Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
I blink as everyone in the room turns to me.
I really should be more prepared than I am. There are questions I always have ready just in case but having never been called upon, even when I used to yell out with all my energy, I never expect to use them. Most of the time, someone’s asking the questions I have written down anyway. It’s come to a point where I don’t even try to ask anymore because while Sporting Health is reputable, it’s not big.
Now here’s my chance, and Ollie’s giving it to me. Suddenly, all my questions seem lame.
My heart beats erratically. “Beating Pittsburgh in five games, what is the team’s plan for the break until your next series?”
The question is vague, but it’s better that than the permanent one on my list which is to ask management why they think no man has come out in the sport. Asking that would be like slapping Ollie in the face right now.
The coaches say some shit about them studying their upcoming opponents and training, but the whole room knows the team’s first stop is to get utterly hammered tonight. Tomorrow, they’ll be dealing with watching tape and practicing while nursing hangovers.
When the press conference winds down, I send my article off and make my way to wait outside the staff entrance for Jet. After five minutes, I check my phone and realize he’d messaged me during the press conference.
A band had to pull out of a gig at Club Soho so Fallout is covering, which means Jet’s already gone.
I push off the wall just as the door swings open, and Ollie charges out with his gear bag over his shoulder. He stops short when he sees me, and it’s hard to tell what he looks better in: hockey pads, a suit, or just his underwear.
I try not to picture his muscled and tattooed body while Jet and I helped him undress the night of the Toronto game. He was drunk so it feels like an invasion of privacy to jerk off to the memory. Not that I’d do that … daily …
Nope, not me.
“Lost?” Ollie asks and his lips quirk. “Or waiting for me?”
Find words. Any words. “Jet, actually.” I clear my throat. “But he got called to a gig at Club Soho. You heading out with the team?”
Ollie adjusts his bag and stares into the empty parking lot. “Guess they all left without me.”
“Did you want … I mean, if you’re not catching up with them …” What am I doing?
“Did I want to what?”
“Uh, I was gonna go check out Jet’s show. If you wanted to come. With me, I mean.” Where’s a wall when you need to bang your head against one?
“Will there be food? I’m starving.”
I laugh. “Of course, you are. And yes, I think they serve food there.”
“What type of club is it?” His question, innocent enough, is not about the food.
“It’s not a gay bar. Although Jet said when Fallout plays, the crowd seems to be mixed with both het and gay couples. It’s safe enough that people won’t assume anything if you’re spotted there. You know, unless you pull a Matt Jackson and blow someone. Or get blown.”
Ollie chuckles. “I’ll try to keep my mouth and dick to myself.”
“Damn. There goes that fun idea.” Don’t flirt with him, you idiot.
He shakes his head, but his smile remains. “We going or what?”
“You mind if we stop by my place first? I wanna dump”—I hold up my laptop bag—“this.”
“Sure. Can I leave my crap there too? I’ll pick it up later.”
“No problem.”
The trip home is only a small detour, but by the time we get to Club Soho, Ollie has me on edge. All he’s done is sit next to me in a cab. Part of me wishes he didn’t get to shower after the game, because a hockey player after three periods is no rose. Maybe the stench of man sweat would turn me off him.
Who am I kidding? I’m me. That’d probably be worse.
I have a weird kink about locker rooms that I’m sure a psychologist would love to analyze, but I prefer to keep my jock fantasies on the down low.
“Whoa, long line,” Ollie says when we reach Club Soho.
I lift my chin. “Watch this.” Jet told me he’d put my name at the door, but as I swagger—for some reason I think I’m cool enough to pull off a swagger right now—toward the bouncer, my confidence wavers. What if Jet forgot and I say my name and he doesn’t let us in? What if—
“Holy shit, Ollie Strömberg?” the bouncer says.
I sigh.
Ollie turns to me and lifts his chin to me this time. “No, watch this.” He holds his hand out for the bouncer to shake. “Hey, man, how’s it going?”
The bouncer asks him for an autograph on the back of his name sheet, and then we’re let inside no questions asked.