Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys Book 1)

EZRA LOOKS TOTALLY DEJECTED when he comes back from his shower. I waited here the whole time for him because I want to get him to talk. I want him to know I’m here for him after witnessing the epicness of that phone call, but I’m also suddenly hit with the need to be reassured that everything is still okay with us.

The whole reason we agreed to keep sleeping together, the reason he humored me with my request to be exclusive, is because of some kind of ridiculous superstition. If he gets it into his head that the good luck has worn off—or worse, that sleeping with me is bad luck—what then?

He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t think of anything to say.

I’m not used to this. I confront things head-on, but there’s something about Ezra that’s holding me back. I almost don’t want to ask why he looks so defeated because I get the distinct impression the answer won’t be the game, and the fear of what he could say is clogging my throat.

I glance toward the showers, where the guys are talking loud enough to be heard over the water, and drop my voice.

“Wanna wait while I shower and get out of here?” I don’t want to ask, but I have to know. “Are you coming to my place?”

“Is there really a need to?” His careless tone is back. “Our streak is broken.”

I blink at him like he’s hit me. “Are you serious?”

“Come on, Hayes.” His blue eyes pin me in place. “We both know what this was. Just like Larsen’s dirty socks. You were a superstition. That’s all. You don’t want to be with a fuckup like me.”

Wow. “Maybe I shouldn’t have enabled you and your stupid good-luck theory because you can’t seriously be sitting there thinking we lost because of something we did or didn’t do off the ice. Losses happen—”

“How did it all go so epically bad?”

“It’s the game. We had an off night. Maybe we were getting too cocky and comfortable in our standings. And I know you’re going to be reading into it, trying to pinpoint which thing you did that brought us bad luck, but blaming us isn’t going to fix what was broken on the ice tonight. That’s something we have to work on as a team. A whole team. You and I aren’t the only ones out there.” I can hear the panic in my voice, but I can’t make it stop.

“No, but we’re the only ones fooling around off the ice.” His expression is closed off, and the fear of rejection hits me right in the face. I don’t want to ask what he wants.

I get the distinct impression the answer will be not me.

We can’t have this conversation right now. I know Ezra, and I know what phone calls with his dad do to him. If he’s doubting the game and has had a hit to his confidence, he’s going to latch onto anything he thinks he can control—like his superstitions—and will put up walls to protect himself.

If we keep talking, he’s going to lash out, and I’m scared he’ll say something we can’t come back from.

So I force my worry and panic down and swallow so my voice comes out low and even. “If you really think that after all this time I was only a superstition, then I’ve been giving you too much credit. If you want to stop sleeping together, say it. Don’t use some good-luck-fuck bullshit as an excuse.”

“I told you early on that I’m only temporary.” He says each word carefully like he’s trying to make a point. “That I’m no one’s forever home.”

My heart breaks for him. And us. I want to shake some goddamn sense into him. He’s disappointed and hurting, but I’m the person he’s supposed to share that with. That’s what a partner is for.

But … we’re not partners. Not really. I want to grab him and drag him back to his place and show him that alone isn’t an option because we’re in this together. Or, I want us to be in it together.

But I don’t have the guts to say that in a locker room that’s filling with our teammates who are finishing up their showers. Instead, I say, “Okay then.”

“Coming out, Palaszczuk?” Kosik asks.

“Nope, I’m heading home. Alone.” Ezra stands abruptly and storms away without another word. I watch his retreating back, feeling sick.

“What about you, Hayes?” Kosik asks, and it’s only now I remember they’re even in the room.

Instead of answering them, I numbly grab my bag from my cubby and leave.

Screw the suit. I’ll take the fine.

Maybe Ezra and I never got along in the past, but this is our first real fight. Our first real moment where I’m actually worried we could lose everything. I’m determined to talk to him in the morning, hopefully once he’s calmed down, but that doesn’t help the gut-clenching anxiety that won’t go away.

I shove through the arena doors to the parking lot and thank goddamn Gretzky that I left my car here before our practice skate.

There’s a hollow feeling deep in my chest that won’t go away.

I shower at home, and by the time I’m done, I’ve calmed down a fraction.

Only a fraction.

I can’t stop pacing. I can’t stop stewing over that fight.

Leaving things so open-ended doesn’t sit right with me. Is he so superstitious he’d throw everything between us away?

Does he even feel the same connection I do? Ezra is used to casual sex, but I’m not. Is this me building things up to more than it is?

Yeah, there’s no way I’m sleeping tonight. Not until I have some answers.

I try his phone, but he doesn’t answer. Ignoring the pit in my gut, I grab my keys and head out. I know the smarter option is to leave this conversation until morning, but I can’t do it. If there’s a chance Ezra feels even a fraction of what I’m feeling right now, I need to do whatever I can to fix it.

The faster I can get to Ezra, the faster we can get this conversation over with. Starting it in the locker room of all places was a dumb move, but I’m not someone who can sit around overthinking things. There’s still a lot of traffic out for how late it is, and by the time I pull up at a red light down from Ezra’s apartment, I’m clenching the steering wheel hard. I still have no idea what I’m going to say, but I have to try.

I glance toward his apartment block and see two figures approaching. When they step into the light from the foyer, I pick out Ezra immediately and with him … Ayri Quinn from Buffalo.

They’re chatting, and even from this distance, I pick out Ezra’s easy charisma out in full force. Something about how close they’re walking, how Ezra holds the door for him to pass and gives him the same cocky grin that never fails to get me into bed—

Beeeep.

I swear and almost jump out of my skin, noticing way too late the light has turned green. I step on the gas, glancing back in my rearview mirror in an attempt to spot them, but I can’t.

My heart is pounding as I try to convince myself I didn’t see what I thought I saw.

We’ve had one fight.

One.

Going home alone, my ass.

I try to tell myself it doesn’t mean anything.

So what if Ezra took Ayri home? After telling me he was going home alone. And ignoring my call.

I’m completely torn over what my next move should be.

What I want to do is go to Ezra’s apartment and demand answers.

But what if this is exactly what it looks like?

My gut rolls.

I can’t see that.

I can’t.

So instead of driving to Ezra’s, I head back home, trying to convince myself that tonight never happened.