4. Christian

Christian

This season was cursed. That was the only possible explanation. Seemed like almost every night, we were putting up nameplates for newly arrived players. Good thing we always traveled with away jerseys for every member of our PHL affiliate; anyone they called up, we had a jersey for him, and my God, we'd been going through that stack this year.

After Hamilton had broken his shoulder in Buffalo last night, there'd been no question we'd be onboarding a new player tonight. Even if the new guy was a healthy scratch (which was likely), he'd be here, dressing for warmups. The backup player we'd brought along on this road trip would definitely get to play tonight. And at least one of our minor league players would be on the team for a few weeks now while Hams was on LTIR. Glad I didn't have to make those decisions, though I'd need to find out who it was so I made sure we were well-stocked with his gear.

That had all been on my mind since last night, and I'd known from the moment Hams had gone down that there'd be yet another new name in the dressing room tonight.

Still, I wasn't at all prepared when we were setting up stalls and Marty hung up a pristine white jersey with the number sixty-one on the back.

And there across the shoulders in dark blue letters: Mathis.

I almost dropped the nameplates I'd been carrying. Dad had actually called up Theo? Jesus. Were there any players left in Everett or Bellingham? Because the situation had to be even more desperate than I'd thought if Theo was coming up.

"I don't give a damn if he's the best player in the entire PHL," Dad had ranted. "I don't tolerate disrespect. He can rot in the HLWNA for all I care—he's not coming up to this locker room again."

But here we were, arranging a jersey and a pair of skates in front of a locker stall. And here I was, sliding the nameplate for Theo Mathis into the holder above the jersey.

I stared at the nameplate for a second and gulped. Fuck. Was I even going to be able to concentrate with him in here?

Of course I was. He wasn't the first hockey player I'd fucked and he probably wouldn't be the last, even if I did (usually) avoid sleeping with Rainiers. I didn't even know why I was tripping over my own feet about this, apart from the fact that I'd never expected Dad to call him up.

Well, I could tie myself in knots about that later—my crew had about forty-five minutes to finish setting up the locker room before the team arrived for the morning skate.

Fortunately, this was a job I could do mostly on autopilot, because my mind was almost entirely fixed on Theo. I couldn't figure out why, though. I didn't know why that night had stuck with me the way it had. Casual hookups were nothing new for me, but Theo had stayed on my mind like an ex-boyfriend. Not like someone who'd hurt me or anything—just someone who was living rent-free in my head like he owned the goddamned place.

My memory rewound past that night in my condo, past hanging out at the bar, and back to the locker room at the arena.

I'd been crushed that Dad had canceled Pride Night. They'd been a tradition for years, since the GM who came before him, and the fans and players alike loved them. Everyone wondered why Dad had waited until the very last minute to pull the plug, but I knew why.

"Maybe in the future you'll learn not to get your hopes up," he'd told me in his office minutes after the announcement was made. "My team does not endorse that lifestyle."

Only anger had kept me from tearing up. "It's not ‘my lifestyle.' It's who I am."

His dismissive shrug had set my teeth on edge. "And you can live your life however you want. I've never tried to stop you." Expression darkening, he'd added, "But that doesn't mean I need to make my team wave rainbows around."

So many reporters asked him, "Why change the policy on Pride Nights now? You've celebrated them in the past."

More than a few had called him a coward in their articles after he'd answered that another team had set the precedent.

"Some of Omaha's players didn't want to wear the Pride sweaters last season. The organization had the courage to let individual players say no. This season, Seattle has the courage to say that we're a hockey team, not puppets for political statements."

Ugh. Fuck him. And fuck our president of hockey operations, too, for leaving it in Dad's hands and not caring enough to do anything about it. He didn't even care about the disrespect to the team's fans.

Standing there in that locker room, staring at the jerseys we'd hung up minutes after pulling down the Pride jerseys, I'd felt lower than I had in a long time. Dad hadn't just canceled Pride Night, he'd made sure I had to physically remove it. He'd waited until the jerseys and nameplates were up and the players were about to start coming in.

Fuck the fans, apparently. Fuck the queer players and the allies. Fuck his own son, but that was no surprise.

I'd had die a little inside with every nameplate I took down and every jersey I pulled off a hanger and stuffed in a bag. Try to stay collected and professional as I slid the everyday nameplates into place while Marty and Jake hung up the regular home game jerseys. By the time players had started coming in, the locker room looked exactly the same as it did before every game.

It was the first time I'd given serious thought to going to work for another team. I was at a point in my career where I could go to work for any club in the league if I wanted to, and I wouldn't have to put up with my asshole father anymore. I wouldn't even have to live near him, though it would suck to be far away from my mom and sister.

I'd had my resignation letter planned out in my head as I'd adjusted Sorenson's visor, when…

"Hey, Christian?"

Mathis. The kid from the minors.

"Be right there," I'd replied, and a moment later, I'd gone to his stall. "Hey, what do you need?"

He'd looked up at me with the most beautiful brown eyes I'd ever seen, and he'd said the words that had started putting the whole night back on the rails: "Do you have any rainbow tape?"

Within minutes, every roll of rainbow tape we had was making the rounds as the team—the whole team—replaced the white and black on their blades. A few had even candy-cane-striped their stick handles with colorful tape.

The resignation letter in my head had gone up in smoke as I'd watched the whole scene play out. Every man in that room knew they were in for an earful from my dad, but they did it anyway. For their queer teammates. For themselves. For me. There were a lot of reasons why I sometimes considered giving up this job—most of them relating to him—but there were so many more reasons I hung on. Twenty of those reasons—twenty-two including the pair who'd be healthy scratches—had rainbow-taped their sticks right in there in front of me.

"Jack Hayes can go fuck himself,"they'd said with every bright stripe they laid down on their sticks. "We're doing this."

When warmups started, they'd marched out of the locker room, one after another, colorful sticks in hand. The crowd had gone nuts. My heart had gone wild. Even after they'd switched back to regular tape for the game (which they would've done anyway), I think I spent that whole game smiling like a fool.

Sometimes I went with the players to the bar after a game. Sometimes I didn't. A lot of times, if we were getting ready for a road trip, I was too busy. Even if I wasn't busy, I was often exhausted and had a reservation for one in my bed.

They always invited me and my crew, though. Without fail. And that night, I'd said yes, because I'd wanted to be surrounded by these amazing men. They were my family. The queer guys were fearless in the face of a man with a lot of power over their careers. The straight guys were relentless in their support. I'd put up with my dad's bullshit until the end of time if it meant staying in this locker room, and hell yes, I'd join them at the bar.

Theo had also joined them. When I'd eventually left the bar, he'd left with me, and I still revisited that night now. I didn't know if it was the lingering euphoria from the game, the rebelliousness of hooking up with someone I shouldn't touch, or if the chemistry really was off the charts between us. Maybe some combination of the three. Whatever the case, he'd rocked my world, and from his dazed expression afterward, I was pretty sure I'd rocked his, too.

We'd both known he'd be sent down the next day. There'd been no way in hell Dad would keep Theo up after the tape. So, why the hell not? Wasn't like he'd be back in this locker room again, so we could hook up and go our separate ways.

I just hadn't thought the sex would be so good I'd want a rematch. By the time I had, he'd already been gone, and we hadn't exchanged numbers. He'd only be forty-five minutes away, but that didn't mean I could find him again.

Social media had been an option. Going to an Orcas game, too.

But cowardice, thy name was Christian, and anyway, he obviously wasn't interested because he hadn't asked for my number either. So I'd left well enough alone, and the only time I'd seen him again was at training camp. When that had come, I'd pointedly avoided looking at him until curiosity had gotten the best of me, at which point I'd discovered he was pointedly avoiding looking at me.

Probably because he'd been loudly warned that his career was on thin ice over the stick tape incident, and he was wisely keeping his head down. The last thing he needed was Dad finding out he'd hooked up with me.

Yeah, that night had definitely been a one-time thing.

Oh well,I'd told myself. It was just a hookup.

Which totally explained why, all these months later, I still jacked off thinking about him and I was completely off-balance after seeing his name above a locker stall. Was I even going to be able to walk straight when he showed up? Probably not. Good thing I didn't have to skate.

"Hey, Christian?"

Not Theo calling me from the locker room this time. No, this was a different voice, carrying over noise and power tools and echoing in that strange way voices did in concrete-lined hallways. When had I come out here?

I shook myself and turned to see Marty eyeing me. "Hmm? What?"

He tilted his head. "I was going to ask you the same thing."

"Huh?" But then I realized that at some point, I'd apparently been so lost in thought, I'd come out into the hall and turned on the skate sharpener but hadn't gotten any further than that. I was just standing here like a dumbass, a piece of steel in my hand, while the sharpener waited for me to do something with it.

Cheeks burning, I cleared my throat. "Sorry. Just, uh…" Being an absolute idiot about a player I'll never touch again. "Tired, I guess."

Skepticism creased his forehead.

"I'm good," I assured him. "It was just a long night." At least I had that excuse to fall back on. Even the equipment managers who'd been doing this for twenty years could still be utterly wiped after traveling between back-to-back games. Last night, we'd had to go straight from the arena to the airport, load the plane, fly to Washington, D.C., unload the plane, and come to the arena to get everything set up. Now we were back, bright and early for the morning skate, and we were probably running on ten hours of sleep between the four of us. Such were road trips.

Marty let it go and left me to continue sharpening steel.

Alone in the hallway, I pulled myself together. Fortunately, there wasn't much left for me to do; we always sharpened skates the night before so everyone had fresh blades in the morning. This was just the box of backup blades. We rotated through this box and two others, so every player always had at least two sharpened blades ready to roll before a game.

I'd just finished the last one when the first set of footsteps announced the arrival of the Seattle Rainiers. Condit was always among the first, and he always carried a tray of four cups of coffee—one for each equipment manager.

"Oh, you're the best," I said as I took mine.

"You're welcome." He flashed the charming smile that the camera so loved, and then he continued into the locker room while I took a careful sip. He even knew how we all liked our coffee, and mine had exactly the right amount of sugar. It was nice to be appreciated.

After Condit, the rest of the team trickled in, including the guys from the minor team. Perry, a defenseman who wasn't even old enough to drink yet, was sporting a hell of a shiner thanks to a fight last night. I shuddered thinking about that brawl. The other guy had richly deserved it, but he'd also had six inches and a good forty pounds on Perry. I'd had visions of the kid being added to the growing list of injuries.

Perry had held his own, though, and I suspected he was wearing the black eye as a badge of honor.

Too bad that no amount of fighting could undo that asshole boarding MacKenzie late in the third period. We'd already lost Hams to a broken shoulder, and then Mac had gone down. Last I'd heard, he was still being evaluated for an upper body injury. As bad as he was weaving when he'd come off the ice, he'd probably be down for at least a few days on concussion protocol.

Maybe you'll get to play tonight after all, Theo.

My own thought almost made me spit out my coffee. Jesus. All mental roads were going to lead to him, weren't they? Was I even going to be able to do my job when he walked in?

I didn't have a lot of time to ponder that, because a moment later… there he was. Some dark hair stuck out from under his Seattle Rainiers beanie, and he was laughing at something Brody, one of the other PHL guys, had said. His smile… Fuck me. As much time as I'd spent fantasizing about the night we'd spent together, it was that sweet, lopsided smile that made my knees shake this time.

God, he's cute.

I'm so fucking doomed.

Right then, he looked my way, and he stumbled a little. Probably just as well—then he could tell Brody that was why he was suddenly turning bright red.

He did give me a quick, shy smile, though. Then a second glance—a fast down-up—before he dropped his gaze and continued past me, his cheeks turning even redder.

As soon as he was gone, I closed my eyes and leaned against the cold cinderblock wall. I wanted him again. Plain and simple.

But… we couldn't.

He probably wouldn't, no matter how much desire I was pretty sure I'd seen in his eyes. The fact that he'd been called up at all was nothing short of a miracle, and I wouldn't ask him to risk this tenuous second chance for me.

One time had been reckless enough. I had no idea if my crew or the team had ever caught on that Theo and I had slept together. I had no idea if he'd told anyone. What I did know was that if that information made it back to my father, Theo and I would both be out of a job. Dad had fired my sister from the accounting department shortly after they'd had a tiff over something, and he'd axed my brother-in-law from the PR team after Aiden dared to stand up for his wife. So, cutting his own son loose was not out of the question. I'd been treading delicately ever since last season's Pride Night anyway, and if Dad caught wind that I'd put my hands on one of his players? Hello, unemployment.

Sometimes it was tempting to let him fire me, or to just bail. What stopped me was remembering that while I did work for my dad, I didn't work with him all the time. If I had, I'd have jumped ship ages ago. As it was, he was an intermittent and mostly avoidable pain in my ass at an otherwise amazing job that I did not want to lose.

I pushed out a breath and rolled my shoulders, wondering when they'd started getting so tight.

No matter how hot Theo was, no matter how distracting he was, I had to keep my distance. This job was more important than getting laid. And anyway, he'd only be up for a little while. I could deal with that. Even if he stayed up for a month or two, it wouldn't be forever.

I'd just keep my head down.

Do my job.

And try not to lose my damned mind over that beautiful, off-limits man.