Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 90364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
The whole—slow—drive back to the clubhouse, we’re mostly quiet. I can tell that even though it isn’t all on him, Ezra still feels bad. He keeps glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, like he’s waiting to see what my reaction will be.
So I give him time, and when he finally meets my gaze again, I wink.
His relief is immediate.
As is that stupid, dumb little pang.
Twenty-Three
EZRA
It’s easy for Anton and me to fall into a rhythm, and I never thought I’d love away games as much as I have this season. It’s easier for us to hook up when we’re rooming together instead of doing the stupid cloak-and-dagger bullshit sneaking around Boston when we’re home.
The coaches and team management are happy that we’re behaving like good little boys and getting along, though there are still stories about us in the media across the entire spectrum from us hating each other to we’re getting married and having a surrogate carry our babies.
Either way, the team doesn’t really care what might or might not be going on with us because we’re winning every damn game.
We’re on a streak, and we’re all holding our breaths for the inevitable day where something goes wrong and breaks it.
Today, we have a quick morning skate to stay loose, and then some of us get the rest of the day off. Some—as in the lucky ones. Us unlucky ones have to go home and get ready for the B’s annual charity gala. Black-tie event. Stuffy, rich people wanting to meet hockey players. Begging for donations for the thousands of different charities the B Foundation contributes to.
Fun times.
Like I told Anton when he dragged me to the animal shelter, I don’t mind the charity work. It totally has a purpose. But our schedule is so grueling, all I really want to be focused on during the season is hockey. The in-between times should be reserved for fucking and resting. Oh, and eating.
I’m a simple man. Food, sex, sleep, and hockey. That’s all I need.
I don’t need to get all dolled up in a penguin suit and schmooze rich people while I can’t even get drunk because we have a game tomorrow.
After our skate, in the locker room, Anton approaches me. “You get tapped for that dinner tonight too?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“Want to, uh, go?”
“It’s mandatory, so yeah.”
“I mean … with me.”
Okay, this is new. I glance around at the rest of the guys stripping down to see if any of them are in on this. Like asking me out in front of everyone is some elaborate prank. No one is paying attention. When I look up at him, usually meticulously neat black hair a mess and expression guarded, I can’t make out what he means.
I lower my voice. “Like a date or …”
“I figure we live close by, we both have to go, but never mind—”
“I’ll go. With you.”
“Meet at mine at seven?”
My smile is almost painful.
Anton hits the showers, but I stay at my cubby, trying to dissect what just happened.
He didn’t answer my question if this is an actual date or not. Maybe it’s as friends. And, scarily, maybe I don’t want it to be.
Anton’s relaxing around me more and more, which is great, but now he might be overshooting it. I wanted public acknowledgment as a friend and teammate, nothing more. Does he think I need public dates? Or is this him wanting public dates?
Or is this his way of being friends?
Am I freaking out at the prospect of more? Surprisingly, no. And I don’t know why that is either.
I’m not sure of anything, especially the answer to why Anton is different than anyone I’ve ever been with before.
Normally, I’d freak out at his demand for exclusivity. Initially, I didn’t want to agree to it because that’s not how I operate. Knowing there was an end date on it made it easier for me, but now … I don’t see an end date in sight, and I’m weirdly okay with it.
I try to shake all those thoughts free, but they come back intermittently throughout the day.
I think about Anton when I get home and hit the gym to stretch out my muscles from this morning’s skate, when I’m grooming my beard and manscaping my junk to get ready for tonight, and particularly when I’m donning my tux and getting ready to show up at this gala together.
I doubt any more could be said in the media about us, so arriving together isn’t going to cause a stir. It will look like we’re teammates.
Yet, there’s a ball of nerves in my gut as I text Anton that I’m leaving and to meet me out front. I can’t tell if it’s from dread or excitement.
Anton confuses me in the best possible way. Or the worst. It could be either. Or both. I’m a confused mess, and it’s all Anton’s fault.