yours?"

I shouldn't do this. The timing was all wrong. I had bigger things on my mind than taking my bisexuality for a test run. The playoffs were weeks away, and I was a rookie with a lot to prove. Personal life distractions were a no-no.

Let them think I was straight, wholesome and boring, and still with my high school girlfriend. Let them think hockey was the only thing that consumed me.

I met Hank's eyes under the sloping brim of his hat, prepared to lie my ass off and pretend I was joking. I wasn't interested in a covert bisexual experiment. Not with him, not with anyone. I didn't have to say much. Two words would suffice. No, thanks.

I only got one out.

"Mine."