Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys Book 1)

FUCK, what time is it?

The buzzing of my phone can’t be my alarm. I make sure to set that shit to loud.

The night comes back to me. I was on a high until Anton walked away and kept walking. The rest of the night is a blur of drinking and coming home alone.

My phone stops as I reach for it. I have a missed call from West and a text message.

It’s a link to an article titled Enemies to Bromance with the thumbnail photo of me and Anton onstage singing.

I groan at West’s message: Let me guess. It happened again.

I start to type out a reply, but my messenger app alerts me to an incoming video call. Only, it’s not him. Well, not only him. It’s the Collective group chat, and Tripp Mitchell, the goalie for Vegas, is the one calling.

When I answer, West is already on the call.

“Are you fucking Anton Hayes?” Tripp asks, his red hair a contrast against his pale skin and adorable freckles.

West bursts out laughing, and I want to wipe the smile off his damn face.

“No,” I grumble. I don’t know how out Hayes is. He said his team knows and his family. I told West because I trust him implicitly, but he already knew.

“Ollie’s asked him to join our group chat,” Tripp says, “but he’s still not entirely comfortable with being one hundred percent out to the public.”

“Wait. Does everyone in the league know Anton is gay?” As I ask this, Ollie Strömberg himself appears on my screen and answers.

“I knew that. I thought our whole group did.”

“So I’m the only one he didn’t tell? Why?”

Three derisive looks are sent my way like the answer is obvious. Hey, just because I’m proudly out and don’t care about being seen with men, that doesn’t mean I don’t understand others not being the same. I’m not that self-centered and tone-deaf.

“Why are we talking about Hayes?” Ollie asks.

“Ezra is sleeping with him and denying it,” Tripp says.

“You’re lucky you’re across the other side of the country,” I mumble.

Two more guys join the call. Caleb Sorensen and Oskar Voyjik. Soren has been retired for a few years now, before a lot of us were even playing, but he and Ollie were the first two out players in the league. They’re the entire reason us other guys have careers while living our truth.

“How’s my honorary nephew?” Ollie asks Soren.

“Running rampant.” Soren looks exhausted. “He takes after my husband, and I’ve already been up for three hours. What’s the emergency?”

“There’s no emergency,” I say. “There’s a stupid article saying Anton and I are suddenly besties because we sang karaoke together.”

“How did that happen?” Tripp asks.

“Diedrich and O’Ryan signed us up, and neither of us backs down from a challenge.”

“Tell me again how you’re not egotistical,” West says.

“There’s nothing going on.”

Instead of reacting to me, everyone says, “West?” Like they’re looking to him for confirmation.

“Ugh, I hate all of you,” I say. “I’m not.”

West coughs, poorly disguising the way he says, “Again.”

I have no best friend. “You want to play that game, West? Really? What if I tell everyone you’re in a serious relationship with a hottie mchottie professor, but you don’t want to tell anyone because you’re scared you’ll jinx it and it will end, and then the kids will hate you because they already love him?”

“Duuuude,” West says.

“You’re seeing someone?” Tripp asks him. “Really? Mr. In Love With Ezra?”

West rolls his eyes. “You’re one to talk about being in love with your best friend, Tripp. At least Ezra’s gay. I had a shot. Dex is straighter than a blue line.”

Tripp flips off the camera.

My awesome distraction has worked, even if it’s brought up some past issues with West and me.

Once upon a time, we were more than best friends. But that ended when he retired, and I thought there were no hard feelings. I was wrong.

But that’s all in the past now. We’re both over it, and we’re back to being there for each other like we always were. I’m happy he’s found someone who can be there for him in a way I never would’ve been able to.

Tripp and West continue to bicker while I sit back in victory.

“I’m gonna let you guys talk this all out while I go back to sleep. All I have to do is hit the gym today.”

“Prepare to lose tomorrow,” Ollie says to me.

“You wish, Strömberg. Last night was the first of many wins we’re going to take home this season.”

A stream of “Boo” and “Whatever” gets thrown my way as I end the call on my side.

Then I do the worst possible thing I could do. I go back to the article and read the comments.

I’ve broken the golden rule, and now I can’t unsee all the implications that Anton and I never hated each other and our rivalry is one big publicity grab.

Whether it’s hate, lust, or the primal need to fuck and fight, whatever Anton and I have just got a whole lot more complicated.

Not only do we kick New York’s ass the following day, we take out the next two preseason games too.

Four wins. Four. There’s something in the vibe of the team that’s clicking. There’s a good chance we could head into the season undefeated. It’s years like this I wish the preseason scoreboard counted.

The game is so unpredictable. A great preseason sometimes means it’s all downhill from there. It sets up high expectations that could crumble under the slightest pressure.

Where we should be riding high, we’re all scared shitless something is going to happen to bring us down, and we’ve still got two more games to play before the regular season kicks off.

We have a short practice today, and I arrive at the practice rink at the same time as Larsen. He approaches me like an excitable puppy with what he thinks is a great idea. “So I’ve been thinking. What if we don’t change our socks for the entire season?”

We scan our security cards and enter the building, where Diedrich is just ahead of us. “Scaring off the other teams with smelly socks isn’t the best offensive strategy.”

Diedrich, hearing me, spins. “Well, whatever we do, let’s not let Ezra grow out his beard again.”

I rub my chin. “Whatever. My beard is a work of art.”

The guys snicker, but I don’t know why. My beard is awesome. Especially now it’s trimmed and neat. I’m keeping it, damn it.

We have a game in two days against New Jersey, and I hope we can keep the streak going, but as we walk into the locker room, it’s like walking into a funeral. There’s an air of quiet mourning, and for a brief second, I think someone actually died.

Trades can happen anytime. Usually during preseason, it’s a drafted rookie or someone who isn’t doing well. We’ve all been playing great, so I don’t understand what’s going on.

That’s when my eyes land on Wagner’s cubby. Our equipment manager is clearing it out.

“No,” I say. “When did that happen?”

“Last night,” Kosik says. “Orlov too. They’re going to announce it today.”

“Who’d we get?”

As if waiting for their damn cue, in walk the trades.

Rookie Josh Moreau from Philly and—

Fucking fuck fuck.

No.

This is not happening.

I blink a few times, but Anton Hayes still stands there, bag over his shoulder, sullen look on his face.

Coach Stephenson walks into the room and shivers. “Wow. Cold reception in here. I can see you’re all aware of what’s going on. Before any of you complain”—he sends a pointed look my way—“you know how these things go.”

I have to admit, the trade is decent for us. Trading our third-line center for a second-line winger is a smart move. I will never deny Anton has talent. But Wagner for a draft rookie? Wagner may be nearing retirement, but he’s a solid player and a veteran. Trading that for someone green and unpredictable is a risk.

I bet Coach used Wagner as leverage to get Hayes in on the deal. We’ll trade you two solid players for an excellent one and a risky one.

I understand it from the outside, but come on, our preseason was showing promise. All the unwashed socks in the world can’t help this.

Hayes refuses to look at me, and I don’t blame him.

“Get settled in,” Coach says to Hayes and Moreau and then turns to me. “Palaszczuk, my office. Now.”

I throw my head back like the petulant child I am and follow him into his office.

He closes the door behind him and tells me to take a seat. “I don’t need to tell you to pull your head out of your ass on this, do I?”

“No, sir.”

His lips flatten. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Philly is screwing with you. Why would they so willingly give up Hayes to us other than knowing our rivalry could undo this whole team?”

“What’s with your rivalry, anyway? It’s not like you’ve slept with his wife or girlfriends or …” He trails off, probably putting two and two together. Anton doesn’t do girlfriends, and he’s never been married because—“Oh.”

“We don’t like each other. End of story. He grates on me, and I’m too awesome for him. It’s the story of my life, Coach. You should feel sorry for me. No one likes me because of how jealous they are.”

“I’m starting to see Hayes’s point,” Coach grumbles. “Just stay away from him, okay? You play on the left. He plays on the right. You should be able to manage that.”

That may be true, but we’re still teammates, and when we’re on the ice together, we’ll have to trust each other. Like that’s possible.

I mock salute Coach anyway because there’s no way to undo this. The decisions he and team management made might have screwed us all, but we’re the ones who have to deal with it.

Coach stands. “Go get suited up, and I’ll see you out there. This trade was supposed to be a steal. Don’t make me regret it.”

“Why’s it automatically my fault if you do? Hayes hates me as much as I hate him.”

He slaps my shoulder on the way past. “Because you’re so awesome. So, so awesome.”

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, Coach,” I call after him.

He whistles as he hits the corridor and heads toward the ice.

Okay. Professional time.

Keep my hands to myself, my dick in my pants, and pretend Anton Hayes is just another teammate.

This will not be the team’s downfall. I won’t allow it.