2. Rhys

CHAPTER 2

RHYS

The clang of weights, grunts and groans, encouragement and conversations echo around me. Different voices, accents, and names from what I'm used to hearing bounce around the weight room at the Slash's practice facility, but the vibe is the same.

I set the barbell down and take a swig of water from my bottle. Spread out around the large room, guys do their own routines, depending on their individual programs. Mine includes incorporating some of the physical therapy exercises I learned in rehab. My team's trainer suggested I keep doing them so my shoulder stays strong.

Since it's my first day, the guys let me choose the music blasting through the speakers. It's tough being the new guy, and I'm not even that, just a temporary guest. Even so, I appreciate the gesture.

As it has since we arrived in the weight room, my attention draws to Sage. His dark hair curls around his ears and shirt collar and fine lines of concentration fan across his face. He's doing a series of lunges, his back leg propped up on a green exercise ball. His thighs flex and bulge with every movement.

We haven't had a chance to talk. Before the weight room, we gathered with the team to view video clips from their previous game with the coach. He sat beside me, focused on the screen, nursing a coffee, his sneaker-clad foot resting over his knee, bouncing like he had excess energy to burn.

I place my water on the bench and begin a set of shoulder extensions, counting out the reps, focusing on the muscles I'm working. I haven't played in a game since I separated my shoulder in the middle of October. Three and a half months is a long time to be away.

The green exercise ball rolls past me. Followed by Sage, jogging after it. The ball bangs into a rack of free weights.

He picks up the ball and his gaze locks on mine. The thrill I felt when meeting him the other night is still present. Something draws me to him. I don't know what it is. Only that he intrigues me.

I keep thinking about what happened in the bar. I wonder if he is too, and if that's why he seems more reserved than the open, happy guy he'd been before the drink spill happened.

Using the wand that helps me with the stretches, I point to the ball. "It got away from you, huh?"

"Yeah." He pauses beside me, the ball resting against his hip, bright neon against his black tee and shorts. Eyes so blue they remind me of the lake where I spend my summers, focus on my shoulder before returning to meet my gaze. "How's it going?"

"No pain, so that's good. And I haven't heard any complaints about my music selection either." Something in me relaxes when he smiles. I motion to the wand. "I have another set to do. You?"

"Same. Forty reps on my other leg. If the ball doesn't run away again." He shoves his hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in several directions. It's so cute and I fight the urge to smooth it down.

I nod at the empty space in front of the bench. "You can do them here if you want. I wouldn't mind some company."

His half-turned stance screams indecision. I'm about to tell him he doesn't have to stay, that it's fine if he has a ritual he doesn't want to break, but then he nods and sets the ball down.

We get to work. He murmurs a tally of the lunges, counting up to forty. Watching him, I lose count of my extensions and have to tack on a few more. When he finishes, he rests the ball against the side of my bench.

I stand and move into a stretch, opening my arms out wide, and lifting my chest. Sage's focus goes to my shoulder again as he brings his heel to his ass in a quad stretch. "How's the sweater?"

Considering how upset he was the other night, I'm not surprised he's asked. But I didn't expect him to bring it up here. Hopefully, he hasn't been worrying about it for the last two days. "It's fine."

"The stain is gone?"

I bring my arm across my chest and lock my other arm around it, holding it in place to stretch the back of my shoulder. "Yeah. I think getting soap on it at the bar helped. I texted one of our equipment guys after I got home and he told me what stain remover to buy. I soaked it in that stuff yesterday, then washed it last night. Can't even tell anything was there."

The line of tension in his shoulders deflates and relief eases the pinched worry in his features. "That's good. Really good. Where'd you get it? The sweater, not the treatment stuff."

"Ireland, last summer. I spent a week there, visiting family with my parents."

His breath whistles through his teeth. "I'm really glad I didn't ruin your souvenir."

I switch arms, bringing the opposite arm over my chest for a stretch. "You didn't ruin anything."

He ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. There's color in his cheeks and a small smile on his lips. Only a few steps separate us. I eliminate one, then another. I don't know what I'm doing, only that I want to be close to him.

Tilting his head back, he meets my gaze. The pull is stronger now, as he searches my face. Movements and conversations around us grow louder. The mirrored wall to our left shows the guys are filing out of the room. Sage tucks his hands into the pockets of his shorts. "We have about half an hour before we hit the ice. Time to tape our sticks and get into gear."

"Lead the way." I follow him down the hall, and can't keep my attention from ranging over his body. His hair, the line of his shoulders, the play of the muscles in his back as he walks, his ass, those thighs. He's shorter than me by several inches, and his size helps him zoom around the ice like a rocket. From what I saw in the video clips earlier today and what I was able to find online yesterday, he has to be one of the fastest skaters in this league. Maybe in my league too.

Several of the guys chat with me while we get into our gear. Sage was right, they are a fun group and seem to mesh well together.

I tug the practice jersey over my head. It's odd wearing the Slash's logo. Our teams share the same shades of dark purple, golden yellow, and gray, but while purple dominates the Metros, the Slash stand out in yellow.

Helmet on, stick in hand, I head to the rink. It's closed in like a warehouse, the opposite of the Metros' penthouse-like, top floor rink with large windows overlooking the Minneapolis skyline. Still, the ice is good, and that's all that really matters.

Yanni Olofsson, a defenseman called up from the Des Moines Monsters, is paired with me as we warm up with skating and edgework drills. He's tall, skinny, and maybe nineteen. "Rhys, your dad was my father's favorite player. I've watched a ton of highlights from his games."

I weave around the tires and cones spread across the ice, and Yanni follows. "Thanks. He's my favorite player too."

All my life, I've lived with comparisons to my dad, a hockey legend who casts a huge shadow, one that's gotten bigger with his induction into the Hall of Fame last year. I'm proud to be his son, and I've done my best to carve out a place for myself. The one thing he didn't accomplish was winning the Cup. I hope I can win it for him one day.

We came so close last season, only to lose in game seven of the finals. Tension tightens within me, and I increase my speed around the obstacles. Our core group of guys won't be together forever. The injuries this season haven't helped. Our shot at redemption is fading.

"I can't believe I get to play with you." Yanni passes me the puck, then hops over the next cone. "I'm looking forward to learning from you and hope it helps improve my game."

At twenty-seven, almost twenty-eight years old, I feel so old compared to him, but I remember being that young and hungry to soak up every scrap of hockey knowledge I could. "I'll probably learn something from you too."

"You think?"

"Sure. From what I saw of the videos earlier, you read the ice really well." If I can help him this week, I will.

Beaming at me, he skates backward, riding the blue line. "Thanks."

The coaches divide the team into two for a half speed scrimmage, focusing on breakouts and forechecks. Soren Lindstrom is in goal behind me. Gio Richetti and Phil Nguyen are the D-pair at the other end of the ice, behind Sage and Morgan's line.

Play begins. I get so caught up watching Sage move across the ice, his speed and skill, that I have to scramble to defend against him. Carrying the puck across the blue line, he streaks in fast. I fail to strip him of the puck, but Soren blocks it from ending up in the back of the net. The goalie gives me a knowing grin as he flips it off his stick.

All I can do is shrug and smile, and remind myself to focus. But with Sage drawing me like a beacon, that seems almost impossible.

"Hey, Rhys. Wanna have lunch with us?" Sage closes his locker, a few down from mine. The chatter from his teammates and the clangs of lockers slamming closed bounces off the walls as guys head out.

My first practice is over, and I'm starving. I grab my coat and check that I've pocketed my phone and wallet. "Sure. Where're you headed?"

Drawing on the long, puffy coat he wore the other night, he steps over the bench seat. "Our house. Remy cooked some kind of chicken thing."

"Way to sell it." Morgan bats him on the arm. Then laughs. "I don't know what it's called either, but it's good."

"I'm in. It'll be nice having someone to eat with. Jonas went away for a few days. We usually eat together since he lives in my building."

Sage hands me his phone. "Add yourself to my contacts, and I'll text you the address."

The coat could fit two of him inside, and he looks quite cozy. Our hands brush together. Heat rushes into me from that tiny connection.

Soren, Gio, and Phil join us. "Ready to go?" Phil asks.

I enter my info and pass his phone back. "Did you all drive here together?"

"Nope. Two cars. Early squad," Soren points to himself, Gio, and Phil. "And the late boys," he points at Sage and Morgan.

"We're never late ." Sage scoffs, typing into his phone. "We're just not here at the crack of dawn."

My phone chimes. I check the notification. Sage has sent the address and included a link to directions.

"Eight AM is not the crack of dawn."

Morgan shifts to stand beside Sage, a united front against the goalie. "Might as well be."

"I'm starving." Gio nudges Soren forward. "We'll see you at home."

Sage smirks at Soren's retreat before shouldering his bag and turning to me. "The drive takes about fifteen minutes, mostly on I-94. You can park behind us in the driveway."

We walk outside together. The cold air stings my face and hands. Bracing against the breath-stealing wind, I speed walk to my car. Sage and Morgan climb into Sage's SUV. Traffic isn't bad as we drive across Saint Paul. I'm able to keep them in sight the entire way.

Their house is much bigger than I expected. A three-story Victorian with lots of windows, a few balconies, and a turret. Pulling into the driveway behind Sage's car, I wave at Morgan, jogging up the path.

Sage waits for me outside his car, his hair ruffled by the wind, and big coat flapping open. Together, we hurry up the brick lined path.

He opens the door and gestures for me to enter ahead of him. Heat envelopes me like a hug as I walk inside. The entryway has dark wood and white walls. The rooms flanking it continue the style. A piano, I'm guessing Remy's, sits in one.

The stained glass window in the door catches the light as Sage closes, then locks it. "Here, I'll take your coat."

I hand it over, wiping my boots on the small mat by the door while he stows our coats in a closet. Laughter and the guys' voices echo from further in the house. "This place is huge."

"Right? I feel like we're always uncovering something. It originally had nine bedrooms and six baths." He swipes his hands through his hair in an unsuccessful attempt to tame it. "I can give you a tour later."

"I'd like that." The floorboard squeaks with my step forward. Sage stays where he is, watching me, his bright eyes shining. His confidence on the ice was so different from who I saw the other night, and every facet of him is intriguing. "I want to see your space."

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. The tips of his fingers rest on my hip, their pressure light over the two layers of my shirt and hoodie. "I… We can do that."

It's been years since I felt this way about someone, and since I've wanted to do anything about it.

"Sage?" Remy's voice rings out from beyond the hallway. "Did you and Rhys get lost out there?"

"Coming," he calls over his shoulder. His fingers flex, then curl into the material before he steps away. "We should go. They'll only wait so long to start eating."

We trek down the long hall, passing more doors, turn two corners, and finally end up in the kitchen. It's huge and warm and painted yellow.

Remy, dishing up chicken, bow tie pasta, and vegetables from a glass dish, waves with his spatula. "I outdid myself this time."

Sage gestures for me to sit at the table, then grabs us sodas. "What did you do?"

"I don't really know." His brows draw together as he studies the food. "I wasn't paying attention to how much seasoning went in. And I think I grabbed a wrong spice by mistake because this tastes different , but it's really good!"

Shoulders shaking from laughter, Morgan brings over the plates laden with food. "I don't know how he does it, but everything he makes works… even when it shouldn't."

Remy points to himself. "Culinary genius."

"Lucky," Phil coughs the word.

Sage slides onto the seat beside mine. As we eat, the guys tell me stories of what they've done to renovate the house, and we compare differences between Metros and Slash practices.

After we finish, Phil and Gio give me a tour of the first floor, since it's mainly theirs, aside from the communal kitchen and entryway rooms. Then Sage leads me upstairs.

Our footsteps creak on the landing. He points to the doors on the left side of the hall. "Those are Remy's. He faces the backyard. And mine are on this side, facing the front. We tore down walls between a few of the original bedrooms, so we each have a large suite and bathroom."

He opens a door, and we step into a huge room split into sections for living and sleeping. Yellow area rugs, an orange couch, green curtains, blue bedding, the space is colorful and the furniture is a mix of styles. The scent of eucalyptus wafts from the small tree in the corner, sunlight from two windows spills over its blue-green leaves.

A sleek turntable, speakers, and collection of records rest on shelves under a large flatscreen TV. At the room's opposite end, past the bed, a rack of free weights sits beside hockey gear. A tiny refrigerator, microwave, and coffeemaker line the adjoining wall, next to a table. Sage's guitar and amp are in front of his balcony windows, along with a leather chair big enough for two.

I turn in a circle, taking it in a second time. "This is nice."

Sage slips a record onto the player. Soft guitar music fills the air. "It's the first place that's really felt like home."

That softer tone tugs at me. It sounds like he means home in more ways than the decor. I want to learn everything about him. "Where did you live before coming to Saint Paul?"

"I spent two years in Des Moines, playing for the Monsters. Before that, Philadelphia. I grew up there." His gaze flashes to his guitar, then he turns to me and his smile grows. "You grew up in Chicago, right? It's cool your dad got to play his entire career with one team."

"I think so too. He never wanted to be anywhere else. I wouldn't mind playing my whole career here. The Metros organization's been good to me."

He picks up a hockey stick leaning in the corner and rests his hands on the top. "How does it compare to when you played for Vancouver?"

My stomach sours. I don't want to talk about my former team, or get into the whole mess behind my being traded right now. It'll spoil the mood. "Vancouver doesn't even come close."

Understanding lights his features. "The Metros are a well-respected organization. The Slash have been great, but I want a shot at the big league."

"You'll get it. You're putting up great numbers this season." I rock onto my heels. "You really impressed me at practice.The way you move, you're fast as hell out there. Like nothing can get in your way."

He sets the stick down. Dipping his hands into his pockets, he wanders closer. A skip in the song pulls him to the player to adjust the needle. "Thanks, I appreciate it. You looked good too. A defenseman master class. I liked having such a close view of you in action."

I make my way over to join him at the turntable, using the excuse of studying the albums to stay near him. Sorted by genre, his collection ranges from classic rock, pop, folk, new age, and metal, an interesting mix. "You have a lot of records."

"Music is kind of my thing. I always have something on."

"Why records?"

He runs his fingertips over the tops of the covers with the reverent touch of a lover. "When I was a kid, I found an ancient record player in our basement and a box of albums from 80s bands. My parents weren't around much. Work came first, and I think I was looking for a connection with them."

"Sage…" I cover his traveling fingers with my hand. My chest pinches thinking about little boy Sage with his wild mop of hair and big blue eyes missing his parents. I also feel grateful that although my parents were busy, they always made time for me, and each other.

"Anyway," he continues, his words picking up speed like he can outrun the heart wrenching image I have of a lonely little boy, "I like the idiosyncrasies of records. There's a debate whether vinyl or digital is superior. I like both, but records feel more immersive."

I squeeze his hand then release it. "I never knew there was a difference. Maybe I should check out the vinyl version of an album I have and compare them."

He thumbs through the collection. "What music do you listen to?"

"Rock, mostly. And I'm on a bit of an Irish folk rock kick right now."

"There's a place in the East Side, a combination coffeehouse and record store I go to a lot. They have tons of vinyl and live music some nights too." He pulls a record from the stack and hands it to me. "Maybe you'd want to go sometime?"

The artwork on the cover draws me in. It's an older album from a band I recently found. I make a note of the title so I can look it up later. "I'd like to check that place out with you."

"Good." He smiles and bumps his shoulder into mine. "So we know music's my thing. What's yours?"

I return the album to its home. "Movies. I'm not picky about genre, and I like getting lost in the story unfolding on screen. I like cooking too, and end up feeding Jonas and some of the other guys a few times a week. And camping, I do that a lot during the summer."

"I've never been camping."

A picture forms in my mind of him and me, kissing under a canopy of trees. "If you want to try it, you should come with me."

His brows draw together. "Like, in a tent in the middle of the woods? Or cabins? Or, are we glamping?"

"I usually use a tent. I like experiencing nature, sleeping under the stars, listening to the crickets and owls."

He gives me a dubious stare. "You don't worry about bears or wolves or whatever's lurking out there?"

"Not too much. I'm a responsible camper. That doesn't guarantee things won't go wrong, but I take all precautions."

"I'd still worry." He presses his lips together, his gaze falling to the floor.

I lean in a little closer. My stomach flutters, eager for Sage to say yes. "If sleeping outside in a tent isn't your thing, we could always spend the day hiking and then sleep at my lake house. No wild animals in there. Though sometimes my teammates act like ones."

He raises his head. There's banked surprise in his blue eyes, flickering as we watch each other. "You'd do that?"

With infinite care, I brush a wild lock of hair off his forehead. "I'd want you to feel safe. I'd never force you to do something you aren't comfortable with."

"I think I'd feel safe with you." He leans into my touch and the movement causes my fingers to slip down the side of his face, over his stubbled cheek.

My lips tingle with the need to kiss him.

"Sage?" Remy calls from the hall, followed by a rapping of knuckles on the door. "Benedict is on the loose."

Sage's eyes close and he groans. "Not again." Then louder, "Come in."

The name Benedict is familiar. "Wait…" The door eases open, and Remy steps inside. "Your bearded dragon?"

He nods, crouching to check the floor behind the record shelves. "We were watching TV, and he was sitting right beside me, when my phone rang. I went across the apartment to get it, and by the time I got back, he was gone."

Sage stands. "He's an escape artist. Last time, he got all the way upstairs and into Morgan's shower. The time before that, he found his way in here and was hanging out under the couch."

I drop to my knees and peer under the couch. "I can help you look."

"Thanks." Remy presses his hand to his chest. "Gio and Phil are looking downstairs. Morgan's checking upstairs. Soren's chopping up some treats to see if we can lure Benny out, then he'll help me search my rooms." He pulls out his phone and shows me the photo of the reptile saved as his lock screen. "He's yellow and answers to Benny, or Benedict."

"Got it." Like there are a plethora of bearded dragons running around Saint Paul. "How big is Benny?"

Sage looks under the bed. "Twenty inches long. He can fit through the gap between the door and the floor, and climb stairs, so he could be anywhere."

As the full length of the album plays, Sage and I peer into every nook and shadow in his rooms and the hall, chatting about bands and concerts. When the album finishes, he puts on another, a greatest hits collection of one of my favorite bands.

Throughout the house, the guys keep calling for Benny and yelling to each other the places they've searched.

I open the door to a guest room linen closet, and there's Benedict, on a stack of towels, peering at me. "Found him."

Socked footfalls hurry across the floor. "Benny!" Remy slides past me and scoops him up, cradling Benny to his chest. "Thanks for looking, guys. I'm gonna get him settled and fed, and then he and I will have a word about his adventuring ways."

Sage pats Remy's shoulder as he passes. He waits in the doorway for me, his gaze dipping to my chest then raising to my lips. "Thanks for helping us look for him."

"Anytime." Itching to kiss him, I spy the time on an antique clock atop the fireplace mantel and force myself to take a step back. Kissing him is an experience I want to savor, without being rushed or any distractions. "I better take off. My dad's a guest commentator for Chicago's game tonight. I want to call and wish him luck."

He nods. "I'll walk you out."

I follow him down the stairs and into the entryway. He takes my coat from the closet and holds it out for me. "See you at practice."

"Yep." I tug the coat on, but leave it open. He looks so good, standing here. It's like an echo from when I arrived today. "I had a good time."

"I did, too." He leans in, fast as a flash, and hugs me. I have seconds to soak in the press of his chest to mine, and the lightest brush of his lips against my cheek. Then they're gone, and he steps back, a shy smile gracing his lips as he opens the front door.

Cold air sweeps in, rattling the wind chimes hanging outside the door.

I wave and head out into the early evening chill, that buzzing kiss keeping me warm. I'm not sure what this is, but it feels like the start of something good.