8. Christian

Christian

This season

Even though I'dwatched them interact in the locker room, I still stared as Theo and the new guy clomped past me on the way the ice. They were chatting away in rapid-fire Russian.

I couldn't believe Theo spoke Russian. Fluently, too, from the sound of it; he spoke with ease and confidence. There were none of the uncertain pauses or moments of intense concentration that I'd expect from someone who still had to work to speak a new language. Grekov's translator was walking with them, but he wasn't saying anything, so Theo must've been holding his own.

Yeah, I was definitely putting them together in the locker room, and no, I absolutely didn't get a little flutter in my chest as I watched them. Because it absolutely wasn't cute as hell to see Grekov light up at the sound of someone effortlessly speaking his own language, and it wasn't at all sweet or endearing to watch Theo make sure he had someone to talk to on the team.

Oh my God, they're adorable.

What if they started flirting in Russian? Would I even notice? Because I'd noticed with all the Russian speakers over the years that inflection and tone could be hard to read for someone who didn't know the language. One staff member a couple of seasons ago had intervened when he'd seen two teammates arguing in the hallway. Turned out they were just having a very animated conversation.

So if Grekov and Theo started flirting, I probably wouldn't even notice unless one of them blushed or something.

And what the fuck does it matter if they do flirt? Idiot.

I shook myself and headed down the runway to take my place on the bench for practice. Some days, I was busy the entire time—replacing skate blades, adjusting visors, fixing goalie helmets. Other days, everyone's gear did what it was supposed to do without breaking. Those days were deceptive. It made for an easy practice, but it often meant something was going to wait until the game to break. If I didn't have to do much right now, I'd spend the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon scrutinizing every strap, skate, and screw to see if something was about to fail.

Today was somewhere in the middle. Almost everyone's gear was working the way it was supposed to, with the exception of Yanni's mask (which needed a new strap midway through practice). It was pretty quiet on the equipment front, which meant tonight would probably be a shitshow.

It also meant that, for the time being, I could mostly hang back and watch the guys practice. As it often did lately, my gaze kept sliding to one player in particular. Watching him skate. Watching him shoot.

Today, watching him talking with Grekov in between drills, both of them laughing and carrying on as easily as the guys chatting in English. Though Grekov was a defenseman, he stuck close to Theo through practice whenever they weren't actually skating. Any time one of the coaches was explaining a drill or something, Theo was leaning in close, speaking quietly to Grekov, who was nodding along.

I couldn't help smiling. I'd seen a lot of players come through here who spoke little to no English. They picked it up eventually, but it took time, and even when they did, sometimes they still felt left out. I always felt bad for the guys when they joined us at bars or whatever, and I could just see it in their eyes that they really wanted to be part of the conversation, but they couldn't. The pop culture references. The slang. The figures of speech. It had to be a lot.

And of course, the heavy accents and even heavier intoxication didn't make anyone any more intelligible. I still remembered one outing a year or two ago when we'd had a Finn, Korhonen, who was just starting to get the hang of English. We'd all been drinking, and Halko had been absolutely shitfaced. After Halko had been carrying on for a while, Korhonen looked at me and said, "I thought I was getting good at English, but…" He'd waved a frustrated hand at Halko.

I'd laughed and clapped his shoulder, and I'd had to fight hard not to slur myself as I said, "Oh, no, you're good." Gesturing at Halko, I'd said, "He's so fucking drunk, none of us can understand him."

Korhonen had been visibly relieved, but not nearly as much as Grekov, who'd lucked into a pair of teammates who spoke his language, even if one of them would only be here for so long.

I'd once heard that the way someone could tell if they were fluent enough to speak like a native was if they could tell a joke and if they could understand when someone else told one. From the way Grekov and Theo kept making each other chuckle… Yeah. Theo definitely spoke like a native, and that seemed to put Grekov seriously at ease.

And no, it didn't make me jealous.

Not in the slightest.

Not at all.

"Hey." Marty bumped my elbow. "You trying to see how much that strap can take?"

"Trying to—" I looked down, and I realized I'd been playing with the strap I'd removed from Yanni's goalie mask. And by "playing with it," I meant, twisting it tighter and tighter between my fingers.

Face hot, I relaxed my fingers and let the elastic unwind itself. "Nah. I'm…" I couldn't find an explanation, so I just shrugged it away and cleared my throat. "As soon as they're done, I'm shuffling stalls around." I glanced at Marty and pretended not to notice his puzzled expression. "Mathis is fluent in Russian, so I'm going to put him and Grekov next to Rusanov."

"Oh. Okay. No problem."

Fortunately, he either decided to drop the subject of what I was doing with the strap, or he got distracted by something else (which was more likely; the work of an equipment manager was never done for very long). Either way, he let it go and disappeared back into the locker room.

On the ice, the players wrapped up some special teams work, and then the offensive coach wanted to run the forwards and defensemen through some drills. The goalies got a much-deserved break after twenty minutes of fighting off the power play, and they both skated up to the bench for some water.

Easton, the backup goalie, pulled off his mask and wiped his face. "Okay, am I concussed? Or did I just see Mathis talking to the new guy in Russian?"

"No, you're not concuss—well, you might be, but those two chatting in Russian? Yes."

He flipped me off, probably for the concussion remark, then turned to watch the other players. "Well, that's good. Especially with Bondarev still out."

I nodded. Bondarev was on the second defensive pairing, and he'd be out for the rest of the season thanks to hip surgery. And Klokov had taken a leave of absence for personal reasons; no one knew if or when he'd be back. So for a Russian speaker who struggled with English, that left Rusanov… and Theo.

Theo, who was already mercilessly attractive.

Theo, who was the last man I had any business wanting.

Theo, who was putting a new player at ease just by giving him someone to shoot the shit with in his own language.

I suppressed a string of curses that might've even made some hockey players wince.

I wanted him. Plain and simple.

But if I valued either of our careers—and I did—I couldn't fucking touch him.

I was alwaysrestless before a game, but never like this. Sometimes I wondered if it was just the team's energy rubbing off on me; Marty theorized that most hockey players had some variety of ADHD, so there was a lot of energy in that locker room. Especially if they'd all had to sit through a meeting or review film or something. When they were all gearing up and champing at the bit to hit the ice, the room damn near vibrated with their collective itch to move.

He might've been right. About them, and also about it rubbing off on me. Mostly, though, it was the pressure of my job. Not a bad thing by any means—I loved what I did, stress and all. Maybe I was a little like the players in that regard. I was always wound up and ready to go, go, go. There was always something for the equipment managers to do, and when we hit a lull—which we usually did in the hour or so before a game if we'd done our jobs—it made me twitchy. It made me worry I'd missed something, and it also made me want to just get the game going so we could start addressing problems as they came up in between packing and staging gear for a road trip.

I needed the chaos. I thrived on it. The calm before the storm was too calm with too big a storm ahead, and I needed that storm to get here so I could do stuff.

That was my normal, but now the stress felt less like restless excitement and more like… well… stress.

The Rainiers' locker room was my happy place. It was where I did my job, and I did it well. But lately… fuck. My dad stressed me out like always, but he wasn't the issue these days. Not all of it, anyway.

There was a man in that locker room right now. A man whose moans still echoed in my ears after all this time. A man whose eyes occasionally locked on mine and still burned with the same hunger they had when I'd slid my hand into his pants. Goddamn, I wanted him again so damn bad.

I'd been trying to find an outlet for this horniness, but it just wasn't happening. None of the hookup apps were offering up anyone with a prayer of putting Theo out of my mind. I could get an orgasm or three out of it, sure, but I could do that with my hand. I'd be thinking of Theo either way, so what was the point of involving someone else?

And now, here I was, in this locker room with fuck all to do for the next hour and a half. Every skate blade in the building was sharpened, including the spares. Every hole in every jersey, sock, or pants was mended or patched. Every helmet, skate, and piece of protective gear was in working order.

So… fuck it. I needed to get out of here for a bit. If someone needed me, they had my cell.

For now, I wandered the arena's ice level.

I knew this facility like the back of my hand. Every room and closet behind every door. I knew where I was relative to the stands, too; if I walked out to the ice from anywhere, I'd know exactly where I'd pop out, whether it was by the Zamboni gate or a random spot between two sections of seating. It was like a second home to me. Hell, I probably knew it better than I knew my own condo building.

It was cold, shadowy, and familiar down here. Quiet in a way—not many voices or activity, but the hums and vibrations of all the systems that kept the air flowing and the ice frozen.

Usually, a walk through here settled me. It burned off some nervous energy and helped to center my scattering thoughts. By the time I made it back to the locker room, I'd be as calm as I ever was before a game.

Tonight, I'd made three laps and still felt like I was this close to coming unglued.

I found the area where the Zambonis were parked when they were out of use. In a couple of hours, they'd be rumbling to life and making their slow, methodical rounds to resurface the ice. For now, they were silent, tucked into an alcove beside the ice crews' buckets and snow shovels. Both had brightly colored wraps advertising sponsors—a car dealership on one, an investment firm on the other—but the colors were dull and lifeless back here beneath the halfhearted glow of some fluorescent lights.

I'd driven a Zamboni at the practice rink when my dad had coached in the minors when I was a teenager. I kind of missed that. There was something deeply satisfying about turning a scuffed-up sheet of ice into a smooth, shiny surface. If I hadn't scored the gig as an equipment manager, I'd probably still be driving one to this day.

Ah, well. I liked my job. It was more stress, but it was also more money, and it was more satisfying in its own ways.

More frustrating, too, because it meant being in the locker room with the smoking hot hockey player I couldn't fucking touch.

Groaning to myself, I leaned against a Zamboni and rubbed my temples. At least there weren't any cameras back here. The last thing I needed was someone watching me standing here losing my stupid mind and feeling sorry for my stupid self.

It wasn't beneath me at all to crave something I couldn't or shouldn't have, and a hot, gay hockey player was absolutely on that list. Dad had warned me when I took this job that the players on his team were off-limits. So were the farm teams. So were visiting teams. He'd probably blow a gasket if I dated someone playing in a beer league. So, yeah, there was a certain amount of forbidden fruit action going on here. A certain temptation to have what had been explicitly roped off.

But I couldn't make myself believe that was the only thing that kept drawing me to Theo Mathis.

Was the sex really that good, though? Or was I just remembering it fondly because it had been hot and rebellious?

That night with him had been furtive as only one-night stands could be. Feverish and frantic, both of us determined to wring every drop of pleasure we could from the one and only time we'd have each other.

But now he was back. Even if we did say "fuck the rules" and had a rematch, would it be as hot? Would it be as fun?

Probably. Especially because I'd actually get that amazing dick in my ass this time, and—

I swore under my breath. I was so fucking stupid. I was—

Footsteps approached. They tapped against the concrete and echoed off the walls, and I prayed like hell they belonged to Theo at the same time I prayed they didn't. It was the Zamboni drivers, right? It had to be. Who else would be down here?

I looked up right as the interloper turned the corner and came into view, and—

Oh, fuck me.

Theo was dressed in a black Rainiers' hoodie and matching track pants, and he was as unreasonably sexy in those as he was in a suit or his gear.

And from the way he locked eyes with me, he hadn't found me by accident. Sliding his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie, he came a little closer, out of the shadows and into the blanched glow of the overhead lights. Fluorescents weren't flattering for anyone, but they didn't make him any less hot. I didn't imagine there was much that could.

"Uh. Hey." I pushed myself off the Zamboni and slid my hands into my own pockets. "What, um… What are you doing down here?"

He shrugged. "Just going for a walk."

I moistened my lips. "Yeah. Same."

We held each other's gazes. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved.

I shifted my weight. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for the game?"

"Shouldn't you?"

God, the restlessness was going to drive me out of my mind. "Everything's done." I forced a nervous laugh. "Until someone breaks something while they're getting dressed, anyway."

Theo's chuckle was almost soundless, and it didn't last. He dropped his gaze and chewed his lip, but he didn't retreat.

Fuck. Now what?

The fluorescent lights buzzed above us. The ventilation system hummed along with other unseen machinery—probably everything keeping the ice at precisely the right temperature. Elsewhere, voices and movement echoed, but they were all far away, and we were tucked back from the main hallway. No one was stumbling across us in this little alcove with the Zambonis.

Just like Theo hadn't stumbled across me. Because he'd clearly come looking for me, but now that he was here, he didn't seem to remember why. Or maybe he'd lost his nerve? My mouth had gone completely dry and my brain was almost blank except for I want you. That helpful little mantra kept running through my head like a flashing neon sign, as if my mind wanted to catch my mouth off guard and make it say the words out loud.

It was Theo who finally broke the silent standoff. "Listen." He let his shoulders fall as he fixed a plaintive look on me. "I don't want to make it something it isn't, but the last time I was here…" He chewed his lip and furrowed his brow as if he didn't know what to say.

"We can't do it again." Why didn't I sound convinced? "We… shouldn't."

"I know," he whispered. "But it happened. And now we're both here, and…" He shook his head, breaking eye contact.

I studied him, not sure how to read his expression. Did he regret what we'd done before? Hell, probably. He should have. I didn't want to, and in some ways I didn't, but I did regret doing something that had him stressed out and miserable now.

I took a breath. "Do you regret it?"

"No." He didn't even hesitate. "I don't."

I blinked. "You don't?"

"No. Do you?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but hesitated. I hadn't even been able to answer that definitely for myself. Now he wanted me to give him a straight answer? Fuck. Anything I said threatened to either make the tension between us unbearable, or make things unbearably awkward. And we did have to function together to some extent for as long as he was playing for the Rainiers.

But hadn't I also been losing my damned mind ever since that one night we spent together? We'd already crossed into forbidden territory and turned the tension between us up to a nine. Was I really going to make it worse if I told him the God's honest truth?

I swallowed, which took some work. "I don't regret it. I just…" I stared at the concrete between us as I pushed a hand through my hair. "Sometimes I think it was a mistake because now I can't fucking concentrate around you. And other times… Other times, I think the only mistake was not getting your number before you left."

The hitch of his breath was so subtle, I might've imagined it. It might've been a random noise from one of the many systems functioning above and around us. But I didn't think so.

I cautiously met his gaze, and he was staring back at me with wide eyes.

He swept his tongue across his lips. "So we're… on the same page."

"Are we?"

Theo nodded slowly. "I've been kicking myself all this time because I should've gotten your number." He gave a quiet, bitter laugh. "We both knew I was going to be gone the next morning. I, um…" His expression turned sheepish, and now he was the one staring at the concrete as he shyly murmured, "I figured since you didn't ask, you just wanted it to be a one-time thing."

My shoulders sagged. Hadn't I made the same damn assumption? "That's what I thought, too. And I mean… I also knew it was a really, really bad idea." I swallowed. "It still is."

"Yeah. I know." He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "But it's been stuck in my head ever since, and now that I'm here…"

Fuck. My heart was pounding so hard it was almost painful. "So what do we do?"

Theo was quiet for a moment. Then he pushed his shoulders back and looked me right in the eyes. "Maybe we stop frustrating ourselves."

I gulped. "So… hook up again?"

"Why not?" He shrugged as if it were really that simple. "It was fun the first time."

My voice trembled as I said, "It was, but if we get caught, you're fucked as a hockey player. You know that, right?"

"Yeah." He swallowed. "I do." He stepped closer. "But I have a feeling I'm fucked as a hockey player either way. As long as your dad has a hand in things…" He frowned and shook his head. "So why hold back on the things he can't control?"

I… could not argue against that logic. I knew I should. There was a lot on the line for both of us if we were busted together. I didn't want to lose this job, and I also didn't want to be what derailed Theo's hockey career.

But I couldn't get any of that past the tip of my tongue. Especially because Theo was close now. Really close. Close enough I could reach out and touch him. Close enough that when we both exhaled, the faint clouds of our breath mingled in the space between us.

Fuck it.

"God, I want you," I growled as I grabbed the front of his hoodie. I hauled him to me, and Theo met my kiss so readily, so aggressively, he may as well have been the one who'd initiated it. Then he shoved me back against the Zamboni, and my knees and spine went weak because holy fuck, this man was hot.

Pinned between him and the ice resurfacer, at the mercy of the kiss that I'd been dreaming about for months, all my fear and anxiety melted away. Oh, the risks were still there, and I knew we were taking them. I just didn't give a shit. I was too hungry for this man and everything his aggressive kiss both promised and demanded.

Damn it, did we have to do this here? Couldn't we have waited until we were someplace we could start tearing off clothes and going to town on each other? Okay, no. No, there'd been no more waiting. I wanted him and couldn't wait another minute to have his mouth and his touch. The rest…

Well, I couldn't wait for that either, but I didn't have much choice.

Theo touched his forehead to mine and ground against me, his hard-on unmistakable through the soft material of our workout pants. "I don't care what your dad thinks," he panted. "I want you. I've been wanting you for months. What he doesn't know won't hurt us."

I whimpered softly, my knees trembling beneath me. When had anyone—hookup, boyfriend, or anyone in between—ever made me feel so irresistibly desired? And how the hell I could I resist that? Especially when I'd been losing my stupid mind over him already?

"Well…" I swallowed hard and met his gaze. "We could skip going to the bar after the game."

Interested sparked in his eyes. "Yeah? What do you suggest instead?"

"I was thinking we go back to my condo and you fuck me until I cry."

His lips parted and his eyebrows rose. Then he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, exhaling a thin cloud. "Fuuuck."

"What? You don't like that idea?"

"No, I do." He brought his gaze back down to meet mine, his eyes full of fire. "I'm just not sure how I'm going to get through the game when I know I'm gonna be balls deep in your later."

I shivered. "Sorry?"

"Uh-huh. Sure you are." He pulled me in close again. "Honestly, I only had two regrets last time."

"Oh yeah?"

Theo nodded. "One, the part where I didn't get your number. Two?" He rutted his hard dick against mine again. "I never got to fuck that ass of yours."

I whimpered softly, holding on to fistfuls of his hoodie. "God, Theo…"

He claimed another long, bruising kiss. When he relented this time, we were both even more out of breath. "After the game. Please. I can stop and get condoms. I can—"

"I've got them." I licked my lips, almost grazing his. "Haven't needed them in a long time, but I've got them."

He drew back enough to meet my gaze. "You haven't needed them?"

"No." I slid my hands up the smooth front of his hoodie. "I haven't been laid since that night with you."

He blinked. "Really?"

"Mmhmm. What can I say?" I wrapped my arms around his neck. "No one else has turned my head."

Theo's eyes widened. Then he growled into another deep, hungry kiss—one that promised tonight would absolutely be worth all the months of blue balls.

"We should get back to the locker room," he mumbled against my lips. "Gotta… Gotta get ready for the game." He kissed me again anyway.

After a moment, I managed, "We should go. The Zamboni drivers will be…"

He pulled back and glanced past around us as if he'd forgotten where we were. What we were leaning against.

Licking his lips, he met my gaze. As he loosened his embrace, he said, "After the game?"

I grinned. "After the game."