2. Tyler

CHAPTER 2

TYLER

I'm trying my best to focus as the new counselor Sydney introduces herself to the team, but my mind keeps drifting back to that night in Toronto.

What a shit show.

We got our asses handed to us on the ice, then went out and made even bigger asses of ourselves at the bar after. Too many shots, a smartass comment taken the wrong way, and suddenly fists were flying.

Our starting goalie, Adam, ended up with a major knee injury, and several players narrowly avoided getting arrested when the cops showed up. As if the media needed more ammo to make us appear like a bunch of out-of-control frat boys.

And now the pressure is on me to step up as the goalie.

Sydney's voice pulls me back to the present moment.

"The important thing is that we work together to create a healthy environment for the entire team."

Her warm brown eyes meet mine and I relax a bit. She seems like she actually gives a damn, like she's more than just another suit here to babysit us and protect the team's image.

My gaze flicks over to DJ, and I nearly choke on my tongue. He's not even pretending to listen to Sydney, too busy eye-fucking her from across the room with that crooked grin of his.

The same grin that does strange, confusing things to my insides whenever it's aimed my way.

Which has been happening a lot lately.

I tear my eyes away, my face heating.

But I can't help sneaking another glance at DJ. He lounges back in his chair, all toned muscle and shameless confidence. The poster boy for pansexual pride.

I wish I knew what that confidence was like.

To just...feel what I feel, without constantly second-guessing myself. Without worrying what it "means."

I've only ever dated women. I'm straight. Or at least, I thought I was.

And then we were in a club a month ago, a couple weeks before that stupid-ass bar fight. DJ pulled a hot stranger onto his lap and was making out with him in front of everyone.

I've seen guys kiss before, of course. Lukas and Ryan aren't shy in front of the team. But I'd never seen DJ in action like that before. The way his powerful arms wrapped around the other man, the things he was doing with his hands, the absolutely sinful look in his eyes when he eventually pulled back…

All I could think was, what would that feel like? If it was me he was kissing, instead…

Fuck . I can't even let myself complete that thought.

This team is my shot to prove myself, to make my brother Steven proud after he had to retire early. The last thing I need is my personal life getting even more complicated.

And my thoughts toward DJ since that night have been a monumental distraction.

I just need to focus on hockey. But when DJ catches me looking and throws me a wink, my focus slips away by the second.

Coach Daniels claps his hands, jolting me out of my musings. "Alright boys, show's over. Back to drills!"

I perk up, grateful for the work. It's always settled my nerves, being on the ice. This is what I know, what I'm good at.

Out on the rink, I can just be Tyler the goalie, my mind blank and my mission clear.

We start with basic drills, stick handling and skating suicides. I throw myself into it, relishing the burn in my muscles, the cold air in my lungs. But even as I try to lose myself in the physical exertion, my traitorous eyes keep drifting to DJ.

He's a big guy—hulking, almost—but you'd never know it, watching him on the ice. He's poetry in motion, all grace and finesse as he weaves through the cones. It's hypnotic.

I could watch him for hours?—

"Head up, Simmonds!" Coach's bark snaps me back to reality just as a puck whizzes past my left ear.

Shit . I shake my head, trying to clear the cobwebs. I can't afford to be unfocused. Not with Adam out and the starting goalie position squarely on my shoulders.

We shift into a scrimmage and I take my place in the net, determined to redeem myself. For a while, I stay locked in, deflecting shot after shot. But then DJ snags the puck and comes charging towards me, a wicked gleam in his eye.

He dekes left, then right, leaving my defensemen in the dust.

I square up, ready for his shot. But at the last second, he pulls off some kind of action-hero spineroo move and the puck sails over my shoulder into the net.

"Wooooo!" DJ pumps his fist, circling around the back of the goal. As he passes by, he reaches out and taps me on the ass with his stick. "Almost had me there, Ty! Keep those legs closed next time, eh?"

He punctuates it with a wink and a cackle, skating away while I try to remember how to breathe.

It's the same kind of exchange we've had a million times, but somehow it feels different. Loaded with a new tension. The ghost of his stick burns through my padding.

Jesus, get a grip. It's just DJ being DJ. Doesn't mean anything.

But even as I try to dismiss it, there's a tightening low in my stomach, an ache that has nothing to do with hockey.

I towel off in a daze, my mind still reeling from practice. The locker room seems to stretch on forever, rows of empty stalls mocking me as I try to gather my scattered thoughts.

The creak of the door snaps my attention up. DJ strolls in wearing nothing but sinfully tight compression shorts slung low on his hips.

My mouth goes bone dry.

I can't tear my gaze away from the mesmerizing sight of his lean, cut muscles rippling under tanned skin as he moves. Intricate tattoos snake up his sculpted arms and wind across his ribs, practically begging to be traced by fingertips...or a tongue.

DJ's eyes lock with mine and a devilish grin spreads across his face. "See something you like, Simmonds?"

His voice is a low, flirtatious purr that shoots straight to my groin.

Heat floods my cheeks and...other areas. I frantically grab for my towel, almost dropping it.

"What? No, I just—I mean?—"

Real smooth, Tyler .

I'm unable to form a sentence like an idiot, but my brain has short-circuited at the nearly naked vision before me.

"Relax, I'm just giving you shit," DJ chuckles, taking pity on me. "Gonna hit the showers. Catch you later, Ty."

He saunters off, treating me to a view of his spectacular ass.

I exhale shakily, my pulse thundering in my ears. This magnetic pull whenever DJ is near—it's getting impossible to ignore, a constant electric hum just under my skin.

What the hell am I supposed to do with these feelings? They don't fit with the image I've always had of myself, of who I'm supposed to be.

In a panic, I throw on clothes haphazardly, desperate to flee the intoxicating air of the locker room and DJ's irresistible effect on me, before I do something crazy like shove him against the tiles and map those tattoos with my mouth...

Nope. Not going there.

I snatch my duffel and practically run for the door, needing to put some serious distance between me and my wild thoughts.

This identity crisis will have to wait—preferably forever.

Shifting in the uncomfortable restaurant chair, I force a smile as my date, Sarah, finishes her story about her latest adventure in hot yoga. She's been enthusiastically chattering on for the past fifteen minutes, but I haven't been able to focus on a single word.

"That sounds... intense," I manage, taking a sip of my water to buy myself a moment. "So, uh, what do you do for a living?"

Sarah blinks, thrown by the sudden change in topic. "I'm a marketing director at a tech startup downtown. I thought your sister mentioned that?"

"Oh right, sorry," I wince. "So…what kind of metrics do you use to evaluate employee performance?" I ask, and then instantly cringe inwardly at how stiff and formal I sound.

Sarah pauses, taken aback. "Um, well, the usual KPIs, I guess...productivity, efficiency, that sort of thing." She tilts her head, looking at me quizzically. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason," I backpedal, my cheeks heating. "Just, um, curious about your management style, I suppose." Seriously, Tyler? This is a date, not a job interview.

I take a big gulp of wine, hoping the alcohol will loosen me up, help me relax. But all it does is make me vaguely nauseous.

I set down my glass and force another smile.

"So, where do you see yourself in five years?" The question slips out before I can stop it. What the hell is wrong with me?

Sarah frowns slightly. "Well, hopefully I'll have gotten a promotion by then, be managing my own team. I'd like to?—"

I nod along, making appropriate noises of agreement, but my mind is drifting, pulled inexorably back to the locker room this afternoon. To DJ, standing there in those sinfully tight shorts, all lean muscle and bold ink.

The way he looked at me, his eyes hot and knowing...

"Tyler? Did you hear me?"

I snap back to the present to find Sarah watching me expectantly. Shit . "Sorry, what was that?"

"I was asking about your plans for the future," she repeats patiently. "What are your long-term career goals?"

"Oh. Um." I fumble for an answer, my mind blank. "Just...to keep playing, I guess. For as long as I can."

It sounds pathetic, even to my own ears.

Sarah nods slowly. "Right. Well, that's... admirable." The conversation limps along from there, every exchange more strained than the last.

By the time the waiter brings the check, I'm exhausted, wrung out from the effort of pretending to be someone I'm not. Someone fully engaged during first dates with random women.

Someone who isn't weirdly obsessed with his teammate.

We say our goodbyes on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Sarah goes in for a hug and I reciprocate stiffly, patting her back.

"This was fun," I lie. "I'll, uh, call you sometime."

She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Sure. Sounds good."

We both know I won't call.

I watch her walk away, her blonde hair swaying, and feel...nothing. No regret, no disappointment. Just a hollow sort of relief that the date is finally over.

But as I climb into my car, the full weight of my situation crashes down on me. I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, gripping it hard enough to turn my knuckles white.

What the hell is wrong with me?