Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

LAURENT "LO" DUVAL

As soon as the plane touches down, I open Thrustr to see who's around. Miami is full of hot guys. There's only one criteria—cannot be a hockey fan.

I lean back in my seat and wait for the location to update. I swipe to my profile and look at the profile picture. I'm always examining the picture to make sure it's as non-descript as possible. No birthmarks, no freckles, no tattoo! I remember the Felton Badcock fiasco from this fall all too clearly.

Not that I'm running a ReachMe account. That's a little too freeballing for me. I'm not into people watching what I do. Nor do I want a camera on me recording my performance, judging me. Nah, I'm good.

But I do like the occasional anonymous hookup when I travel. Especially when I'm far away from home, where I'm less likely to be recognized.

As soon as my location populates, my phone vibrates in my hand and a little red dot appears to tell me I have a message. I swipe to find a couple. Clicking on the first, I check the profile. Call me weird, but I don't like them too young. It's awkward. They need to at least be my age—mid-twenties—or older. I don't want to feel like I'm fucking a high school kid.

This one's cute enough, so I tap into the conversation.

Hi

Very original. I don't need someone with master conversational skills since this is all about getting off, but I need something more than a basic greeting. Like you looking for the weather or a fuck?

You visiting or local?

Visiting. Hbu

Business trip. What brings you here?

Game tomorrow

Yep, gonna have to pass. Have a nice night.

Yeah, instant block. Not taking a chance there. Not even going to wait for a response. Next profile is far too young, and looks far too much like my younger brother. So much so that I click the profile just to make sure it's not. Not that I care if he's on here, but why would he be in Miami?

The third looks promising though. I click into the DM.

Hey, nice body. I can host.

See? Now that's right to the point.

Visiting or local?

Local. Why?

Sports fan?

haha no. I can maybe get down with some role play if that's what you're into but I'm going to need some coaching. Ohh look at the pun I made.

I grin.

I have an obligation so I might be a little late.

Since I'm still at work, later is fine.

Finding hookups while on the clock. Cute.

That's as close as I come to getting paid for whoring it up.

I snort and close down the app. Now that I have my potential for the night, I can concentrate on getting off this plane. My favorite thing about being at the front of the plane is that I'm one of the first off. There's very little I hate more than hanging around and waiting for people to get their shit together and move.

I'm told I'm an impatient man, and I don't deny it.

The airport is crowded. Excessively so. It's the end of February, for fuck's sake. What's with all these people traveling?

By the time I get my checked bag and head outside to the shuttle, I'm frustrated with people all over. Crowding around. No manners. Very little spatial awareness. Americans, man. Rude as fuck everywhere you go.

At least the shuttle seems to be filled with primarily hockey players, for which I'm grateful. I recognize many, though I don't give anyone more than a nod in acknowledgement. I've been outpeopled today and that's without conversing. A day of travel will do that to you.

The hotel is just as miserable. I swear, there's a bigger clusterfuck here than there was at the airport. There's someone yelling at one of the receptionists. My gaze trains there and I absently watch as the line moves slowly. Really fucking slowly.

It's been almost forty minutes by the time I make it to the desk and am standing in front of a gentleman. I give him my name, and he taps around on his computer for a minute then sighs. Glancing at his face, I see the wariness there.

"Welcome, Mr. Duval." He butchers my name but at this point in my life, I've mostly given up on correcting it. "Your room is ready, and your partner is already checked in."

My eyes narrow. "I'm sorry. I thought you said my partner has checked in, which I know is a mistake since I don't have a partner, nor am I sharing a room with anyone."

Yep, that wariness isn't imagined. "My deepest apologies, sir. There's been some confusion and the hotel is overbooked. We've paired up some of the event rooms to accommodate."

"That's the wrong answer," I say, irritated. "If a franchise like the NHL pays for 100 rooms, you don't get to take their money and only give them 90 rooms. This is your problem; not one to be pushed onto the rest of us. If you've overbooked, then you cancel the most recent bookings and give them a refund—maybe double their refund since you fucked up and now they're scrambling. That's how you do business."

"I can get a manager," he responds.

"You do that."

There are two managers and both of them are at reception, dealing with two different irate customers. I do not move over for someone else, but I do concentrate on what they're saying and so I hear everything they're going to tell me when one of them gets here.

They're sorry. Yes, it's their fault. Yes, they'll be in contact with the league to make it right. They have located some local rooms at a Motel 6 or a Red Roof Inn down the road if we'd like to be moved there at no cost to us. Yes, they understand that it's not a comparable room, but the local hotels are completely booked this weekend due to all the events in the city.

On and on and on.

If the more expensive places are booked, I have no doubt that these supposed free rooms they've found are also booked and they're blowing smoke out of their ass.

A woman joins the gentleman I was dealing with and waits for the barrage from me that she's doubtlessly received from several others at this point. I wonder just how much they actually overbooked this place. How does that even happen?!

"I expect compensation and I will make a suggestion that the league no longer does business with your hotel chain for your massive irresponsibility in overbooking so erroneously."

"We're terribly sorry, sir."

"I'm sure. I'll take my card." Both sag a little in relief.

The thing is, yelling at them isn't going to make me feel better, nor is it going to fix the situation. I've heard all they have to say and having them repeat it isn't going to change their message or the outcome.

Besides, I'm confident this isn't something either of them did personally. Probably no one on shift right now. Since bookings are all done electronically now, I have to assume that there's something wrong behind the scenes with their software. A glitch.

"Thank you, sir," the manager says. "Please let us know if you need anything."

I give her a bemused look and she smiles wanly. Words she's supposed to say, but obviously can't fulfill.

The gentleman gives me my keycard, I throw my bag over my shoulder and leave the front as I hear another voice rise. The bank of elevators is crowded, and it takes them coming back half a dozen times before I'm able to get into one.

The floor is blessedly quiet as I walk to my room. Belatedly, I realize I should have asked who my ‘partner' was. I should have asked anything at all.

Instead, we're leaving it a surprise as I scan my card and the door gives its little beep as the lock releases. I see the hockey bag right away. There's at least the comfort of knowing this is a hockey player and not some random schmo.

I step inside and let the door close behind me. Dropping my own gear bag next to his, I spot the single bed. Of course. And me, who sleeps nude, has nothing to wear tonight. Maybe I'll be stopping at a store on my way back from hooking up.

I don't see him until I'm at the edge of the bed. He's standing between the side and the wall, his eyes wide as he stares at the spot I now occupy.

Caulder Haines. Fuck. Me. It's not like I've watched him since I first ran into him on the ice years ago. The man is gorgeous. Like, seriously. And then he gets put on billboards in his underwear for the world to see and… yeah.

This is going to be a very long weekend.

"Hey," I greet. He startles and blinks a few times, his cheeks flushing. It doesn't take a genius to see that this man is very uncomfortable. "I'm Laurent Duval. Most people call me Lo."

Caulder nods. Then he seems to visibly shake himself out of it and approaches to take my hand. "Caulder Haines. Uh… Buffalo."

I grin. "Yeah, I know."

"Oh?" he asks, eyebrows knitting together.

Jesus. He's adorable. "Yes. We've been playing against each other for years."

"Well. I guess. But I don't have everyone in the league memorized."

"Then you're behind," I tease as I walk around the bed. "Is the bed comfortable?" I ask, pressing my hand against the mattress as I do.

"I, uh… don't know. I just got here."

"You want that side?"

Peeking at him, I find Caulder glancing at the bed as if it's diseased. Are there bed bugs? We should check. At the slightly green look on his skin, I pause. "You okay?"

Caulder takes a breath and nods. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just… irritated."

"Mmm." Definitely agree with that. The whole thing is bullshit. But I get to share a bed with Caulder Haines. That'll be enough fodder for at least a month when this is over. "If it helps, they're sorry."

That seems to break the tension a little. He huffs and sits on the side of the bed, rolling his eyes. "Sorry… I've never hated the word so much."

I join him, sitting on the opposite side of the bed. "This is nice. I'm going to demand a lot of compensation. Caviar. Champagne. Midnight snacks that force them to run out. All at no charge, of course. After all, they've made the equivalent of another room off the two of us since they were paid for two and we're only occupying one."

"Will they do all that?" Caulder asks. "Bring you what you want?"

Shrugging, I scooch down the bed and lean back, putting my hands behind my head. Caulder is sitting stiffly, watching me out of the corner of his eye. "Dunno. As I was waiting down there to check in, three of the four receptionists were dealing with this doubling up mess. This is a pretty massive hotel so I'm seriously wondering how many rooms they've overbooked. Like, shouldn't there have been some reports that tipped someone off? Oh, you have 850 guests checking in and we only have 300 rooms. But that's cool."

Caulder snorts, and his shoulders relax a little. While he doesn't really get comfortable on the bed, he leans back against the headboard. He's barely on the bed. Like one butt cheek.

It's clear he doesn't want to be anywhere near me, and this is incredibly uncomfortable for him. So telling him I sleep naked and didn't plan for a roommate is probably not what I should lead with next.

"There were that many issues downstairs?" he asks.

I nod. "I don't know if all the customers with issues happened to arrive at once, or if there are just that many or maybe they're simply taking a long time to yell it out when the employees have given their only solution."

"I asked if I could sue them," Caulder tells me. I smile at the amusement in his voice. "It seems like such a hassle though. I'm sure they have some huge lawyer team or whatever."

"Agreed. Probably a waste of time. But I plan to be a very loud advocate for the NHL not using their hotel chain. Even if that means I need to pay for my own rooms on the road during the season. They need to understand there are consequences for their actions."

"That's a good idea. Fuck knows we make enough to pay for the rooms, though we shouldn't have to."

"If I have to take a guess, I would wager that most of the players here are experiencing the same shit we are. We're not going to be the only pissed off people that leave here this weekend."

"A player from every team," he muses, "all demanding accommodations elsewhere. Even if the league would initially brush it off with a refund and apologies or whatever else, we're the ones being treated as if our privacy and safety aren't their concern."

"I'm not entirely surprised that they buddied up the hockey players. We are strangers to some extent, but at the same time, we're all also coworkers and acquaintances. The safest thing they could have done under these circumstances is buddy up the NHL instead of actual, complete strangers. Can you imagine the horrors that would arise from that?"

Caulder cringes.

"Then, we have a single bed. What's happening in the double rooms? They have two beds so do they quadruple up?"

"I would think that they're already doubled up, so they'd double up a second double room into theirs, maybe."

"And then quadruple the one they just opened by doing so," I say.

"Ah."

This talk seems to have put him at ease. Caulder is more fully on the bed, though I'm sure he's still at the very edge. But he's not nearly as tense as he'd been. He's talking easily and I even caught a smile.

That is, until the conversation dwindles into nothing. I could keep the hotel talk going, but I'm already exhausted by it. And honestly, what am I going to do about it? Remain pissed off and make this situation worse by making Caulder uncomfortable because I'm angry at something he's suffering through too?

However, now that we're settled in with the situation a bit and gotten to talk, I think it'll be a little easier.

And then there's a knock at the door. Caulder looks at me and I can see the dread in his face.

"Did they just triple up?" he hisses.

"I'm going to lose my shit if they have," I answer and get off the bed and head to the door. "There's only so far we can be pushed and that's crossing a fucking line."