Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys Book 1)

YOUR LIFELONG DREAM disappearing in front of your eyes isn’t supposed to happen so quickly. Three twenty-minute periods have never felt so short.

It’s game seven of what has been the longest series in history, because we’ve gone into overtime in every single game. Except this one. Because in the last few minutes of the third, there is absolutely no coming back from this disaster.

Philly might have the home advantage, but there’s no excuse for this shitshow. 6-1. Six to one. This is what it looks like when a team crumbles under pressure and loses their chance at even trying for the Cup.

Literal blood and sweat have been put into this season, and I’m about to add tears as well. Because as I watch Anton Hayes power toward me with a knowing I win smirk on his lips, it takes all my strength to only check him instead of doing what I really want to do, which is body slam him into the ice. What’s a five-minute major penalty and a twenty-thousand-dollar fine in the big scheme of things?

But I don’t. Because I’m professional and not a sore loser, and this game is already over.

Which is how we let another goal in before the final buzzer.

Fuckdamnit.

Okay, maybe I’m a bit of a sore loser.

Anton Hayes. What a walking douchecanoe.

I have no problem with ego. Hell, I probably rival every single guy for the crown of biggest ego in the NHL. But Hayes adds a whole new level of meaning to the word.

And coming from me, Mr. Egotistical Fuckboy, that says a lot.

Yet, people don’t see him for the asshole he really is.

Like right now, while we do the ceremonial shaking of hands after the game and he gets to me, there’s something condescending in the way he says “Good game.” It’s in his cocky smile, the one that calls me a “Loser” without him actually saying the word out loud.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. He’s probably getting enough happiness from the smell of defeat that’s hanging around our team. It smells a lot like old gym socks and jockstraps.

Also, there’s no doubt in my mind that the cameras are on the two of us. Hayes and I have come head-to-head so many times on the ice I’ve lost count. Therefore, according to the media, we hate each other. People are told not to believe everything they read, but in this case, they should. Because it’s absolutely true.

In the locker room, our coaches don’t even bother with the “We’ll get ’em next season” speech. It’s the end of our year, and we’re in mourning.

“You gonna shave that mess off your face now?” Diedrich nods toward my playoff beard, which is nowhere near as bad as some of the other players’.

“Dunno. Guys love it.” I run my hand over the coarse hair on my chin, and it’s all wet from perspiration. Yeah, I’m going to have to at least trim it. “They like it when it scrapes along their—”

Diedrich holds up his hand. “Got it.”

The guys are cool with me being an out and proud player but get all weirded out when I go into details. Granted, I probably overshare way more than I should, but when I pointed out I had to listen to them talk about their hookups with puck bunnies, suddenly the entire team became stand-up dudes who speak respectfully about women in locker rooms.

Funny how that works.

Apparently, the cure to toxic masculinity is to show them how it feels to be talked about like a piece of meat.

You’re welcome, ladies.

The team ends up going to a bar in South Philadelphia to drown our sorrows, but we’re all so depressed it doesn’t take long for us to split up. Some guys go to another bar, others make their way into the back where there are pool tables, but I choose to perch my ass on a barstool and order drink after drink until the loss doesn’t sting anymore.

There might not be enough alcohol in the world to make that happen.

Two more series and the Cup would’ve been ours. So close yet so far.

Wagner, one of my teammates, slaps me on the shoulder. “We’re heading out. You wanna come?”

I wave him off. “Insert innuendo about coming here.”

“Damn, dude. How much have you had to drink? It has to be bad when you’re getting lazy on the cum jokes.”

“I’m not that drunk.” I am that drunk.

“Hey, look at it this way. You’re still a baby. For old fucks like me, we haven’t got long left.”

He says that like he’s forty when he’s a whopping thirty-four. That’s what this career is like. You’re considered old when regular people your age are in their prime.

I wouldn’t consider myself a baby. At twenty-seven, I’ve been in the NHL for four seasons now. I grew up through the juniors and moved to the AHL after being drafted, so I’ve been playing my whole life, but the average career in hockey is five years. Five. Just ask my father—that’s how long he lasted.

So this year, when he calls me tomorrow to tell me how much I fucked up on the ice tonight, my usual positive mantra of “There’s always next year” will be even emptier than usual. Because what if there isn’t a next year?

I need to drink more. Or less. One or the other. My thoughts are going to dark places.

“Need me to call you a ride back to the hotel?” Wagner asks.

“Nah. ’S’all good.”

Maybe I should search gay bars in the area and go fuck all this depression out. Because drowning myself in sex is the mature and logical response.

I know I’ve been to a couple in this city before, but I can’t remember them now. Or their names.

I half stand, half fall off my stool and throw some cash down on the bar for a tip. Then I move on wobbly legs and fumble my way out to the street.

The words on my phone are blurry as I type in gay bar Philadelphia, and when it turns up with weird-ass results, I blink into focus what I actually wrote.

Gay butt Philly cheese.

I’ll bookmark that for later.

My second attempt works, and I find there’s one only two blocks away. I could walk it. Uh, slowly. Because my feet don’t want to cooperate.

If I’d known I’d have to walk past a sports bar, I would have Ubered somewhere else.

I’m too busy glaring up at all the orange and black that paints the building and listening to the rowdy celebratory crowd to watch where I’m going, when—

“Oof.”

Ouch, whatever wall I ran into hurts. Doesn’t help I’m bruised from how many hits I took tonight. Okay, and gave.

Then I come face-to-face with said wall and find my worst nightmare. Philly fans.

Three of them. Tall as they are wide.

“No wonder you guys lost tonight when you hit like that, Palaszczuk.”

Hey, it’s not my fault his chest is twice the size of mine and I practically bounced off him. I ain’t no delicate wallflower.

I have two options here. Keep walking or talk back.

My mind scoffs at me. Please, I’m Ezra-fucking-Palaszczuk. I don’t know the meaning of walking away from a fight. “The other team was lucky.”

“7-1 lucky?” one of his friends snickers.

“Boston sucks,” the other one says.

“Fuck you.” I try to push my way through them, but the bigger guy in front shoves me.

I’m drunk as shit and stumble, almost falling to the ground. I manage to right myself and charge toward this asshole to show him what it’s like to take a hit from a professional hockey player.

My fist connects with his jaw with a satisfying crack, but then his two friends are on me, and all hell breaks loose.

I’m trying to wrench myself away when I’m jerked backward and a body moves in front of me, blocking me from getting my head punched in. Or worse, my pretty face. I swear I’m one broken nose away from being … unattractive. That would be a travesty for all gaykind.

Turns out I was wrong. Philly fans are not my worst nightmare. Being protected from them by Anton Hayes is.

“Hey, guys, back up a bit, okay? Palaszczuk is drunk and doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s not much different to when he’s sober, really, but it’s plain mean to pick on him when he’s like this. It would be like stealing a kid’s ice cream and then shoving it in their face.”

Suddenly, they’re all wide eyes and sweet smiles. Oh, and laughing. Can’t forget the laughing.

“Anton Hayes? Is this really happening?” This big bear of a man turns into a puddle of fanboying.

“Here, let me sign your jersey,” Hayes says.

“Oh, please,” I mutter behind his back.

He looks over his shoulder at me, and I don’t like the smug expression.

For a hockey player, he has the straightest teeth of anyone in the league. His dark hair is styled with gel, parted on the side like a preacher boy, and it looks nothing like it does on the ice when he takes his helmet off. It usually falls in his face and around his neck in wet strands.

If there’s anything I hate more than Anton Hayes, it’s how good-looking he is.

He signs each of their jerseys with a pen he pulls from God knows where—not even I’m egotistical enough to carry a Sharpie—and then Anton tells them there’s a few more guys from the team inside and gets the bouncer’s attention to let in his new friends.

“Let them know I sent you to annoy them. They’ll love it.”

With them thoroughly distracted, I make my escape. Or, I try to.

Anton catches up with me. “Where are you rushing off to? Another bar fight on the schedule?”

I shove my hands into my pockets and keep walking. “Is it really a bar fight when it was outside the bar?”

“What happened anyway?” His low voice always sounds so cocky and patronizing. “I only caught the tail end. You know, where you clocked one of them.”

“Nothin’.”

“Was it the gay thing?”

I gasp. “Yes. Because anytime I get into a fight, it’s because my masculinity is threatened by homophobic twatfaces.”

“Then what was it? The game? You let fans get to you over a goddamn game?”

“If you’d lost tonight, how would you take it?”

“Grow up, man. We’ve all lost games before. We’ve all been kicked out of the playoffs. Well, you know, except Buffalo, who haven’t seen the playoffs in over a decade.”

I laugh and then hate myself for it.

“Where are you going?” Hayes asks.

“Gay bar. Because of all my gayness that’s gay, and that’s all I’m known for. Apparently.”

“Really? So because I assumed guys were attacking you over your orientation, you think that’s my only impression of you?”

“If the skate fits.”

Anton stops walking. “Seriously, Ezra. Why are you always such an asshole?”

I spin to face him. “Why are you always such an asshole?”

“You know, when most people save someone from getting their ass kicked, they get a thank-you.”

“That’s why you hate me? Because of my manners? Well, thank you, Mr. Straight, for stepping in to save my gay honor when I didn’t ask you to.”

Anton takes two steps back. “Wait, you think I’m straight?”

I blink. Then blink again. How drunk am I? Did I hear him right, or is my mind playing tricks on me? “Y-you’re not? How did I not know this, and why haven’t we had sex yet if that’s the case?”

He stares at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious. “Holy shit, you really are that conceited. Maybe we haven’t had sex because I don’t want my sexuality splashed all over the tabloids. Unlike some people, my focus is and always has been hockey.”

“Oh, so you’re closeted. But why? It’s not like we’re the only ones anymore. Ollie Strömberg, Westly Dalton, Tripp Mitchell, Foster Grant, Oskar—”

“You think I haven’t seen what you guys go through? The comments. The online hate. If people are going to hate me, I’d rather it be for my playing than who I have sex with. And I’m not closeted … not exactly. My team knows. My family. The important people. But I don’t want toxic people like those assholes back there to think they have a right to attack me for who I am.”

I take it back. The third worst thing is being cornered by Philly fans. Second worst thing is being saved by someone I hate. But the worst thing by far is realizing that for years I’ve thought the tension between Anton and me came from a place of resentment. It turns out it’s because I want to fuck Anton Hayes.

I did not see that coming.