2. Christian

Christian

Not gonna lie—I was tearing up while the Rainiers skated out onto the ice for warmups.

I mean, okay, I've always been an emotional guy, and I will totally cry watching sad or romantic movies. I bawled during Red, White Royal Blue—do not judge me.

But watching this team take the ice with rainbow-wrapped sticks had me choked up in ways Hollywood could never.

Because they weren't just being allies tonight, showing solidarity to me, the queer players in the league, and their queer fans. They were being allies when it could cost them professionally.

My father was going to be furious, and this was not a man who was above trading or waiving players over petty shit. Last season, one of the second pair defensemen, who'd been coming up on free agency, had answered a reporter honestly about whether he was going to stay in Seattle. All he'd said was, "I like playing here, but it depends on if they want to re-sign me." Dad had taken that as a swipe at the slow progression of contract negotiations, and he'd promptly traded the guy for a couple of fifth round draft picks. People still wanted his ass fired over that, and it wasn't the first or last time he'd fucked over a player that way.

Everyone on the Rainiers' roster knew about that. Hell, the guy who'd been traded? His old D partner was still here, now playing in the top pair, and he'd rainbowed the fuck out of his stick tonight.

Go ahead and punish us,the whole team seemed to be daring him. You can't trade or waive us all.

Standing behind the bench as I watched them all fall into their warmup routine, I had to work to swallow. My ex had cynically believed they all just kissed my ass because I could fuck with their gear and make their lives hell. Which, okay, that was true. There was a reason hockey players deeply respected their equipment managers.

But there was a big difference between being courteous and thanking us for our work, and defiantly putting rainbow tape on their sticks when they knew their GM would have their heads for it.

Coach Swanson, the defensive coach, stepped up beside me and leaned in to be heard over the music and the crowd. "Uh, I thought your dad canceled Pride Night?"

I nodded, fighting a smile. "Yeah, it's canceled." I scanned the crowd, which was full of rainbow hats, rainbow flags, and a few rainbow warmup jerseys from previous seasons. "I don't think the fans got the memo."

Swanson looked around, pursing his lips. "No, but the players did." I could read between the lines of his curt tone: Why did you give them rainbow tape anyway?

I shrugged. "We put black and white tape on the sticks. The guys asked for rainbow."

I sensed him looking at me, and when I turned, his brow was knitted together. I couldn't decide if he was disgusted by the rainbows, or if he was worried about the inevitable backlash. Could've been a bit of both; he was old school, and I'd never gotten the impression he was completely comfortable with me. Whenever he could, he went to the other three members of my crew instead of me, despite me being the head equipment manager.

He was also a bit on the spineless side. Oh, and he'd had his job threatened by my dad several times when the power play was a mess last season, so I suspected he wasn't comfortable with anything that might provoke my father.

I turned back to the team, who were setting up for line rushes. "I'll take the heat for it."

I didn't have to check to see if he was scowling. If I had to guess, he'd make himself extra scarce when Dad came down after the third period.

As the players started line rushes, I searched the numbers and names until my gaze landed on one in particular.

Mathis. Number sixty-one. Left winger on the fourth line.

The first time he'd joined the team, he'd caught my eye because he was cute as hell. The first time he'd laughed at something a teammate had said, I'd almost dropped the skate blade I'd been replacing two stalls over from his. He was a little taller than me—five-ten or so, I thought—with dark hair that curled when it was wet and the darkest eyes I'd ever seen.

I was well-accustomed to being around hockey players in various states of undress, but I'd admittedly let myself steal a glance at him the other night. How was it that I was used to men with six-packs and thighs for days, but one look at his lean, powerful body had screwed with my head? My crew and I had a very well-practiced and efficient routine for moving gear in, out, and around the locker rooms, and I'd lost a step solely because my gaze had landed for all of half a second on his naked back. The perfect shoulders. The sculpted arms. Jesus. What did I do for a living again?

Here behind the bench, I shook myself and pulled my attention away from him before a camera busted me staring. And blushing.

What the hell?

And like, he was seriously cute and hot, but then tonight…

"Do you have any rainbow tape?"

My heart had done things in that moment I still couldn't define. It wasn't that I thought he'd been doing this as a show of support for me and the queer guys in the league. After all, he was one of them himself. But the absolute balls it took? Especially for a player from the minors who could easily be sent back down, waived, traded, or released after his contract ended? The guys who came up from the minors, even if it was only for a game or two, knew they had to shine, shine, shine because this was their chance to prove they had what it took to come up permanently. Some of them only got one shot during their entire career, and that one chance could make or break their entire dream of playing PHL hockey.

And Theo Mathis was willing to risk that to make a statement with the tape on his stick.

I couldn't help but admire that.

Admire? Is that what kids are calling it these days?

I shivered, grateful that the long sleeves of my hoodie covered up the goose bumps currently prickling along my arms. I mean, yeah, I did admire the guy, but that admiration only fueled the fire that burned a little hotter every time he caught my eye.

He's a little young for you, don't you think?

Eh, he was twenty-four. I'd be thirty-one soon. That was doable.

Well, it would be if I ever hooked up with the players on my dad's team, which I absolutely did not.

Theo skated up to the bench, leaned over it, and retrieved his water bottle. Helmet off, he sprayed some on his face, then ran a hand through his dripping wet hair.

Unaware of my body temperature jumping several degrees, he squirted some water into his mouth, put the bottle back in its slot, and skated off again.

I had to fight the urge to slump back against the glass.

Okay, I didn't usually hook up with players on my dad's team.

But if Theo was interested, I would absolutely make an exception tonight.