2. Smitty

My fingers strayed to my split lip as my mouth curled into a pirate's smile. That little fucker. What d'ya know?

And this was his dad. The dude was hot.

I arched my brow and nodded. "Good uppercut."

Hot Dad laughed. "I think he got a lucky swing in, but according to my friend, Jake'll be the one waking up with a shiner in the morning. He's not usually a fighter. You must have really pissed him off."

I pointed at my chest and tried on my best innocent wide-eyed expression. "Me?"

He waved dismissively. "I don't want to know. I've heard the smack talk on the ice can range from disgusting to ridiculous and everything in between."

"True. I couldn't tell you what I said anyway," I replied honestly. "Probably something rude and I should probably be ashamed, but hey…I'm a real asshole on the ice. Ask anyone."

"Well, you're a gentleman off the ice." He gestured at his rental meaningfully. "Thank you very much for your help. I appreciate it…Smitty. May I call you that?"

"It's my name, so…sure."

"I'm Bryson. Bryson Milligan." He offered his hand again and pulled it away as if realizing we'd already done the handshake dance.

"Nice to meet you."

I'd like to claim I had no idea why I was still standing around making small talk, but I knew the answer. It just surprised the fuck out of me. I hadn't felt a strong physical attraction to a man in years. I'd sort of wondered if my bi side had gone dormant…till now.

See, Bryson Milligan wasn't just hot, he was…stunning—like a silver fox on steroids, mega good-looking, spank bank material, wowza hot. You know what I'm sayin'? He had high cheekbones, short dark hair threaded with silver, a lightly-bearded square jaw, and a ready smile that made his blue eyes twinkle and shrouded him with a jovial aura. He seemed friendly and approachable…and very sexy. It wasn't like me to gush, but Bryson was the kind of handsome you couldn't help noticing.

He was worthy of a double or triple take regardless of where you put yourself on a sexual spectrum. In spite of my dry spell with men, I was definitely bi. Once upon a time, I'd fucked men on the regular and loved it. And now the part of me I'd begun to think was the stuff of college antics zinged to life, rooting my feet to the cement.

Which was stupid 'cause nothing was going to happen, obviously.

Why not?

Oh, come on. Number one, the guy was undoubtedly straight. And numbers two, three, four, and five, he was that punk-ass kid's dad. Even I knew it was in poor form to flirt with anyone's parent.

Shit. Hot Dad was still talking…

"You too. And good luck with the rest of your season. Toronto is the team to beat," Bryson commented amicably, jingling his car keys. "Although…I think I'm supposed to be mad that you goaded my kid into violence in a well-timed campaign to defeat the mighty Scorpions."

"Hey, he started it." I wasn't sure that was true, but Bryson smiled and that was all that mattered. Oh, boy.Time to move along, Smitty. "Good luck with the car."

"It should be easy from here. I'm checking in at the Lakeshore Hotel and heading straight for the bar." He made a drinking motion and stepped aside with an awkward chuckle. "I hear a martini calling my name."

"Cool. Our team is staying there tonight. Maybe I'll see you."

Bryson did one of those cartoon head-swivels and damn, I couldn't blame him.

Who the actual fuck was running my mouth?

Fifteen minutes ago, I'd left my teammates with a halfhearted thumbs-up at their standard invite to come out for a beer, but they all knew the chances of me joining them for a night of carousing were slim to none. I had no interest in getting shit-faced with a bunch of twentysomethings.

The only thing I wanted after a high-intensity game was to be covered in ice packs followed by warm compresses and a handful of ibuprofen. Christ, my body ached in places I didn't know I could hurt. Dulling the pain with alcohol didn't work the way it used to, and waking up sore and hungover was borderline masochistic.

But a beer with Bryson didn't sound so bad.

No, no, no.Quit flirting, dumbass.

Stay focused. Ice packs and Advil, ice packs and Advil.

"Really?" Bryson tilted his chin. "That's great. I'd love to buy you a drink."

I stepped aside and gave a noncommittal shrug. "Maybe I'll see you there. If not…have a good night."

Now that, my friends, was one weak-ass exit, but whatever. I made myself walk away. Hey, I'd done a good deed and won some much-needed karma points. It was time to return to my regularly scheduled life and tend to my beat-up body.

I used the side entrance at the hotel to avoid any potential awkward run-ins with Bryson or my party-animal teammates and hustled up three flights of stairs, opening the door to 321.

One of the sweet perks of being the old guy was that I hadn't shared a room in two seasons. After years of cohabitating with snoring jocks on the road, the silence was remarkably soothing. It had taken me a while to get here, but I liked my own company now. Talk about a minor miracle.

I ordered a cheeseburger and a fuckton of ice from room service, ran a cold bath, and downed a few Advil. An hour later, I felt…vaguely human.

Sure, I was still sore, but it was my usual tolerable level of ouch, which was miles better than the postgame supersized helping. I snapped the elastic on a fresh pair of boxer briefs, slipped a clean tee over my head and traded texts with a few inebriated teammates for kicks, then settled against my pillow with the remote control. Heaven.

Well…not quite.

Suddenly, I was restless as fuck. My knee was bugging me, and tonight's NHL highlights were kind of boring. I tried watching Jeopardy, but the contestants were bozos, so I turned off the TV and thought about picking up a book or doing a deep dive on TikTok. Lord knew I could lose hours chuckling at animal hijinks.

That didn't appeal to me, though. I just…

Oh, screw it.

I wiggled into my jeans, shoved my shoes and socks on, and took a quick peek at my reflection in the full-length mirror near the door. I looked normal-ish. I needed a haircut and my lip was fucked from the kid's lucky punch, but it was one drink.

Or not. It was getting late, and Hot Dad probably wouldn't be there anyway.

But he was.

And wow, Bryson Milligan was even hotter under the bar light.

I studied Bryson's profile for a beat, admiring his chiseled features and proud posture. His gaze was fixed on an ESPN highlight reel as he traced his thumb on the stem of a martini glass and picked at a couple of lonely fries on a plate streaked with ketchup.

He'd been here for a while.

I hopped on the barstool next to his and ordered a beer, nodding in his direction. "You look familiar."

Bryson jolted as though he'd been deep in thought, but a moment later, a sweet smile spread like wildfire across his handsome face. Fuck…me. My dick swelled, my palms went clammy, and there was a decent chance my cheeks were pink.

Yikes. That was an extreme reaction.

"Smitty the fabulous flat-fixer! Imagine meeting you here. That beer is on me," he told the bartender, tapping his glass to order another martini before twisting toward me. "I didn't think I'd see you again. But I did see your teammates. They piled into a huge van an hour ago like a band of conquering heroes in search of their rightful spoils."

Uh-oh.

"How many martinis do you have under your belt?" I teased, gesturing to the fresh cocktail the bartender slid in front of him.

"This is number three…or four. I think." He squinted, raking his teeth over his bottom lip.

I sipped the froth from my beer and willed my cock to behave. There would be no poppin' wood in public. No way, no how.

"Whoa, you went big."

"Meh, it's not as scandalous as it sounds. I've nursed those babies while I enjoyed a huge cheeseburger and a pile of fries," he reported, pushing his empty plate away.

"I had the same meal. Minus pink ketchup."

Bryson snort-laughed. "Don't tell me you're not a fan of the classic ketchup and ranch dressing combo."

I gave an all-body shiver and contorted my facial expression to pure horror. "It's…okay."

"No way, it's amazing. I rarely eat fries, so when I do I make sure to pig out in style." He nudged my elbow as if we were a couple of old pals. "So…no bar-hopping for you? I'm a little surprised. That was a nice win."

"Definitely, but I don't bounce back the way I used to. I celebrated with an ice bath, a shit-ton of ibuprofen…and a burger." I raised my glass in a mock toast, gazing briefly at the flat-screen behind the bar. "The Red Wings are killing the Sabres. Sweet."

"Detroit fan?"

"Born and raised. It's a prerequisite. Who's your team?" I asked, hoping my conversation game wasn't too rusty.

"Philly. Born and raised."

"Ahh."

Okay, and now, I was officially out of words. Fuck, why had I come downstairs?

This was stupid; I was stupid. I didn't know how to talk to men like Bryson. He looked like a banker or a lawyer—the type of guy who was comfortable in a suit and tie. That was so not me, it wasn't even funny. I was the player who'd sneak out of arenas, hightailing it to my truck to avoid the hassle of changing in and out of a suit that made me feel like an impostor.

I still rode the bus with the team most of the time and I wore the suits if required, but I wriggled out of the ritual whenever I had the chance. Like tonight.

"How long have you played for Toronto?"

"Ten years," I replied, eyes fixed on the flat-screen.

Bryson whistled. "Really? Isn't it kind of unusual to stay with one team for that long nowadays? Seems like being traded multiple times throughout a career is the norm."

"Not necessarily. It's different for everyone. I played for Detroit, then Vegas before landing in Toronto. I like it there. Management takes care of their players, and the coaching staff is top-notch. And…they like me." I winked and took another sip.

"I'm sure they do," he agreed conversationally. "I heard you were retiring this year. Is that true?"

"Yeah, I thought I'd be bummed about it, but my body is begging for a break. I played with a torn meniscus for half of last season, and that should have been the end. I guess I wasn't ready to quit. Now, I don't feel like I have a choice. I'm not sad, though. I have a plan in place and hobbies and shit to keep me busy."

"Oh, yeah? What are your hobbies?"

"That's like a bad date question, man," I teased.

He smacked my arm and turned a pale shade of pink. "I'm curious for the sake of curiosity—nothing more. Jake plays guitar, one of his best friends on the Scorpions builds Legos, and another player he's close to is an avid hiker. Hobbies are good."

"What're yours?"

"Meh, I don't have a good one. I jog." He twisted the stem of his glass. "Does that count?"

"It counts if you say so."

Bryson smiled. "Well, don't keep me guessing. What's yours?"

"I build stuff," I said with a shrug.

"Like what?"

"Anything. Bookshelves, tables, chairs. I'm good at fixing things, too. Like flat tires."

He hummed in agreement. "Thank God you are. Who taught you?"

"My dad was in construction. He was a plumber, actually, but he used to drag me along to job sites when I was a kid. The guy he worked for hired me for short gigs…if I didn't have practice or a game. I liked it. My dad didn't want me to like it, though. He was all about having a kid who played pro hockey." My tone sounded oddly bitter to my ears, and it didn't make sense. I'd wanted to play hockey as much as my dad had wanted it for me.

Bryson perceptively dropped the family tangent. "I heard you played for the NHL a couple of times, too. That must have been exciting."

I lifted a brow. "You looked me up?"

He wrinkled his nose. "No, but your name came up after my son pushed you into the boards and tried to clobber you."

I chuckled heartily. "I can only imagine."

"I was with some friends tonight—one of whom was Jake's former coach. He takes it personally when his former players forget their training." Bryson set his glass on the bar. "I think you know Riley. He mentioned that he was hoping to lure you to coach at our new high school in Elmwood."

"Elmwood," I repeated. "Oh, Riley Thoreau. Yeah, of course I know him. He was at the game tonight?"

"Yeah, Riley's sister lives in Rochester so every once in a while, I talk him and JC into flying to Syracuse for a quick trip."

"Cool. Wow…hey, I wish I'd known. It would have been nice to see him. Not like we're buds or anything, but I got nothing but respect for that man. Talk about a sweet career," I commented appreciatively. "He ended it the right way, too. On his terms. I've heard great things about that camp he helps Vinnie Kiminski run. It sounds like Elmwood is the place to be."

"It is! It's incredibly beautiful. Think of your quintessential small town—rolling green hills and a skyline dotted with church steeples, winding roads, and a lush forest. We have a quaint main street that boasts some of the best places to eat or grab a cup of coffee. And of course, we have hockey. Do yourself a favor and visit sometime."

I narrowed my eyes. "Do you work for the travel bureau or something?"

Bryson snickered. "No, I'm a real estate agent. I make my living singing Elmwood's praises and making an average hundred-year-old three-bedroom house sound like the best thing since sliced bread."

"Best thing since sliced bread? Dude. Please take this the right way, but that sounds like…dad-speak."

"Dad here." He raised his hand and grinned. "And I've got the jokes to prove it."

I waved in mock surrender. "Oh, no. Don't do it."

"Which kind of bear is the most condescending? A pan-duh. Get it?"

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep a straight face. "Yeah, that was awful."

"I've got more," he assured me, propping his foot on the rung of my stool. "Why are elevator jokes so good and so classic?"

"Dunno, but I've a bad feeling you're going to tell me."

"They work on many levels. Get it?"

I burst out laughing. "Yep, got it. Another doozy. Stop while you're ahead. I almost feel sorry for your kid now. Did you torture him with those at the dinner table when he was growing up?"

Bryson beamed. "I still do."

"Evil. No wonder he's turned to violence."

"That's hockey. Not dad jokes. I like to think I'm a stable, nonjudgmental, friendly port in the midst of the hectic world he's part of now." Bryson focused on the halftime report for a moment, his right elbow resting on the bar. "You know, I've had three and a half martinis so I'm probably oversharing here, but I have to admit, I'm bummed Jake isn't getting a traditional college experience. Sure, he's taking classes in his spare time, but he's missing out on so much. Constant travel, grueling workouts, and games like tonight where he's going up against men twice his size. He loves the sport and I know he's lucky, but he won't get these years back. I hope he never regrets it."

"He won't." I inclined my chin toward the bartender for another round.

"You say that with conviction." Bryson set his hand over his glass and shook his head.

I hoped that didn't mean he was going anywhere soon, but yeah…a fourth martini was asking for trouble.

"'Cause I know what I'm talking about. He's in the pros. They don't let just anyone play, for fuck's sake. You gotta be very fucking good. He's young and he's got some tricks to learn, but if he had an ounce of regret, it would show."

"How?"

"He'd lose his game and eventually, it would stay lost." I tapped my temple, thanking the bartender for the fresh beer before continuing. "Everyone has bad games and deals with self-doubt. That's life. It's the mental fortitude that keeps you going. You have to fuckin' love what you do and be willing to sacrifice the things other people take for granted. He's doing that right now. Every time he straps on those skates and takes the ice for his team, he makes a choice to be the best damn player he can be."

"True, but?—"

"Dedication, drive, sweat, blood, and tears are all part of the process. Don't worry about him. So his path is different from yours, so what? He's gonna be just fine."

Bryson's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, his blue eyes fixed on me as he shredded his lower lip between his teeth. I got the impression he was holding a well of emotion at bay, and it freaked me out. I ran my speech through my head, wondering what I'd said wrong, when he set his hand over mine and squeezed it.

"Thank you. I think I really needed to hear that."

"Sure."

Sure?Geez, I was hopeless. The guy was practically bleeding on the bar and all I could come up with was…sure. Yeah, I was done peopling for the night. I buried my nose in my glass like a coward, chugging half my beer.

My companion seemed unfazed. He sipped the dregs of his martini, flitting his gaze between me and the flat-screen. "Not to get heavy here, but I know what regret feels like and…I don't want my son to repeat my mistakes."

"I didn't think you played hockey." I gave him a sideways once-over, trying desperately not to linger on any body part for too long. Not easy to do. He was in great shape.

Bryson smiled. "I didn't."

"Well, I still don't think you get a say in your kid's mistakes. He's going to make his own, whether you approve or not."

"Did you make mistakes?" He coughed and flicked his wrist. "That was weirdly personal. Sorry, I?—"

"Are you fuckin' kidding me? Of course, I did. And I have a lot of regrets that can be tied directly to my profession."

"Oh."

"That's me, though. I've never been great at compartmentalizing, you know? I'm all in. That's what every coach wants to hear. My ex-wife liked that sentiment too, but…" I sighed. "I'm still playing hockey and I'm no longer married, so you can see how that went."

"I'm sorry. Divorce is…awful."

Shit. This had definitely gotten too personal, but I was the one who was curious now.

Okay, fine. There was nothing sudden about it. I'd been curious about this man from the moment he'd shoved his hand at me, thanking me profusely as if I were some kind of savior. Me. What a fuckin' joke. One good deed did not a savior make. Confucius? Nah, don't quote me.

"You're divorced?" I modulated my tone to casual bordering on vague disinterest.

Bryson nodded, his lips twisting as he rubbed his thumb along the stem of his empty glass. "Yeah, I married my college sweetheart and…fucked things up by belatedly realizing I wasn't going to be able to pray the gay away."

My jaw dropped.

"You're gay?"

He chuckled softly, his eyes bright with easy humor. "Don't worry. It's not contagious."

"No, no. I-I'm not…" I took a sip to shut my mouth and give my brain a chance to catch up. Unfortunately, when it did, I blurted, "Gay is good. It's all good, man."

Okay. Wow.That was uninspired, but it was better than telling the truth.

Bryson knew who I was. Not that I was famous—I wasn't. However, as a soon-to-be retiring AHL defenseman who'd been in the league for years, news about my sexual orientation being blasted from the dad of the kid who'd taken a swing at me wasn't how I wanted to end my career.

Whatever. I was suddenly itchy and uncomfortable, unsure what to say, yet aware that on some level, I'd been…flirting with him. Not well, mind you, but the fact that I was here at all instead of in my room channel-surfing indicated that I was interested in Bryson. And he was gay.

Didn't matter. I had no intention of doing anything about it. But still…

Bryson tilted his chin. "Thanks. I think so too."

"Do you—are you…married or dating or…" Awkward, awkward, awkward.

His eyes twinkled as he shook his head. "Nope. I'm single. Very single."

"Me too. And I like it that way," I added hastily. And then…overshared with gusto. "I haven't been on a date with anyone in forever. Don't need the complications. That's probably a bad attitude, but I've been married, divorced, and now I'm dealing with chronic pain and…I really don't venture outside of my hockey bubble anymore. Just as well. Relationships cloud my focus."

Jesus, was I a good time or what? The crazy thing was that I never talked about my nondescript sex life or my grueling regimen with pain management. And I never ever talked about the D word.

Yet here I was.

Bryson seemed unbothered.

"I understand. My focus has been Jake for so many years that I barely remember who I was before I became a parent." He shot a searching glance my way. "Do you have kids?"

I shook my head and slugged down the rest of my beer. "No."

"Hmm. Becoming a father was the best thing that ever happened to me. It's an incredible honor to teach and help mold this little person into a human who's so much more talented than his mom and I put together."

"I bet," I replied. "Are you friendly with your ex?"

"Oh, yeah. Piper and I are good friends." He made a funny face. "It took a while to get there, but we decided early on that no matter what was going on with us, Jake came first. And the only way to ensure we were doing a decent job of it was to communicate. If we'd done that earlier on in our relationship, we could have saved ourselves a lot of trauma. Then again, if we'd done anything differently, we wouldn't have Jake, I wouldn't have moved to Elmwood and gotten immersed in hockey, which means I wouldn't be sitting here telling you way more than you ever wanted to know about my life. So thank you, Grey Goose."

"Cheers." I chuckled and tapped my glass against his. "Look at you…drinkin' the good stuff. Real estate must be a sweet gig in Oakwood."

"Elmwood, smartass. And yes, I do pretty damn well there, if I do say so myself." He flashed a smug grin, gesturing to the bartender that he was ready to close the tab. "It took the town a couple of years to warm up to me, though. I was the big-city realtor they assumed was a huckster. Piper is from Elmwood so that helped, but the fact that we were divorced put me back to square one in their eyes. I had to prove myself."

"How does a realtor prove himself? Throw in complimentary hot tubs? Offer free massages for a year?"

"No," he snorted. "By being the friendliest motherfucker that town has ever met."

"How so?"

"I volunteer wherever I can. I used to ref youth hockey games and I emceed Friday night Bingo for years till Kathy Anderson took over. I still deliver groceries to elderly citizens and?—"

"Are you fuckin' with me? Sounds like you live in a fictional town from a 1950s sitcom. Or The Twilight Zone."

"Reasonably accurate," he conceded. "Just add hockey."

"And dad jokes." I eased one hip off the stool and stood slowly before distributing my weight on my sore limbs.

Bryson snickered, bumping my shoulder as we walked out of the bar together. "Yes! Why did the lobster blush?"

"No…don't," I pleaded, putting my hand up like a stop sign.

"It saw the ocean's bottom. I know, I know. It's terrible," he agreed as we neared the bank of elevators. "I've got one more. Why do some couples go to the gym?"

"Please don't tell me."

"They want their relationship to work out." He waggled his brows. "Work…out. Genius, huh?"

I fixed him with a deadpan stare and didn't look away till the doors slid open. He hooted like a loon, grasping his side in hysterics.

I liked this guy. He was sexy and adorable and— No.

"What floor are you on?" I asked, pushing number three.

His gaze flitted to the lone light on the elevator panel. "Same as you."

Silence filled the car as the doors closed. After our hour-long easy repartee at the bar, the air felt thick with the heady scent of desire.

Okay, that was probably just me. I wanted him.

There. I said it.

I wanted to cage Bryson against the elevator wall and shove my tongue in his mouth. I wanted to taste him, undo the buttons on his pressed shirt, and run my fingers down his chest. I wondered if he was hairy or smooth, cut or uncut. I wondered if he had any tattoos. I wondered if he manscaped or?—

Ding.

Bryson darted his gaze my way, there and gone in an instant, as if he didn't want to get caught. Was he checking me out too? Was he thinking the same thing? My cock swelled in my jeans at the very idea.

But the doors opened and he was gone.

And I was embarrassing myself.

I exhaled before meeting Bryson in the corridor in front of 355, my key card in hand as I prepared my exit speech and willed my libido to chill the fuck out. Easier said than done. He was transmitting signals I didn't know how to read. Something in his eyes and the tilt of his chin felt like an invitation, but that had to be wishful thinking.

This is not happening, Smitty. This man is out of your league and then some. Not to mention, a bad idea. Say good-bye and get the fuck out.

"Uh, I'm just down the hall. That way." I pointed unnecessarily, tapping my key card on my palm. "Safe travels tomorrow and thanks for the beers. It was nice to…"

My voice trailed off. I was rambling and Bryson was staring at me and—no, he was staring at my mouth, clenching his key card like a flashlight on a tricky expedition through a dark tunnel. Maybe he was nervous too. Or drunk.

No, maybe a little tipsy, but he was still sharp and coherent and sexy and?—

"Oh, fuck it," he growled, grabbing a handful of my tee and crashing our lips together.

He kissed me.

Bryson kissed me.

It took me a moment or two to catch up. Yeah, I wanted this, but was this really happening? Was he really kissing me?

Fuck yes, and I liked it.

I was too stunned to participate with conviction at first. His lips were soft yet firm, and the scratch of his bearded jaw felt so foreign. But so good.

Bryson pulled back slightly to lick the seam of my mouth, and I didn't hesitate this time. I opened for him, whimpering like a kitten when he pushed inside, gliding his tongue along mine. One tentative stroke in and the last thread of restraint snapped. I clasped his face between my hands and took over, devouring him like a starving man.

I wasn't known for subtlety on or off the ice. I followed my instincts. My instincts urged me to tackle, pounce, take everything he was willing to give, and return it tenfold.

We sucked face in the middle of the hallway, nipping, licking, and pawing at each other. Anyone who'd opened their door or hopped off the elevator, including one of my teammates, would get a show, and I didn't give a flying fuck. I was too far gone, lost in a haze of desire I hadn't felt in years. So many years.

Bryson broke for air and pushed out of my arms. His nostrils flared as he stepped toward his door.

"Uh, I'm sorry." I swallowed hard, nearly choking on a wave of intense need. "I don't?—"

"I kissed you," he intercepted in a gravelly tone.

"Yeah, well…I kissed you back."

"That was…hot. But are you…bi or?—"

"Yes." My voice sounded hoarse and rough. "I am. It's been a while, but I guess it doesn't go away."

He studied me as if weighing his words, his gaze lingering on my mouth, then traveling all over my body. He had to notice my boner. My poor cock strained my zipper like a champ, begging for release. Bryson bit his lower lip and cleared his throat. Yep, he definitely noticed.

"I want to invite you inside," he rasped.

"Do it."

He blinked. "We shouldn't."

"I know."

"But…if we're never going to see each other again, it won't matter. No one will know. No one can know."

One thousand percent agreed.

"No one will ever know." I crowded him against the door, running my finger along his spine and cupping his ass. "Invite me in."

Bryson moaned in response and wordlessly grappled with his key card.

Two seconds later, we tumbled into his room.