Open Ice Hit (The Sin Bin Book 2)

Tommy wasn’t going to admit he’d spent all summer posting thirst traps, but, well…

He’d spent all summer posting thirst traps.

“Get out of the pool again,” Zed said gleefully, holding up Tommy’s phone.

Tommy laughed, diving in and then walking up the pool stairs, looking into the distance in a very affected Oh, you were taking a picture of me? I didn’t even know you were there kind of way.

“Hot,” Zed declared. “Wouldn’t need a filter if it wasn’t for your ugly punim.”

Tommy snorted. “Please. I’m hot as fuck, and you know it.” Tommy blew him a kiss.

Zed mimed catching it from midair and bringing it up to his face before retching and throwing it away.

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Ha ha, so funny.”

Davesh, one of Zed’s two boyfriends—and hadn’t that been a surprise—stepped through the sliding doors. “What’s so funny?”

“Tommy’s face,” Zed chirped at the same time Tommy said, “Zed’s lack of wit.”

“Now, children, please behave,” Davesh faux tutted.

Tommy stuck his tongue out at him, wondering how the fuck he’d ended up in fucking Upstate New York with Zed, Davesh, and the third member of the throuple, Kevin. There were plenty of reasons why Tommy being there was unbelievable—the fact he was a member of the Queens Sea Dogs, a direct rival of the other three’s team, the Brooklyn Phantoms, was the first thing that came to mind.

And, sure, Tommy had been playing hockey for long enough to be an expert at leaving bad blood on the ice, but there was also the little detail of Zed’s injury—a torn ACL and fractured knee—for which Tommy was directly responsible.

Not that he’d meant to trip Zed and have him hurtle into the boards. It was the goddamn playoffs, and Tommy had been trying to poke-check the puck from off Zed’s stick. Injuring one of the league’s best players was still difficult to swallow, but Zed, along with his pair of paramours, had been surprisingly forgiving.

That couldn’t be said for all members of the Brooklyn Phantoms, though.

Kevin trotted out to the yard, eight-pack gleaming in the sun.

Goalies were so fucking ridiculous.

“It’s Vicki on FaceTime,” Kevin called out, waving a phone around before passing it to Zed.

It took Vicki less than five seconds to demand loudly, “What the fuck is he still doing there?”

Tommy rolled his eyes, grabbing his phone and heading inside for a beer. He’d had enough of Noah fucking Viklund, and he would rather avoid him completely to stop an argument before it began.

Look, Tommy got it—the Stanley Cup was one of the most coveted trophies in sports—one of the most grueling to achieve, what with an eighty-two-game season followed by a four-round postseason, each series a grueling best of seven.

In other words, the Sea Dogs had to beat each playoff team they went against four times to go onto the next round. Each game was a blur of heavy hits, blocked shots that left puck-sized bruises on their bodies, and quickly depleting fat and muscle.

By the end of the tournament, the winner had proven beyond a doubt that they deserved the Cup, not because of some fluke but because they’d established dominance.

This time, it was Tommy and the Queens Sea Dogs that had proven themselves worthy. They’d won the Stanley Cup by beating the Brooklyn Phantoms four to one in the final series of the playoffs, and fuck anybody who said Tommy’s name didn’t deserve to be on the Cup.

Zed had accepted Tommy’s apology at the start of the off-season, and that was good enough for him.

Tommy leaned against the kitchen counter with his beer and flipped through the recent pictures on his phone, his smile widening. Zed was a fucking good photographer. Or probably more likely, Tommy was a fucking good model.

No one had ever accused Tommy of being humble.

He picked the best one and didn’t even add a filter, uploading it to Instagram and tagging Zed but leaving it without a caption. Let the fans figure that one out.

For a second, he almost tagged Vicki too, just to fuck with him, but it wasn’t worth it. Vicki didn’t have a sense of humor, and it would just end in a public fight.

“You good?” Davesh asked from behind him. He was such a mama bear—not that Tommy was complaining. He kind of loved being doted on.

“Yeah,” Tommy said, turning around. “For real, though—I don’t let that shit get to me. If you guys are cool with me, I’m cool.”

Davesh scrutinized him for a few seconds before nodding and getting a beer of his own. “We appreciate having you here, honestly.”

“Yeah? You like having someone in the house hear you guys having sex? Like, I know there’s three of you, but holy fuck, maybe let Zed rest a little?”

Davesh froze, flushing brightly. He was a handsome guy—brown skin and wide, dark eyes a guy, or two, could get lost in. He’d shaved for the summer, revealing all the sharp, long angles of his face, which reddened as Tommy laughed.

“Did you guys seriously think I couldn’t hear you? Like, seriously? Yesterday I thought you guys wanted me to hear, you were so loud.”

“It’s a big house, I thought—”

“I’d be able to hear you on the other side of a goddamn arena. Oh, Davesh, please fuck me, please—”

Davesh slapped a hand over his face as Zed limped his way into the kitchen, a brace holding his injured leg straight. “Hey, what the fuck is going on in here?”

Tommy wrestled the hand away from his face. “Just giving Davesh a sample of the show you put on every night. Like. Every night.”

Zed frowned in confusion for one whole second before his pale skin bloomed bright red. He spluttered incoherently before leaning on a crutch and taking his processor off. He signed something quickly to Davesh before turning around and walking off.

Tommy turned questioningly to Davesh. “What was that?”

“He’s had enough of you,” he translated.

“Yeah? Wish he would say the same thing about your di—”

The wrestling match that ensued broke a couple of bottles, but it was worth it for Davesh’s embarrassed face.

Tommy had decided he was going to have a Slut Boy Summer this year. He’d just won the Cup in his rookie season, a bunch of people hated him, and a bunch of people loved him.

It made for some interesting experiences.

Being gay in the NHL wasn’t…perfect. It depended which team you landed on, really, and some of the old vets weren’t exactly shitty about it, but they were a lot more conservative and awkward about the topic.

Tommy had made it a point to be loud and proud about almost everything. At five eight, he was pretty fucking short compared to other hockey players, and he’d had to prove he could stand his ground in Juniors when all his peers hit their growth spurts and Tommy just…didn’t. Everybody had started doubting his ability to make it to the big leagues, and it’d infuriated him.

He had the skills, and he had the will. What was a few inches?

So he’d proven it to them by playing harder than anybody else—by finishing his hits, by not backing away from a fight, and by chirping every player from the opposing team that slowed long enough to hear him.

It’d earned him a reputation as a mouthy pain in the ass, but he’d been drafted fifteen overall despite his size, and he’d counted that as a win.

So this whole thing with Zed? He was used to the chatter—and used to tuning it out.

Not that he wasn’t interested in cleaning up his game a little. Tommy didn’t get on the ice with the intent to injure, but he could admit his desperation to prove himself during his rookie season had made him act a little recklessly, and that could be just as bad as purposefully harming someone.

So, he’d gone back home to Mahone Bay, Canada, hit up an old friend he used to hook up with during Juniors, and started the summer off with a bang. He’d gone to Spain with some friends in August, and fuck were the boys there pretty. They didn’t give a shit about hockey and had an insane amount of stamina. Tommy didn’t know what they were putting in the water over there but holy fuck.

Like…holy. Fuck.

He’d gone back to New York early to train with Zed, Davesh, and Kevin, who had stayed in Brooklyn during the summer to help Zed rehab his fucked-up knee.

Honestly, Tommy was amazed at his progress. Zed hadn’t even gotten surgery, healing his injury slowly and methodically with a team of experts. He still had the brace on, but he could take it off for certain activities now that September and the start of the preseason was fast approaching.

All in all, it’d been a great fucking summer, but he was still looking forward to his teammates making their way back to Queens and for the new season to finally start.

Tommy jumped on Jacki’s back, latching on as the other man stumbled. “Old buddy, old pal—did you miss me?” He crooned in Jacki’s ear.

“Jesus, how much muscle did you put on? You weigh a fucking ton.”

“Those are my love handles, you rascal.”

Jacki managed to get an arm behind him to unlatch Tommy from his back.

Tommy grinned up at him. “God, I always forget how big your head is, eh. Stand right there—oh God! It’s an eclipse of the sun.”

Jacki rolled his eyes, but Tommy saw the smile trying to peek through. He was used to Tommy, what with how often they’d hung out last season.

“You’re a menace,” Jacki complained. Tommy had missed his voice—his Canadian accent with a Colombian lilt from his parents. They’d FaceTimed a few times over the off-season, but they’d been busy enough to mostly stick to texting.

“Love you too, bud.” Tommy blew him a kiss as they started walking to their favorite dumpling place.

Fuck, he’d missed eating out in Queens.

“Saw those posts on Instagram. You good with Zed, then?” Jacki asked.

Tommy had filled him in during his stay in Upstate New York, but it was just like Jacki to check it had really gone all right. “Yeah, it was fun. The guys are cool.”

“How’s Zed doing?”

“Pretty good, honestly. He won’t make the preseason, and he’ll miss a few games of the regular, but he’ll probably be back by late October.”

“Jesus.”

“I know. The guy’s fucking unstoppable.”

The two men fell silent as they reached their destination, chatting with the waitress as she greeted them enthusiastically—not because they were hockey players but because they were regulars who ate like bulls and tipped well.

They didn’t even have to look at the menu, ordering their usual before taking long gulps of their ice water.

“How is it still so goddamn hot?” Tommy complained. It was September. The debilitating heat should have stopped.

“Global warming.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Grandpa.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Your giant head doesn’t make sense.”

Jacki huffed a laugh before sobering. “You’ve been good this summer, eh? For real? Haven’t been paying attention to the shit going around?”

“Nah, you know me. That shit doesn’t faze me.”

Jacki watched him carefully for a second before nodding and dropping it. “So basically, you’ve just spent your summer posting thirst traps on Instagram.”

“Honestly I’m impressed you even know the term thirst trap.”

“How old do you think I am?”

“Your body? Twenty-six. Your soul? A hundred.”

“We can’t all be perpetual children.”

“Perpetual child with a big dick,” he corrected just as the waitress came out with their first two appetizers. She didn’t even blink at the conversation—she’d lived in New York long enough to have heard worse.

Jacki and Tommy giggled anyway as she left. “She’s gonna kick us out, bud,” Tommy said.

“Gonna kick you out you mean. I’m innocent.”

“Remember that time last season—”

“No.” Jacki turned away.

“When we were in Florida—”

“Nope.”

“And you were so drunk you thought a trash bag was a gator…” Tommy started laughing again.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And you decided to ride it across the street and right into a police car?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about. I don’t drink.”

“God, you puked so hard. I swear to God it covered a ten-foot radius. It was like a fucking exorcism.”

“Can we not talk about this while I’m trying to eat?”

“Sure, baby. Whatever my boy wants.”

“You wish I was your boy.”

“Your giant head wishes I was your boy.”

“Can you stop talking about my giant head?”

“Can you stop having a giant head?”

“Can you stop having such a small dick?”

Tommy laughed. “So you’ve looked at my dick.”

“I mean, it’s hard to spot.”

“You know, having a small dick isn’t shameful, Jacki. Not that I have one. But if I did.”

“Mmm-hm. Uh, didn’t you call yourself a size queen last year?”

“That was the old Tommy. New Tommy is sensitive to other people’s insecurities and feelings.”

Jacki snorted. “Right. That seems likely.”

“I’m, like, the most empathetic person on the team.”

This time, Jacki laughed loudly. “Sorry, how big is my head?”

“Fucking humongous. I mean, it’s also beautiful.”

“You suck at this.”

“Yeah, well, at least I’m good at hockey.”

Jacki raised his glass. “And thank God for that.”

Tommy laughed, feeling a burst of affection for this man, and this place, and the team he was a few weeks from going back to.

The new season was so close he could almost taste it.