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)
It’s almost midnight before we finally leave the locker room, heading out. The team is meeting at a bar on the Strip, but before Ezra and I join them, we’ve got a stop to make first.
Ezra and I hold hands in the elevator the whole way to the rooftop of the hotel Tripp said to meet them at.
When the doors open, obnoxiously loud cheers come from one of the rooftop cabanas, and the first person I see is Tripp standing in the entrance, pumping the air with both fists.
“You’re a lot happier than I was expecting you to be,” I say as he attacks Ezra with a hug.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m pissed you guys won.” He’s smiling though, so he’s obviously not too pissed. “But a queer collective win is a very close second to winning ourselves. A gay couple just won the Stanley Cup. That’s epic!”
Ezra shrugs. “Clearly the only reason I’m dating Anton. Leveling up from awesome to epic is my destiny.”
We join the others in the cabana, and even though I still don’t know these guys all that well, it feels like coming home. Foster, Ollie, Oskar, and Tripp are here, but Soren and West are both missing. Ayri still isn’t sure if he wants to join, but I do.
And as if Tripp can read the thoughts going through my head, he asks, “You finally in, Hayes?”
“Yep,” Ezra answers for me. “Tonight is his initiation.”
Ollie claps his hands, grin stretching across his face. “Perfect. It’s been a while since I’ve had some Macallan.”
“Macallan?” I ask, looking around at them all.
“It’s a queer collective tradition. When you join us, you solemnly swear to never take a sip of Macallan outside of an initiation.”
That’s definitely not what I expected. Or, not all I expected. “That’s it?”
“Oh, and you have to buy the bottle.”
“Of course I do.” But hey, what’s a few thousand dollars when I’ve just won the Stanley Cup? “You know, this is a thousand percent tamer than what I was imagining.”
Oskar snorts. “We’re not a frat. We’re a group of highly sophisticated gentlemen,” he says with a shitty British accent.
“Who like to beat the crap out of other guys at work,” Foster adds.
“Can you blame me for picturing the worst when Ezra is in charge of these things?”
He pats my arm seriously. “If you’re that distressed over getting off easy, I can paddle your ass later.”
“That’s what he said,” Ollie mutters.
“I’m starting to understand why Ezra loves you guys so much.” I leave to buy the expensive-as-fuck alcohol, and I get the feeling there’s a good chance Ezra and I will be puking by the time the night is over. Tripp joins me at the bar to help carry the glasses.
“No Dex tonight?” I ask.
“He wanted to come, but I said it was for the collective.”
“Why?”
“This is my space. Maybe that sounds a bit childish, but the next hour or so is for us. That’s sacred. I’ll catch up with him later.”
I can read the subtext in his words though. He needs space. I have no idea how long he’s been in love with Dex, but I bet it can’t be easy.
His mood lightens considerably when we get back to the cabana, and it’s like our own oasis on top of the world. The lights from the Strip are all around us, soft music playing and mixing with the laughter and conversation around us.
We pour the Macallan for everyone, but as I go to take a sip, Ezra’s hand catches my arm.
“You’re forgetting the most important part of the initiation.”
“I knew there had to be more to it.”
He pats my hand. “It’s just a toast, calm down.”
“A toast?”
“Yep. All you have to do is lift your glass and say ‘Hey’o, I’m gay’o.’”
“Or however-you-identify’o,” Foster adds. “Because I’m bi.”
“‘Hey’o, I’m bi’o’ sounds like you’re saying you’re science,” Ezra says. “And it doesn’t rhyme.”
I lift my glass. “Cheer’o to being queer’o? Is that inclusive?”
Ezra’s eyes soften toward me. “You’re perfect.”
“I know.”
We all cheers and drink down the extremely expensive whiskey that tastes like regular whiskey. At least to me.
“You know,” Ezra says after a few moments. “One day, when we have a queer member in every team in the league, we’ll need to book out the whole rooftop. Now that’s a goal.”
Ollie shifts. “Well, you might need to start looking for someone new to cover New York.”
“What?” I lean forward, pretty sure I know where this is going but not wanting to hear it anyway. NHL players, we’re all for the sport. It’s our lives. So when someone brings up the “r” word, I feel it in my soul, because I know that’s going to be me one day. To have to walk away and leave this part of my life behind.
Well … I glance at Ezra. Part of it behind. With any luck, Ezra will be right there alongside me.