Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys Book 1)

WHEN I WAKE up to the sound of Ezra’s voice and his face swimming in my hazy vision, I assume I’m in some sort of fever dream … or nightmare. I squint around the bright light coming through my bedroom window and focus on the TV. On Ezra. In a commercial?

I watch in horror as Ezra smolders at the camera, shots of his face interspersed with shots of a cologne, and his voiceover of random words mixing with the wannabe rock music. The whole thing is terrible.

But damn.

He looks sexy.

I palm my morning wood, too lazy to do anything about it. If Ezra had stayed last night, I could have put his mouth to good use again. I’ve never had road head before and probably won’t again, because the number of times I almost crashed was concerning. It felt way too good.

And is yet another example of me letting Ezra wreck my brain.

I’d never normally do something like that because it doesn’t take much for the car beside you to work out what’s happening and snap a picture, but that voice of reason disappeared at approximately the same second Ezra’s lips wrapped around my dick.

It’s no wonder he’s always getting himself into trouble.

Fifteen minutes later, and I’m still in bed watching the screen. Idiot.

I kick off my covers and strip the bed, then toss the sheets in the wash. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me today, and then tomorrow we’re right back into practice.

The thought of driving all that way only to have a hotel room waiting for me on the other side is depressing. I really need to find a place to live.

When I walk out of my apartment, I do so knowing it’s the last time.

Most of my clothes are already in Boston, and the remainder of my crap will be boxed up and shipped with a moving company. When I sell, the furniture will be included.

Sure, I might love my apartment and my car, but the smaller material things aren’t something I get attached to.

Unfortunately for me, five hours in a car and then meeting Boston traffic leaves me with way too much time to think.

And no matter how many times I go over plays and team dynamics, my thoughts keep circling back to Ezra.

There’s no denying I’m attracted to him. His caramel-colored hair and ice-blue eyes combo makes him one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen. At first I wasn’t a fan of the beard, but the way it scraped my abs and thighs last night has effectively changed my mind, and if we’re going to hook up again, he’s sure as hell keeping it.

If we hook up again?

Urg. Nope.

I’ve slipped twice now, and while it’s stupid to regret it, I also know it wasn’t the most well-thought-out move I’ve ever made.

We have to work together. We have to find a way past our animosity to something almost civil in order to do the job we’re being paid to do. Sure, fucking it out of our system helps, but that’s a short-term solution. I can’t imagine how hooking up with a teammate could ever end well.

If the rumors are true, Ezra’s most likely done with me now. He never stays focused on one man for long. Well, except for whatever that thing was between him and Westly.

Apparently, they were dating, but not. Sleeping together, but not exclusive. I shake my head as I check my mirrors and overtake the car in front of me.

When I’m with a man, I’m far too possessive to share. Sure, I’ve had threesomes with one-night stands that were hot as hell, but they’re always very discreet, and never with anyone I’d see again.

With a boyfriend or partner or someone I’m seeing regularly—even if he does happen to be a smartass with a big mouth—it’s exclusive or nothing with me.

Which is reason number seven hundred and fifteen for why last night was just us working out our tension together.

But I know if he comes at me again, I’ll find it very hard to say no.

There’s something about being with Ezra that’s addictive.

He doesn’t put on a show; he doesn’t hide how he feels even though he probably should when he’s with me. He’s uninhibited. I like it. I also like him clenched around my cock, but that’s different.

Fuuuck.

My thoughts are on a constant loop of the same thing. Should I or shouldn’t I? Pros and cons—and the fact the cons column outnumbers the pros by a lot should make the decision far easier than it is.

By the time I finally pull up at the hotel, I’ve made a decision. A decision that really shouldn’t have taken me five hours to come up with:

I’ll wait and see what happens.

I never claimed to be a genius.

Back at practice, nothing is overwhelmingly different, but there’s a shift I can feel in the locker room. It’s like the air between me and Ezra is electrified. I wish I could ignore it or go back to that place where I couldn’t stand the guy.

His attitude overrides anything else, but then he’ll make an awesome save on the ice, or I’ll remember the way that kid thanked him or focus on that teeny-tiny sliver of vulnerability he showed when he was drunk that first night together.

But whatever conflicting thoughts I might have, my one certainty is that we need to get along for the team’s sake. And maybe because I want to get along in general.

So when I approach him on the way off the ice after practice, I drop the usual hostility we have with each other. “You skated well today.” The words taste like chalk in my mouth. Complimenting Ezra goes against every natural instinct I have.

He glances over at me. “Is this you lulling me into a false sense of security before you stab me with a skate?”

“Come on, Ez …” I slap him on the back. “Our skates are nowhere near sharp enough to make it through your thick skull.”

“Seriously. What do you want?”

To go back in time and never start this conversation?

“You wanna be a dickhead, fine. Don’t worry about it.” I go to stalk off, but Ezra grabs my practice jersey and pulls me to a stop.

“Can you really blame me for being suspicious? All you do is remind me that I’m a fuckboy who doesn’t take hockey seriously and is a subpar player.”

I grin. “But you are those things.”

He flips me off, and I don’t blame him. “Yet you slept with this fuckboy anyway.”

Ezra doesn’t bother to keep his voice down, and I quickly glance around to make sure our team is well out of earshot, but it looks like they’ve all disappeared into the locker rooms.

“Would you keep your voice down?”

“Why? Embarrassed? Everyone here knows you’re gay.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say yes, but then we’ll end up circling back on the same bickering we always do. This is supposed to be moving on from that.

And what a surprise that Ezra is making it difficult.

Nothing to do with me at all.

I shove a hand through my sweaty hair. “I’m not embarrassed.”

“I know you better than to believe that.”

“I’m private. There’s a difference. And I don’t think our team needs to know that things are more complicated between us than straight-up animosity.”

“There’s nothing complicated here. You’re overthinking it. We don’t like each other, but we got each other off. It doesn’t have to mean any more than that.”

“Right. Nothing more.” I huff out a frustrated breath because I don’t completely believe it.

I catch his eyes and try to work out his expression. There’s something that happens when his gaze sharpens on me that speaks to me on a primal level. My gaze dips to where a wet curl of hair is stuck to his neck, and I can’t help wondering if his sweat smells as intoxicating after a grueling practice as he does when I have him bent over and working for it. I lick my lips completely unconsciously, and Ezra’s eyes snag on the movement.

“The way you’re eye-fucking me makes me think you want it to happen again.”

I let my stare roam down his face and to his wide chest, picturing myself stripping him out of his gear. “No idea what you mean.”

“Problem, boys?”

I straighten quickly at Coach’s voice and find him peering around the doorway of the locker room. “Nope, we’re good here.”

Which is actually not that far from the truth. Fuck, pigs really do fly.

I hold my head high as I stalk away, wanting to make sure Ezra is left with no doubt that he hasn’t been able to ruffle me. I’m used to masking signs of weakness, and that skill is going to come in handy when dealing with him.

Ezra wears his emotions up front, and no amount of snark or cockiness can completely hide the way he’s feeling at any one time. Especially because I get the feeling he never actually wants to.

The idea of letting people be privy to your every thought is so foreign to me I find it difficult to understand.

Good thing there are no feelings in hockey. Hockey is the one thing I can do in my sleep.

And when we enter the rink at TD Garden the next day for our first regular-season game against New York, I’m confident.

I feel good. Pumped. The energy is high, and the crowds are loud.

Diedrich, Larsen, and I have started to find a rhythm that works. We still mess up, and it’s not smooth yet, but when we make a flawless play, I’m hit with that rush of adrenaline I don’t get from anything else.

I’m slowly starting to find my place here, becoming more comfortable with the team. I almost feel like the old me again. The guy who has his shit together.

I’ve also managed to keep a professional distance since Philadelphia, and Ezra’s been doing the same, but every now and then he’ll catch my eye, and I can’t stop myself from giving him a smirk. It’s too easy. Too fun.

I don’t want or expect it to get me anywhere other than under his skin.

The minute I hit the ice, I can feel it. The win. Normally I don’t like to get ahead of myself, but there’s something that feels so right, and it’s like the rest of the team feels it too. Right from the puck drop, we win possession, and then it’s like we can do no wrong.

Diedrich, Larsen, and I work together seamlessly, and even though New York is on their game, they’re no match for us. We manage a goal each before we enter the last period.

Other than one goal Ollie Strömberg gets past us in the middle of the second, our defense is equally tight. Ezra’s game is clean, and he doesn’t get sent off once.

At the next face-off, Diedrich takes control of the puck and sends it sailing into my blade. I fly up the open ice, and all that’s standing between me and my next goal is New York’s goalie. I can almost taste the next point, can feel the crowd’s cheers. It’s one and one as I cross the blue line, draw up close, and—

I’m clipped from behind. My skates fly out from under me, and I smack into the ice. My momentum almost sends me into the boards, but I pull up short, afraid to move for one second as I test out the damage.

Thankfully, everything seems to be working.

Kosik reaches me first. “You good, Hayes?”

“Yup.” I push myself back upright and shake out the arm I landed on. He slaps me on the shoulder, and we skate back to where Poulsen is being sent off the ice.

“Power play!” Ezra shouts as he skates past.

We’re already leading by two, but one more point will pull us far enough ahead that there’ll be no coming back for New York. We have a one-man advantage—we need to use this.

We take our line, and I face Ollie Strömberg, waiting on the puck drop. He’s a legend in the game for being one of the first out players in the NHL. I admire him.

But not today.

Today, he’s in my way.

Play starts, and the second Diedrich takes possession, I’m off. He passes to Kosik, back to Diedrich, to Larsen, who shoots a snapshot my way. I deke past Ollie, and as I’m about to line up my shot, Johansson blocks me. We fight for possession when I catch Ezra out of the corner of my eye.

I pass backward to him, and like he was expecting it the whole time, the second the puck hits his blade, he shoots. It sails straight past the goalie and hits the net.

The lamp lights up, and the crowd is almost deafening in response.

It’s all over for New York.

We’re unstoppable.

And as the clock finally runs down and we come out on top, I’m still riding the high.

When we leave the team box and head down the chute, I linger for the fans hanging merch over the side. Larsen and I sign a few things and pose for photos.

“Anton!” a teen girl shouts. “You’re my favorite.”

“Thanks, darlin’.”

Her face goes red. “This is for you.” She drops a furry stuffed cat over the side, which I catch and hold in the air, using it to wave to her as we leave for the locker rooms.

Larsen sniggers. “Don’t let Ez see that thing.”

I glance down at the cat. It’s black and fluffy with a red heart ribbon around its neck. “It’s a toy. He’s not that superstitious, is he?”

“Yup. He makes the rest of us look levelheaded.”

A slow smile creeps over my face as I tug the ribbon off. “Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to hide it the second we get back.”

Right in Ezra’s locker.

And luck is with me because when we reach the locker room, he and Diedrich have been called away for the press conference, so it’s all clear.

I put the kitty right in the center of his cubby so there’s no missing it.

Then I strip off my pads down to my base layer shirt and pants and start to whistle as I jump on a bike to cool down. My muscles are extra tight tonight, so I need to make sure they’re stretched out enough that they don’t seize up tomorrow.

We’re about to hit the road for eight days to play Dallas, Arizona, Vegas, and Colorado.

And when a string of Polish curses hits my ears as Ezra finds his present, I have to laugh into my sweaty shirt so he doesn’t know it was me.

Though I guess it’s a given because he storms into the workout room and throws it at my head.

“What? Stuffed animals are bad luck too?”

He glares one more time before stomping out again.