Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys Book 1)

I STUMBLE out of the elevator with the rest of the guys I went out with, pleasantly tipsy and ready for a good, deep sleep before the game tomorrow. I would have preferred to fuck myself into a coma, but Ezra wanted to play games, and now we’re both going to be unsatisfied.

Or at least, he better be.

Sniggers come from behind me a second before Moreau says, “What the fuck?”

I dismiss thoughts of Ezra and focus on the obstruction right in the middle of the hallway.

It’s … beds and chairs and desks …

“What am I looking at?” I ask, circling it, even as what I’m seeing starts to register.

“I think you’re looking at payback.” Kosik sounds way too happy about that.

My head drops back on a laugh. Ezra. I could kill him.

“Payback?” Moreau echoes, swiping into our room and confirming my suspicions. The whole thing is empty. “What did I do?”

“Collateral damage,” Kosik says. “I’ve been there, brother.”

“Help us get this crap back inside.” Unsurprisingly, my buzz is starting to wear off.

“Yeah, no way,” Diedrich says, sidestepping it all and continuing to his room. “You guys are on your own.”

“Larsen?”

“Nope.”

A muscle in my jaw twitches, and I grab Kosik’s shirt before he can walk away. “I’ll make this easy for you. Either help us, or Moreau and I are coming to your room and tonight you’ll be spooning two guys.”

He groans. “Why do I keep being punished?”

Moreau grumbles something under his breath as I grab a lamp off the pile and use it to prop the door open.

“What was that?” I ask him.

“I said we should make Ezra fix this.”

“There’s no way anyone can make Ezra do anything.” I drag a mattress up onto its side and nod at Kosik to grab the other end.

Instead of being irritated like I’d expect, I’m hit with unwelcome amusement. Damn Ezra is messing with my head. I should be annoyed, but if I know Ezra, and I think I’m starting to, there was nothing malicious about this.

It’s supposed to be a fun prank, so that’s how I’ll take it.

And how fucked in the head am I to be happy that this proves he spared me at least one thought while he was out with Tripp?

It takes us almost an hour to get everything inside and the room put back together properly. It’s late, and while I’m not pissed about the prank, I am worried about how a shitty sleep before a game is going to affect me.

Then again, I wasn’t so worried about that when I was making suggestions for getting another hotel room.

I tug off my tie, toss my suit jacket over a chair, and fall face-first onto the bed. I only mean to be there for a minute, but the next thing I know, I’m jolted awake by my alarm going off.

I’m still half-asleep when I silence it, then blink groggily at the bazillion notifications filling my screen.

What the …

I sit up as I swipe open my phone, trying to get my eyes to focus. It’s … a video?

I click on it, and Ezra’s social media opens.

The video is captioned: Welcome to the team. Total bromance.

I hit Play, and there’s me and Moreau outside our room, staring perplexed at the pile of furniture in the center of the hallway.

From the angle of the phone, Ezra’s clearly around the corner filming, and damn I wish I’d seen him there last night. All I can be thankful for is that I laughed instead of swearing up a storm.

The rest of the team joins him, and all I can hear are chuckles and hushed voices as Moreau, Kosik, and I start putting everything back.

The news sites are having a field day with it. Some of them saying this reaffirms the apparent bromance we have, and others say it seems like we’re trying too hard to be convincing and the rivalry is still going strong.

I close out of it all and text Ezra.

Me: You’re a dick. 

I immediately regret sending that when his reply bubble pops up, and I know exactly what he’s going to say.

Ezra: What’s that? You’re obsessed with my dick?

Me: You are so predictable. 

Ezra: Says the guy whose first reaction was to insult me. What a surprise.

I close out of my messages because he’s right, but I don’t want to admit that. Insulting Ezra is easier than complimenting him, and I catch myself going to do that alarmingly frequently.

Instead, I do a search for last-minute reservations and book a room in the hotel two down from us for tonight. No matter how the game turns out, I’ll be making use of that bed.

Preferably all night.

Which isn’t something we’ve done before, but it’s been a while since I had a good sex marathon, and if anyone is going to keep up with me, it’s Ezra.

The thing is, I know he’s going to ask to top me again, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. It’s not like I don’t bottom when I’m in the mood, but when it comes to Ezra, the thought of giving up control to him makes me hesitate. Not because I don’t want to give it to him … but I’m scared of what will happen when I do. I’m barely holding him at arm’s length as it is.

And I have no doubts he’s going to want control one of these days, no matter which position he’s in. I’ve got Ezra playing by my rules for now, but that dynamic won’t work forever.

Especially because I sort of like it when he pushes back. That photo in bed with Kosik, his teasing about Tripp. It both makes me angry and turns me on.

Ezra knows who he is.

I thought I did too, but I’m starting to doubt.

When we make it to the arena that afternoon, we head out for a practice skate, then change into our suits early.

Coach has organized for some fans to come through for a meet and greet before the game, which is one of my favorite ways to get motivated and boost my high before I hit the ice.

There are some superfans out there, and being so far from home, getting to meet people who look up to you, is a great feeling.

The fans are waiting behind a sectioned-off area as we approach, and I beeline straight for the two people wearing my Philly jersey. I’m assuming it’s a dad and son who would probably look similar if the son wasn’t wearing a face full of makeup. He could only be … twelve? It’s hard to tell, but they both beam as soon as they spot me.

“Anton Hayes,” the dad says. “This is so exciting.”

“For both of us, trust me.” I pull out my Sharpie. “Want me to sign that jersey?”

“Hell yeah.” He immediately turns so I can sign the spot at the back above his left shoulder blade.

“You’re the best player,” the kid says. “I can’t believe Philly traded you.”

“Best player?” Ezra says, sliding up beside me. He’s in a snakeskin-print suit that should look ridiculous. It really should. But damn if I don’t want to devour him in it. “You must be talking about me.”

The kid goes red. “E-Ez-Ezra …”

“Palaszczuk, nice to meet you. Not a fan of your fashion sense,” he says, pointing to the jersey. “But your contouring is to die for.”

“Thanks. I taught myself from YouTube.”

“Incredible.” He uncaps his Sharpie. “That’s a nasty number on your back, but why don’t we balance things out. This doofus”—he nods to me—“can sign one side, and I’ll sign the other.”

“Yeah? Can you?” He hurries to turn around, and I watch for a second as Ezra leans in and signs the jersey.

“You’ll be the only person ever to have a Philly jersey signed by Ezra Palaszczuk,” I point out. “He’s normally allergic to anything that isn’t Boston.”

Ezra winks at the kid. “Some people are worth it.”

The smile he gets in return is enormous, and I’m hit with that moment again, just like when I saw Ezra with the teen at the pet adoption, that despite everything, all the shortcomings I’m convinced he has, people respect him. Kids look up to him. Because he doesn’t hide who he is. It unsettles me. Because it almost makes me want to look up to him as well.

His dad shifts, catching my attention. “Ah, sorry about this. You’re our favorite player, but, ah, Todd’s always looked up to Ezra, and some of the other, umm … I’m not sure the right way to say it. But my son’s gay, and seeing others like him play the game, it’s one of the reasons we love hockey so much. It helped us bond.”

I turn back to where Ezra and Todd are laughing over something I missed, and an uncomfortable truth starts to kick in. My life is hockey, my image is hockey, and I’m damn good at it.

But there are a lot of other players out there, ones who are as good, if not better, and I have teams of people waiting to fill my skates.

What happens when hockey is over for me?

Watching Ezra with Todd, it’s clear that when Todd looks at him, he doesn’t see a hockey player. He sees someone he can look up to, who proves he can do anything, time and again, and his sexuality isn’t a factor in that.

He inspires people.

I want to do that too. I want to give kids inspiration, to echo the message that queer players are in the league and kicking ass. I want to be a role model, and I can’t do that if I’m scared.

It’s my bias holding me back, I know that. The deep-seated fear I have of never being good enough. But it’s not just me who faces the impact of my choice to stay private, it’s every closeted kid out there who doesn’t think things can get better.

It’s Todd and the ones like him who shouldn’t have to pick between a handful of people to look up to. His options should be endless.

So I open my mouth and utter something I’ve never officially said out loud in public. “Being a queer player in the sport isn’t always easy, but I think I speak for Ezra and myself when I say we’ve been lucky to have supportive teams. I’m happy that the inclusivity has brought you two together.” I cuff Ezra on the shoulder. “Sometimes I don’t give this guy enough credit.”

Todd’s dad gapes at me. “Wait, so you … You are, ah, queer too? And you guys don’t actually hate each other?”

I’m surprised when Ezra doesn’t jump in with a smartass comment, so I do it for him. “Well, he’s pretty annoying, but I manage to put up with him most of the time.”

We say our goodbyes, and as we shift behind our teammates to wait to meet some others, Ezra leans in, hand on the small of my back and lips at my ear. “Careful, Hayes. You got close to complimenting me again.”

“Damn. I must have been thinking of that other Ezra Palaszczuk.”

“Uh-huh.” He pulls back, knowing gleam in his light eyes. “Don’t think I didn’t hear what you said. You outed yourself. You played the Q card.”

“People know I’m gay.”

“No one outside your circle or people you’ve hooked up with. Did it feel good to say?”

“Actually, yeah.”

“I’m happy for you.” He sounds so sincere, but then he keeps talking. “And also, you’re welcome, because it’s clearly my influence and my magical dick. I’ll let you thank me properly later.”

There’s the Ezra I was expecting. I laugh before I can stop myself and shove him toward the rest of our team. I’m not going to admit to anything that I’ll regret later, but after meeting fans and owning up to something I really shouldn’t be keeping hidden, I’m feeling pretty fucking good.

Until that night when we go head-to-head with Vegas and lose on a total shut-out. Four to nothing.

Ouch.