7. Theo

Theo

It never ceased to amaze me how quickly players moved within the league. Not just up and down between the PHL and NAPH, but between teams.

Last night, just hours after we'd returned from the five-game East Coast road trip, there'd been an announcement that Seattle had made a trade. The Rainiers had sent Langley and a third-round draft pick to Montreal in exchange for Yury Grekov, a spectacular young defenseman.

Langley had played in our last road trip game and he was on the flight home. This morning, all his gear and his nameplate were gone, and in what was previously his stall, the new guy was suiting up for the morning skate. He might even play in tonight's game if Coach decided he meshed well with the team.

Everyone seemed impressed as hell that Jack had managed to swing that deal. Langley was good and all, but Grekov had been tearing it up for Montreal. He'd racked up half a dozen goals in between taking on the role of heavyweight enforcer, and he was excellent at drawing penalties while he deftly avoided taking them. Though he'd been a fourth-round pick, commentators and players alike had been marveling at what an overlooked talent he was, and how much potential he had for a spectacular career as a defenseman. How Jack had acquired him for so relatively little, I had no idea.

Guess that's how he keeps his job—he's an absolute pustule of a human being, but he's damn good at being a GM.

Grekov had a translator with him, and he also had that wide-eyed, fish-out-of-water look some guys had when they didn't speak English. It was overwhelming, being surrounded by people speaking in another language, and it showed.

There wasn't much I could do when the new guy was Swedish, Finnish, or French Canadian. A Russian like Grekov, though…

I pulled on my jersey and crossed over to his stall. "Hey, welcome to Seattle," I said in Russian.

Grekov sat up straighter, his eyes lighting up. "You speak Russian?"

I nodded. "Da."

He exhaled. His translator chuckled, looking a little relieved himself. He was probably glad Grekov had someone who could translate for him on the fly, especially out on the ice, since it wasn't like the translator could stick with him during games.

I gestured over my shoulder toward my locker stall. "I have to get my gear on, but when we're out on the ice or on the bench…"

Grekov smiled. "Thank you."

I left him to continue getting dressed, and I headed back to my own stall. Halfway there, though, I paused. Then I changed direction and went looking for Coach, who was just coming into the locker room, peering at something on an iPad.

"Hey, Coach?"

He looked up from the iPad. "Hmm?"

I tipped my head toward Grekov. "The new guy doesn't speak much English. Or any—I'm not sure. But I speak Russian, so as long as I'm here, it might make it easier for him if we sit near each other on the bench, but since he's defense…"

Coach glanced past me, pursing his lips. "We'll keep his translator out there for when he's on the bench. But if you guys can sit near each other and still talk to your linemates…" He half-shrugged.

"Perfect. Thanks, Coach." I headed back to my stall to finish getting dressed.

Grekov's translator would keep him filled in with whatever the coaches, trainers, or referees said, but we also talked amongst ourselves on the bench. Reviewing plays. Strategizing. Chirping or reassuring, depending on what the moment called for. I knew from one of my old Finnish teammates that the bench could get incredibly lonely for someone who couldn't banter or talk hockey with the guys sitting next to him. Even if someone could translate, there was no substitute for someone who spoke your own language well enough to shoot the shit and joke around. Too much of that just got lost in translation.

Rusanov eyed me as I geared up. "How the fuck do you know Russian?" he asked in the same language.

I shot him an innocent look. "Your sister talks in her sleep."

He swore and threw a balled up sock at me. "Oh, fuck you."

I laughed and threw it back.

Condit watched us both. "Do I even want to know?"

Yanni was Czech, but he must've known at least a little Russian because he said, "Mathis was saying he learned Russian by banging Rusanov's sister."

Rusanov responded with what I could only assume was some Czech swearing—I kind of vaguely recognized it from a previous teammate who'd taught me a few phrases—and the sock flew at Yanni's head. Yanni and I cackled.

Condit shook his head as he started putting on his shin pads. "You know what? Never mind. I don't want to know."

Rusanov gave me and Yanni the finger as he said something I didn't understand. Must've been Czech.

Two stalls down from Condit, Abrahamsson barked a laugh. "Language!"

"How the fuck do you know what it means?" Yanni asked. "Do they teach Czech curses in Sweden now?"

"No," Abrahamsson deadpanned. "I learned it from your mom."

That had the whole locker room howling enough that I didn't hear Yanni's response.

Right then, Jack walked into the room, and the laughter died away faster than a crowd going silent when a ref was about to announce the result of a video review. One minute, we were loud and raucous. The next, I could hear Yanni adjusting one of his pads from eight stalls away.

Jack looked around, then gestured for Coach and the defensive coach to step out into the hallway. After they were gone, some of the conversation tentatively started up again, but the banter was dead and the raucous vibe was gone.

Ugh. At least he hadn't said or done anything. Just walked in like the Grim Reaper of Fun, then walked out, and the mood didn't recover. I hated to imagine what would happen if he came in and ripped into all of us or something. Especially since I'd heard he was not at all above doing that.

Damn. He must be fun at parties.

Well, fun vibe or not, it was time to focus on hockey. That would shake us all out of this sudden funk.

I was just grabbing my gloves off the bench when Christian appeared beside me.

My brain skidded to a halt, because… Christian. I was still so damn stupid over him, and any time he looked at me or especially when he spoke to me, I lost my train of thought.

And he'd asked me something. Hadn't he? Shit. What had he said?

I frantically rewound and—thank God—found the moment he'd spoken.

"So, you speak Russian?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Okay." He nodded sharply. "I'm going to shuffle locker stalls. Move you and Grekov closer to Rusanov. It'll be a lot easier for him if you're all next to each other."

"What about Yanni?" I tipped my head toward the goalie. "Seems like he speaks some."

Christian snorted. "Yeah, ‘some' as in all the curses and insults."

"Ah, so he'd just be a bad influence."

"Pretty much. So we'll keep Grekov with you and Rusanov."

"You think we'll be much better?"

"No." He flashed a grin that shouldn't have been that cute. "But either way, that's Coach Baldwin's problem."

I laughed. "All right, sounds good." I gestured at my gear. "You want me to pack any of it up for—"

"No, don't worry about that. I still have to check a few things and air out your skates between now and the game, so just…" He waved his hand at the stall. "Leave it like normal after practice."

"You sure? If I can make it easier—"

"You're good." His smile made the floor tilt. "I've got it."

He walked away before I could say anything else. I didn't think he was bailing on the conversation, really—he had a clipboard in his hand and went straight to one of my other teammates, so I suspected he was just really busy.

I wondered if he knew what happened to my brain every time I saw him. Or every time he made eye contact with me. Or spoke to me.

I shook myself and pulled on my gloves. I needed to get a goddamned grip. It was one time. One. Time. Christian had undoubtedly moved on, and I needed to do the same thing.

I just wasn't sure how to do that. How the fuck was I supposed to move on when the man I'd literally been dreaming about for months was constantly right there?

Same way I'd handled coexisting with the crushes I didn't dare flirt with. Same way I stayed sane around straight men who were hot enough to make me stumble over my skates and my words. Just… focus on other things and move on.

I chanced a look around the room and found Christian talking to Marty with his back turned to me. With those workout pants perfectly hugging that beautiful ass.

Fuck me. It would be so, so much easier to forget him if I'd never been able to touch him. The straight guys were an exercise in frustration because they were a hundred percent off limits. The queer guys who weren't interested in me—same thing.

But Christian was off limits and I'd had a taste of him. Literally.

I shivered, biting my lip as I headed out to the ice. That one night with him had been a mistake. A hot, sexy, amazing mistake that I'd be dreaming about for years to come.

A hot, sexy, amazing mistake I wished like hell I could make just one more time.

Last season

I was losingmy damn mind, sitting here in this bar. I couldn't decide if I was more starstruck by my teammates or just—

Oh, who was I kidding? I was starstruck, but the Rainiers at this table had nothing to do with why my tongue kept sticking to the roof of my mouth or why my brain kept going blank. I hoped they didn't notice. I was pretty sure the object of my distraction did notice, though, because every time his eyes flicked my way, the corner of his mouth would twitch like he was hiding a smile. Then my face would suddenly be so hot I had to be redder than the goal light, and he'd let the smile come to life, and…

Jesus Christ. Why was I so stupid over Christian Hayes? Yes, he was hot as hell, but so were half the guys I played hockey with. All night long, though, I'd been in teenager-with-a-crush mode. It was honestly a miracle I'd made it through the game without blowing a tire or crashing into a ref.

Ever since he'd broken into a smile when he'd realized I was serious about the Pride Tape, he'd given me goose bumps just by glancing in my general direction. In that moment, he hadn't just been sexy, he'd been sweet and genuine. Someone who'd been deeply hurt but was suddenly finding a reason to smile again. I'd suddenly wanted more than anything to do whatever I could to give him more reasons to smile.

And maybe a few reasons to scream.

Oh, my God. Theo. Get a fucking grip.

I drank some more beer and rolled it around in my mouth, letting the cold make my teeth ache and distract me. It didn't last. The smart thing to do would be bow out and head back to my hotel. Maybe jerk off a time or two before passing out for the night. Maybe just… not sit here at a table with the man who was turning my brain to liquid.

Did I bow out and head back to my hotel? No.

Did I do the smart thing and put some space between me and Christian? No.

Was I getting a fucking grip and pulling myself together? Also no.

As the night went on, the guys at the table peeled away to head home. With each man who left, we'd all move chairs so we could hear each other and didn't have to shout across the long table.

By about one-thirty, we were down to four people.

Condit looked at his phone and sighed. "I should go. I have to get the kids up for school."

Wilcox wrinkled his nose. "Really? The morning after a game?"

"She puts them to bed and doesn't mind if I stay out with you idiots." Condit got up and pulled on his jacket. "Me getting them ready for school while she sleeps in seems like a fair trade."

"Ugh. No, thanks."

Christian rolled his eyes but didn't say anything.

Condit shook his head. "Yeah, come talk to me when you've got a wife busting her ass while you're gone most of the time." He smacked Wilcox's shoulder. "Let me know how that goes for you."

Wilcox grunted something. "I'm going to go close my tab."

He and Condit headed up to the bar, pulling out their wallets as they walked.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Christian, muttered, "Sometimes Wilcox wonders why he's still single." He brought his beer up. "I just can't begin to imagine."

"Right?" I laughed. "You'd think women would be falling all over him."

He chuckled, meeting my gaze over the rim of his glass.

And that was when I realized that… it was just the two of us.

The rest of the team was gone. Nothing remained but a couple of mostly empty beers and this weird silence that seemed to vibrate between us.

I was alone with Christian.

Oh, fuck. I had no idea what to say. I was usually fairly smooth with guys—enough that I didn't make an ass of myself and could even make a connection—but there was nothing smooth about me when I was around Christian.

And it didn't help that he kept looking at me like that.

Absently swirling his beer like a fine wine, he narrowed his eyes a little. "So, how was your first stint in the NAPH?"

I laughed nervously. "‘First' kind of implies there will be a second time, don't you think?"

He pursed his lips and shrugged. "Sure. But I saw you play tonight." His smile made the world sway. "You've got talent, Theo. Lots of it." He toasted me with his glass before bringing it up for a sip. "Don't sell yourself short."

My face was burning. "I… I mean, I think I'm good enough. But, um… I also think I might've landed on your dad's shit list tonight, you know?"

Christian's smile fell, and he stared at the table. Sighing, he nodded. "I wish I could tell you he'll let it go. But I know him."

Well, that was encouraging. "Great," I muttered. "So much for ever playing in the NAPH for real."

Christian studied me for a moment, his forehead creased. "Do you think it was a mistake? The tape?"

I gave it some actual thought, because I didn't want to just answer off the cuff and put my foot in my mouth. Absently rotating my glass on the table between my fingers, I sighed. "No. It wasn't a mistake. I stand by what I did." I swallowed hard. "But I know the fallout is probably going to suck."

"I'd love to say it won't be as bad as you think. With my dad involved, though…"

"Yeah. I know."

We were quiet for a long moment. Then he nudged the inside of my ankle with the toe of his shoe. "I'm glad you did it."

I searched his eyes.

He smiled, and it was a softer, friendlier expression than those teasing grins he'd been throwing me all night. "You took a huge risk to stand up for people like us. It wasn't just an empty gesture or lip service, you know? You knew going into it that there would be blowback, but you did it anyway, which means that all the queer fans who were in the stands tonight got to feel seen. That's not a small thing, you know?"

Swallowing hard, I nodded. "I'm glad the other guys followed suit, though."

"Me too. But someone had to take the first step, and it took some serious balls to do that." He nudged my foot again, this time running his up the inside of my leg. "Just… don't think it went unnoticed, you know?"

I almost didn't understand the words because the touch of his shoe was scrambling my brain. Fortunately, I caught up, and I managed a smile. "Thanks."

We shifted to lighter subjects after that, and all the while, my foot and the inside of my calf itched with the absence of that fleeting contact. God, I wanted to touch him. Really touch him. Every time he bit his lip, I wanted to know what his mouth tasted like. Every time he traced his fingers down the side of his glass, I wanted them on my back or—

Fuck. I was so losing it over him. Maybe because it was just more pleasant to drool over him than imagine my future after tonight. Or maybe because I was still feeling a little spicy and rebellious after my admittedly career-derailing move in the locker room. I didn't usually have this much courage with someone I'd just met, but why not run with it while it lasted?

Especially since… oh, hell. This was not one-sided.

I kept holding his gaze longer than was professional or platonic, and he held mine right back. When I leaned over the edge of the table, closing some of the space between us, he did the same, and oh, fuck me, his eyes absolutely flicked toward my lips more than once… same as mine kept flicking toward his.

He was the first to actually make contact beyond nudging my foot under the table. I completely lost track of our conversation when he casually but boldly rested his hand on my forearm. Then it was gone as he reached for his glass instead. A few minutes later, he did it again, frying my brain just like the first time.

And a little while after that, with my heart absolutely slamming into my ribs, I laughed at something he said and nudged his wrist with the back of my hand. The way his eyes narrowed and his lips curled—fuck, it was almost predatory, and my whole body was on fire with need.

The second time, I was more deliberate about it, putting my hand more decisively over his forearm just like he'd done earlier. Christian exhaled, and I thought a little shiver went through him. He went for his drink as if he needed the cold, not the alcohol.

Goddamn, was he as into this as I was? Because every signal said he was.

And I could've done this subtle—and not-so-subtle—flirting all damn night, but unfortunately, we couldn't stay much longer. The bar closed at two, and we didn't want to keep the employees past the ends of their shifts.

"Guess we should get out of here," I said hoarsely as the staff started putting up chairs at other tables.

Christian looked around. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess we, uh…" He bit his lip as he made eye contact again.

It wasn't until after we'd settled the bill that he spoke again, presumably finishing the thought he'd cut off. As we pulled on our jackets, he met my gaze, his eyes narrow and smoldering. Then he made a not-at-all-subtle gesture of raking his eyes up and down my body. "So, um… My condo is a couple of blocks from here. Not much of a walk." He tipped his head toward the street and flicked up one eyebrow.

I gulped. "Uh." The Orcas had practice tomorrow. So did the Rainiers. Whether I got called up or sent down, I had to be at one rink or the other at nine. It was already almost two.

But those eyes… those lips…

I licked my own lips. "Sure. Yeah. I can walk you home."

He laughed softly. "Such a gentleman. Let's go."

The thing about Seattle was that a walk of "a couple of blocks" didn't always tell the whole story. If it was north-south in downtown, it was probably fine. But east-west, or any direction in some of the other neighborhoods? That could get dicey. Not because the streets were dangerous—they were just fucking steep.

As we stepped out of the bar, I had visions of us trudging up a near vertical hill while I was at half-mast and losing my damned mind. I was seriously debating if it was too cold for us to just step into an alley and start undoing zippers.

I was pleasantly surprised, however, to realize we were on a blessedly flat stretch of road. The only slope was the very gently decline into the condo's underground parking garage, and then we were in the elevator.

Oh, thank God. We're almost—

The doors hadn't even closed before Christian cupped my face in both hands and kissed me. We both stumbled, staggering back until I hit the wall, and I wrapped my arms around him.

Holy shit. I'd encountered some good kissers in my life, but Christian? I'd had concussions that didn't make the world list and spin the way this man's kiss did. He was explorative without being invasive, hungry without being too demanding. His body fit perfectly against mine, and the way his fingers slid through my hair sent goose bumps down my spine. Oh my God, I wanted him.

The ground jerked slightly beneath my feet. Then there was a quiet ding.

Before I could make sense of anything, Christian broke the kiss and grabbed my hand. "Let's go."

Go? Go where?

Ooh. Right. Elevator. Condo.

Bedroom.

I followed him, somehow managing to keep my feet under me, and he fumbled with his keys at the door. I was tempted to slide a hand over his ass or kiss the back of his neck or something, just to wind up him, but that would only delay us getting into his condo and out of our clothes.

"Stupid fucking—" He huffed. Then the lock finally clicked, and he shoved the door open. "Thank you. Jesus Christ."

He let me into his condo. As soon as I'd crossed the threshold, he grabbed on to me just like he had in the elevator, and just like that, we were kissing again. Hungrily. Greedily. I managed to kick the door shut, and then I nudged him back until his shoulders met the wall. He whimpered as I kissed him deeper and harder. His fingers ran through my hair. His hard-on rubbed mine through our clothes. His tongue teased mine as his little moans made my knees weak.

When I went for his throat, he murmured, "Holy shit…"

"I want you so bad," I mumbled against his neck. "I… God…" I rutted against him, driving moans from both of us.

"M-me too." He dragged his fingers up my back. Then he purred, "You know, it took some serious balls to stand up to him like that."

Serious balls? Stand up to—

Oh. Right. My mind had gone blank and the whole evening had disappeared, but I remembered now. And he'd mentioned it in the bar, but there was something different about his tone this time.

"Seemed like… Seemed like the right thing to do." I swallowed. "Standing up for us."

"Uh-huh. It was." Christian bit his lip. Then he slid his hand over my crotch, and I shivered so hard I almost lost my balance. Grinning, he said, "For the record, I'd have hooked up with you in a heartbeat anyway, but after tonight? Well…" He nudged me back a little and started undoing my pants. "I want to rock your fucking world."

And then he went to his knees and, right there in his living room, did exactly that.