Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys Book 1)

THERE ARE a couple of things I’m grateful for when waking with the world’s worst hangover. One, Anton doesn’t wake when I slip out of bed and sneak out of his penthouse with an ache in my ass. Two, my fight with some random Philly fans wasn’t secretly filmed and leaked to the press—thank the hockey gods for that. But thirdly, and this is probably the thing I’m most grateful for, I can blame being drunk off my tits for having the impression that sex with Anton Hayes is the best dicking out I’ve ever had in my life.

The alcohol made it good. It has nothing to do with his skill or magnificent cock.

To try to forget my indiscretions, and with the season being over, I deal with the usual end-of-season crap with the team and then run away to Vermont to hang out with my best friend for a while.

Westly Dalton used to be in the NHL. Used to be my ride or die. Used to be being the key word. We’re still tight, but after he retired, we see less and less of each other.

Once I wear out my welcome there with him and his huge family of five kids, I go on vacation with some of the guys, and I finish off my summer visiting family in Poland with Dad. My father goes back to Poland regularly, but I only make the trip maybe once every couple of years when he guilts me into going to see his mom and sisters and all my relatives who speak to me in Polish even though I can barely understand them.

I speak a little, but I’m nowhere near fluent enough to hold a deep conversation. I have some cousins who are pretty cool, so it’s not complete torture.

This time though, I had to pick the year to go when my team was knocked out of the playoffs so close to the end.

“That last game was an embarrassment to watch,” Dad says. We’re barely at thirty thousand feet when he starts in on me.

“I agree,” I say, hoping that will be the end of it.

It’s not.

My father is what a lot of people will call distinguished. He once had dark hair but is now graying. Who knows where I got my caramel-colored hair from considering my mom is platinum blonde. Maybe their DNA mixed light with dark and got … me.

He has that overweight athlete’s body where he’s still fit but carrying a few extra pounds. And he’s the epitome of a closed-off Polish man when it comes to expressing himself. He can’t muster up a “Good job” but can tell me when I’m an embarrassment to his name.

The whole flight, I listen to Dad telling me how he would’ve played that last game better and giving me unsolicited advice on how to up my skills.

Never once does he praise me for helping to get my team that far. We didn’t win the Cup, so we are losers. Obviously.

The only consolation to that is Anton didn’t win it either. Philly was knocked out the next round, and I watched on with a huge smile on my face.

Still, a billion hours on a flight with someone who hates his own son, even the thought of Anton losing doesn’t cheer me up.

When my dad played for the NHL, he’d come to the States after playing in Europe for a few years. He met my mom and had a quickie wedding and even quicker divorce. I like to tell myself that my mother wasn’t a puck bunny, but I’ve seen the photos.

Got the mental scars to prove it.

The only reason they got married was because of me. That’s not a secret.

Sometimes I wonder why I bother to make an effort with either of my parents, but as Dad likes to remind me, I’m where I am today because of him. He got me top coaching, made me practice six days a week, bought me all the equipment I needed and a lot that I didn’t.

I’m his protégé. His pride and joy … but only if I win.

After a trip to my dad’s motherland, I come home to my own paradise in Boston, and the last few weeks of summer are spent playing poker with the guys—because I do have friends in the league fuckyouverymuch, Anton Hayes—grilling on the terrace, hanging out and drinking beer and eating all the food we can’t during the season.

My man-cave of an apartment is my own slice of heaven right across from TD Garden. The location is convenient for game days, not so much for practice, which is in Brighton.

Anton’s right when he says my place is as insane as his, but there’s one big difference. They may be in the same price range—I had to look it up because, you know, it’s important to note the extra three hundred and fifty grand I dropped on my place means it’s superior to his—but where his place is put together and an uppity kind of rich, mine is laid-back.

His apartment is filled with art and strategically placed furniture. Mine’s got a beer fridge bigger than my actual fridge.

The overall theme of my place is dark wood and bright walls. It has character. Unlike Anton’s.

During my whole off-season, I didn’t think of him once. Not once. Definitely not every day for months. I didn’t pay attention to the social media photos of him dressed up at charity events or in casual clothes while he was out with friends. And I definitely didn’t wake up with his name on my lips and my hand wrapped around my cock.

Nope, nope, nope.

This is my denial, and I am happily living in it.

Summer passes so fast that training camp springs upon me in the blink of an eye.

A few rookies show promise, and leading up to preseason, I get a sense that we’re going to have a good season this year. I don’t say that out loud though. Never out loud.

That would be like walking under a ladder inside with an open umbrella and carrying a black cat kind of bad juju.

We endure a charity showcase, a dinner for the team and important people with money—all routine stuff. I haven’t even had to think about Hayes until now.

As if the universe has decided to fuck with me, our first preseason game is against Philadelphia.

And okay, I will admit that one time I did contemplate contacting him and trying to see him over the break. Not for a repeat, no matter how much my ass wants it, but to come to some sort of agreement that we never speak of what happened again.

We haven’t had the chance to have that conversation. The only reason I didn’t seek him out is because I realized I don’t need to face him to pretend nothing happened.

He didn’t turn me inside out. He didn’t fuck me so hard I felt him for days.

He wanted me to beg, and screw that. Ezra Palaszczuk doesn’t beg. Ever. Even with guys he actually likes. I will never ask him to fuck me again. And I won’t say please.

I’ve never wanted to voluntarily put myself on the IR list before. I’m coming down with a sudden case of food poisoning and can’t play. I accidentally threw myself off my terrace, and every bone in my body is broken.

Damn it. I should not be letting Anton Hayes get in my head like this.

Fuck him. Or better yet, don’t fuck him. Again. Because what the hell was I thinking? He sucks away all my awesomeness and leaves me a neurotic mess.

I am not this guy. I’m the fun-loving man-slut who doesn’t get worked up over anybody. One hookup, and I turn into this?

I stare out my window at TD Garden across the street, where I need to be in fifteen minutes to suit up for the game, yet I can’t bring myself to leave the apartment. We had a warm-up skate this afternoon and then got sent for downtime, but like my summer, it went too fast.

Anton would be there already. Suited up, styled hair, smug expression in place.

With my remaining moments, I take out my phone and hover over my best friend’s name. He has a lot going on since he left the NHL, but I need his advice.

He used to be a fuckboy like me, but now he’s all … responsible. Settling down even. I shudder and hit Dial.

“Punch another fan?” West says by way of greeting.

I visited West and his five kids—all his younger siblings who found themselves without parents after a fateful car crash over a year ago—during the off-season. His time in the NHL was cut way too short, but he needed to be home.

I can’t pretend to understand it, being the only child of a bitter divorced couple with a lot of younger half siblings I’m not close to, but West was always close with his family.

And now that West has settled down with his boyfriend, playing happy families, I really don’t understand it. I’m not the type of guy who people want to settle down with, and I never thought West was either, so it was … odd. I felt like an outsider the whole time I was sleeping on his couch, and I had to get out of there before I caught the monogamy.

NHL and happy families or not, we’re still best friends, so I told him what I’d done—all the mistakes I’d made. Namely, getting drunk and all the events following that led to being railed up against a wall by Anton Hayes.

When I don’t answer West right away, he says, “Oh no, did you punch another fan? I was joking.”

I huff. “No. I didn’t. But … The game is against Philly tonight.”

“Ah. Is it the first time you’ve seen Hayes since—”

“Yep. I’m not sure how to play it.”

“Leave it off the ice,” West says, like the answer should be obvious. “Pretend it didn’t happen.”

“You really think Anton would let me get away with that?”

“Anton Hayes is actually not a terrible guy.”

“Lies. There’s only one part of him that’s not terrible, and—”

“Don’t need to know. Thank you.”

A muffled voice yells behind him, something about an Xbox controller.

“Ez, I have to go.”

“No! You can’t. I called for advice. Tell your kids to sit quietly for two minutes.”

West bursts out laughing. “You should know that doesn’t work with them.”

True.

“Wesssst,” I whine.

“You’re worse than the kids. Just don’t do it again. I know this is hard for you to believe, but you don’t have to fall on every available dick. Gotta go.”

He ends the call before I can thank him for not helping.

I take a deep breath. Though West’s advice was not sound, his message is. Don’t have sex with Anton again.

Easy.

I can’t let one guy ruin hockey. Hockey is my life. Anton Hayes can’t take that away from me.

Focus on that puck. Don’t pay attention to jersey numbers. Don’t look Anton in the eye.

That’s been my mantra since we hit the ice, and the funny thing is, it’s working. It’s working so well that I’ve intercepted more passes in one period than in entire games last season.

I’ve stripped the puck and given our forwards so many shots on goal I’m disappointed they’ve only sunk two of them. That happens to be the same number of goals Anton has scored on his own.

I may be doing well, but so is he.

Damn him.

He looks completely unaffected by my presence, and I feel like an idiot for stressing about this game when it’s obvious he cares even less than me.

I expected … something. A snarky comment, a dismissive look, but no, he’s ignoring me as much as I’m ignoring him. And our playing is better because of it.

Who knew the key to success was ignoring your own biases? If I hadn’t focused so hard on hating Hayes, maybe last season’s playoff series would have ended differently and I never would’ve had sex with him.

Is this what growing up is? It feels like there’s a life lesson in this situation somewhere.

Philly’s offense comes flying toward us, passing back and forth between them. My gaze is laser trained on the puck, and I see the play before I make it. O’Ryan tries to pass to Hayes, but I’m faster. I extend my arm, and the puck finds my blade instead.

Then there we are, face-to-face, charging toward each other. Just Anton and me. It’s the first time all night I lock eyes with him. There’s no way I can get around him, so I quickly pass to Wagner at the other side of the rink, who crosses the blue line and then passes to Diedrich, who’s gaining on the net. He shoots, and we take the lead 3-2. Our game only gets better from there.

One of Philly’s rookies, Moreau, makes some stupid mistakes, which is understandable considering it’s his first time in an NHL game. Even if it is only preseason and doesn’t count for standing.

From this side, I can see he has talent, but he’s so green. It costs Philly the game.

We walk away with the win, and I can’t help but think, “Suck it.” It’s my turn to condescendingly tell Anton, “Good game,” as I shake his hand, but when my palm lands in his, my mouth doesn’t work. It opens, but nothing comes out.

The asshole smirks.

Then he’s gone and we’re all heading for the locker rooms.

“I told O’Ryan we’d take their team out for drinks before, you know, they become the real enemy when the season starts,” Diedrich says.

The truth is, a lot of us are friends. Whether they play for your team or not, those guys out there on the ice are your brothers. There’s a handful of queer guys from different teams who get together whenever we can and joke it’s the NHL queer convention. We call ourselves the Collective, and it’s not nerdy at all.

Nope. Not even a little bit.

Going out for drinks with guys from another team is common. Win or lose. However, if we’d lost tonight, there’s no way I’d take Diedrich up on his offer, but winning? It gives me something to hold over Anton’s head.

I turn to Diedrich with a smile. “I’m in.”