Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys Book 1)

I SHOULDN’T HAVE BROUGHT up the friends thing with Anton. I don’t know why I even care. I never have before.

Maybe asking for friendship on top of what we’re doing was premature, but all I know is his annoying traits—his ego, his condescension, all the things I used to hate—I don’t hate anymore. Because I know it’s Anton’s way of protecting himself.

From scrutiny, from the media finding out about him, from every little thing. I understand it, I really do, but I thought …

I guess I thought after all this time that he might see me for who I really am too.

Anton’s buzzer for the door sounds, and he taps my leg. “Food’s here.”

I head out to the kitchen when Anton says the guy’s gone. I could have pushed for him to at least let the delivery guy see me, but we should start small. Team first. Then random strangers.

“Want me to set the table or anything?” I ask.

“Nah. Let’s eat in front of the TV. Montreal’s playing Columbus tonight before coming for us tomorrow.”

“Back-to-backs. Sucks for them. Good for us.”

“We’ll have our turn next month.”

“Fun times.”

We pile up our plates with food and cross to Anton’s living room, where he sits on what looks like a very new, very beige couch.

I choose to sit on the floor in front of him and put my plate on the coffee table because I don’t trust myself not to ruin his expensive—albeit somewhat boring—taste in furniture.

Anton turns on the game while we eat, and I can tell he’s doing exactly the same thing I am: assessing the competition we’ll be facing tomorrow night.

“It’s bad karma to wish a broken ankle on Foster Grant, isn’t it?” Anton asks.

I almost choke on my food. “I can’t believe that came out of your mouth. Mr. Nice. Mr. Good Guy. Mr. I’m So Charming to Everyone but Ezra Guy.”

“I save my salty side for you.”

“I feel … special?”

“You should.” Anton winks at me and leans forward. “Look at him though. When he came in as a free agent, everyone said he wasn’t going to last. He ended up having the best rookie season I’ve seen in years, and he hasn’t slowed down since. We’re going to have to watch him.”

“Or break his ankles.”

“Hey.” Anton points his chopsticks at me. “That is bad karma. I was joking. Mostly.”

“He’s part of the queer collective too, you know. He’s a good kid.”

Anton looks down at his food. “Yeah, I read that about him.”

“I think he has the right balance between flaunting it and staying private. He’s known for being queer, but his partner is really shy and introverted, so they’re not seen out together much, and no one in the media seems to care.”

Foster scores a goal, but Anton’s attention is no longer on the TV.

“I don’t think I’m scared of the attention,” he says. “I just don’t want people to define me and jump to conclusions.”

“News flash, everyone defines everyone. Everyone makes snap judgments when they don’t know you. Especially on the internet.”

“Is it weird I’m okay with them doing it when it comes to hockey or something stupid I might’ve said in a press interview, but when it comes to who I sleep with, I want them all to fuck off?”

I think we’ve all been there, though maybe not at the same level. “That’s understandable, and comments are inevitable, so I get being private about it. But I want to point out that Foster is managing a balance.”

“And what if when I come out, it explodes everywhere, and I can’t rein it back in?”

“And you call me egotistical,” I tease. “Why are you more important than anyone else who’s ever come out in hockey?”

He sighs. “I guess I’m not. But I’m having the best season of my life so far, and sure, it’s still early, but if I do end this season with my highest-scoring record—”

“Duuuuude.” I tap the solid wood coffee table a couple of times.

“Hypothetically—”

“Even hypotheticals are bad juju.”

“Fine. Rephrase. What will happen if I achieve even a remotely decent season, and then I come out? What will everyone focus on?”

I adjust how I’m sitting so I’m facing him. “You have a point, but … what if you come out now and then have the season of your life?”

“They’ll say that coming out was the whole reason I played well because I did it as myself or some bullshit instead of what it’s really from and that’s years of hard work. There’s no winning.”

“I agree it sucks, and please don’t think this is me pressuring you or whatever because I’m not, but can I point out one more teeny-tiny, small thing?”

“Is it your dick?”

“Hey, whoa, below the belt.”

Anton snorts. “Literally. What’s this teeny-tiny point?”

“Ollie, Tripp, Foster … the media doesn’t care about their sexuality anymore. For me, it’s a separate thing. There’s my hockey playing and my antics off the ice. Once the Band-Aid is ripped off, yeah, it’ll sting for a while, but eventually, the attention will fade away.”

“Unless I fuck a different guy every weekend and get photographed with them.”

I scoff. “Please. You could never be a fuckboy like me. To get laid that often you need something called charisma.”

Anton throws a piece of banh khot at me, but I catch it with my mouth.

“Mm, tasty.”

“How did your dad react when you came out?” Anton asks out of nowhere.

For the second time in a few minutes, food gets stuck in my throat. “Hello, random subject change.”

“Not really. We are talking about coming out.”

“We’re talking about you coming out. Not me.”

Anton cocks his head. “What’s with the sudden recoil? This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Somewhat of a friendship in amongst all the sex?”

My neck is suddenly itchy, and I’m not hungry anymore.

I shuffle back and lean against the couch. “He’s … traditional. When I go over to Poland to see his family, none of them ever speak of it. For a few years after I came out, they’d still ask if I’d found a woman to settle down with. But even saying all that, they accept me for being gay now. They don’t accept me for other reasons, but that’s a whole other story.”

“I have nothing but time and an understanding for parents who accept you but encourage you to keep your private life to yourself.”

“Are your parents part of the reason you haven’t come out publicly?”

“Yes and no. They love me. They accept me. They took my coming out as well as any gay kid could ask for. But then Dad asked if I was planning to tell the league. And it’s like I can feel it, every time I visit them over the summer, it’s like he’s waiting for me to tell him I’m going to do it, so he cuts me off and reminds me how different it will be and how I’ll be opening myself up for ridicule and embarrassment.”

“Ouch. He said the word ‘embarrassment’?”

“Yep.”

“You said you visit them in the summer? They don’t live in Massachusetts anymore?”

“Nope. Moved to South Carolina a few years back to take care of my grandmother.”

Anton’s sharing, which feels like a step in the right direction, but he’s staring at me like he wants to ask more questions, and this conversation is getting a little too real for me.

I’m the Goldilocks of fuck buddy relationships. I want attention but not too much attention. I want a connection deeper than sex, but I don’t want to get too personal.

I’m being an asshole. I called Anton out earlier for not treating me like a friend, but it’s not like I’m giving him anything real either, am I?

Anton eventually goes back to his food, but I find myself saying, “When I came out, Dad was silent for a minute, and then he said, ‘At least you won’t get some gold-digging whore pregnant like I did.’”

Anton’s mouth drops, and he blinks at me.

“And that in a nutshell is pretty much my relationship with my father. When I’m playing well, I don’t hear from him. I haven’t had a single phone call since preseason. When I screw up on the ice, my phone blows up so he can tell me how he could have played it better. He’s narcissistic and always makes everything about him. He hates my mom, my mom hates him, and I always get caught in the middle of it. It’s why I rarely speak to either of them.”

And now I hold my breath. I don’t talk to people about my parents. People barely remember Dad as a player because he wasn’t one of the greats, so I don’t get asked about him often.

“I’m starting to see why you are the way you are,” Anton says.

“Ha, ha, narcissism runs in the family. You’re so funny.”

“That’s not …” His lips form a line. “I mean, yeah, that’s totally what I meant.”

It wasn’t. We both know it wasn’t. But I appreciate him backing off. He was going to say he’s realizing why I only do cheap hookups.

Because when you’re raised by two people who are more interested in bitching each other out than showing their kid love and support, you can’t help growing up to be closed off to anything more.

People. Relationships. Love.

I don’t want any of it.

Except when he leans over and presses a kiss to the top of my head, I’m starting to suspect that I really, really do.