Chapter Twelve

 

 

SHANE WAS surprised when the Spitfires’ goalie, Isaac Drake, skated over to him during warm-ups. Their teams might not hate each other for the same reasons as last season, but they were still rivals.

Drake was short for a goalie, slender beneath all those pads, but he was damn good between the pipes. He played like he was angry at the puck for daring to try and get past him, which Shane could appreciate. Shane wondered if Drake knew that four other teams in the league were sniffing around to find out when his contract with the Spitfires was up.

Shane probably shouldn’t know that, but he did because Troy mentioned it. Drake was exactly the kind of player Troy liked, so it wasn’t a surprise that he’d be interested in getting Drake on the Ravens. Even if, with the lip piercing and the blue hair, he looked like he should be in a My Chemical Romance video. If they were even still a thing.

“Hey, North.”

“Drake.” Shane hadn’t realized Drake even knew his name. Shane still hadn’t scored on the little punk. Hopefully that would change, and soon. Shane might admire the hell out of Drake, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to score on him. In fact that was why. “What brings you across enemy lines?”

“Ha. It’s weird, so hear me out.” Drake skated closer. “My teammate, number twenty-two? That’s Matt Huxley. He’s like… a huge fan.”

Shane had no idea what the hell Drake was talking about. “Of what?”

Drake snorted. “Wow. Of yours, dude.”

Shane scowled. When the meaning sunk in, he promptly turned the same color red as the Spitfires’ logo. A fan of his? Seriously? “Oh. Why?”

Drake crossed his arms over his chest. He looked amused. “Because I guess you play okay hockey, North. I dunno. He has a jersey of yours and everything. Actually he has two. One from the Ducks and one from the Gulls. He wore the Ducks jersey through the playoffs when the Ducks played the Predators. Or when the Ducks lost to the Predators, because the Ducks suck. No offense.”

“…Okay?” Shane didn’t feel any loyalty to his old NHL team, but hearing Drake say they sucked perversely annoyed him. “What’s your point here?”

“My point is that he’s a fan. So could you get in a fight with him or something?”

Shane’s temper roused at that. “You think I’m some glorified goon now, Drake? Is that it?”

Drake’s friendly expression fell away. “No. Fuck you. You think I got a problem with enforcers? They hit people who fuck with me when I’m not allowed to hit them. And that’s Hux’s position, North, which is why I brought it up. You can’t exactly send him a pass. Though maybe you can. Your team’s passing sucks balls, so you probably will. But you won’t mean to, and do you see where I’m going with this?”

Yeah, this kid would fit right in the Ravens’ locker room. Somehow, though, Shane thought there was as much chance of that happening as him winning a Stanley Cup. Drake embodied the word Spitfire, and Shane had a feeling the sun would set in the East before Drake played hockey for anyone but Misha Samarin.

Drake was also right about the Ravens’ passing, but that was neither here nor there. “I see where you’re going with this,” he said. “Sorry. Sometimes it’s a bit of a sore subject with me.”

Drake looked briefly surprised and then shrugged. “We all got issues, North. Look, thank you. Oh, and don’t, like, let him win the fight or anything.”

Dear God. The conversation was absurd, and Shane would have pinched himself if he weren’t clad in so much gear. “Come on. Seriously? And look, okay, I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything. I’m not here to get in fights. I’m here to play hockey and provide some veteran leadership.”

Drake looked unimpressed. “Did you miss the part where I told you he was a fan?”

Shane shook his head and gave a rueful laugh. “Fine. Fine. If the opportunity presents itself to whale on your teammate, I’ll take it. How’s that?”

“Thanks,” Drake said and gave him a bro punch on the shoulder. “I’d say I’d blow you, but I’m monogamous and you’re not pretty enough for me.”

If Drake thought he was going to get in Shane’s head by suggesting vaguely sexual things, he was so wrong. “I’ll cry myself to sleep tonight over that one, Drake.” He tapped the ice with his stick, a gesture of respect for his soon-to-be opposing goalie. “Might score a goal or two, though.”

Despite seeming a bit surprised, Drake returned the gesture with his own stick. “Like hell you will. Fuck the Ravens.”

“Yeah. Crash and burn, Shitfires,” Shane retorted, and he heard Drake laugh as he skated back to his team. Shane took the opportunity to locate number twenty-two, Matt Huxley, defenseman and enforcer for the Spitfires. Who was apparently a fan of his. A fan.

He’d had fans, of course. He had fans when he played for the Gulls. Hell, he had a few fans in Asheville, even. But there was something about having another player as a fan that was… cool. It made him feel old as hell. Sure. But it was still flattering. Even if it was going to end with Shane getting flattened, because Hux was a big guy. Stockier than Shane, about an inch or so taller, and totally capable of beating Shane up. He was probably at least ten years younger, if not more.

Still, when they were on the ice for the first time, Shane skated over after the face-off and bumped him. Huxley bumped back and gave Shane what Shane would have sworn in court was an honest-to-Gretzky shy smile.

Then he skated off and left Shane to shake his head as he made his way to the boards and back to the bench.

“North.” Xavier returned from his shift, sat next to him, and nudged him in the side. How he managed to look gorgeous even while sweaty and red-faced, Shane had no idea. He was 1,000 percent sure he didn’t look anywhere near that attractive. Though every now and then, he caught Troy giving him a heated stare, so maybe Shane was wrong.

Or maybe Troy wanted to yell at Shane about his passing and potential fight-instigating. It was hard to tell with him.

“You wanna go hang out at Tombstone after the game?”

What Shane wanted was to get laid after the game, but the two weren’t mutually exclusive. “I’ll stop by. Sure.”

“Cool.” Xavier watched the ice, and a few times, Shane noticed his eyes strayed toward the Spitfires’ hotheaded goalie. “Some of the Spitfires might be there. I’m friends with Drake.”

So that’s how it was, was it? Xavier had the hots for Drake? Well, emo punk was someone’s type, even if it wasn’t Shane’s. “That’s fine with me. Let’s just see if we can get a win this time.”

“I’m in love with this waitress there,” Evan said cheerfully as he collapsed next to Shane. “She’s in nursing school. I mean, not at the brewery. Obviously. At a college or whatever.”

“Hey, Snyder? I don’t give a fuck if you’re marrying her in three hours, get your head in the goddamn game. If you don’t catch a pass from your linemates on your next shift, you’ll be on the ice catching them from me for six hours next week, and that’s not a lie.” Troy lightly thwapped Evan on the back of the head. “And call her a server. No one uses the fucking term waitress anymore.”

“Yeah?” Evan gave Cally an innocent look. “Is that true for like, people in my age democratic?”

“Demographic.” Troy thwapped him again, but a smile played at the edge of his mouth. “For fuck’s sake, don’t even try that shit on me. And yes. It’s even true for young punks like you.”

Evan laughed and slid down the bench as the line on the ice hopped back over the boards. Shane moved down with him and noticed how different from the beginning of the year the easy camaraderie with Troy and the team was. Guys were focused but not grim and had small conversations with each other as they kept their eyes on the action.

Wes made a fantastic save on one of the Spitfires at the Ravens’ end of the ice, and the team stood up and gave stick taps and high fives to each other. Troy clapped a few times and then told them all to sit the fuck down and concentrate.

Shane’s line was up for their next shift, and Huxley was already out on the ice. Troy caught Shane’s eye as he made his way to the boards. “Don’t be a fucking hothead, North. I don’t know if Huxley insulted your poor excuse for a car or what, but we don’t need any penalties.”

Troy was right, of course. They didn’t need the penalties, and God knew the Spitfires had a brutal power play. But the thing was, Shane remembered what it felt like to be on the ice with guys whose jerseys he owned—even when those guys were wearing opposing colors during a rivalry game. It was his last season, and it was the last time he was ever going to be in that situation. And it was nice to know that somewhere, someone was still buying Shane’s jersey and was still a fan, even when he was obviously never going to play in the majors again.

It was worth a few glares from the coach, and Shane was sure Troy could make him pay for it. It might involve skating laps, but what the hell. It could also involve Troy smacking Shane on the face with his dick, which would be totally fine with Shane.

After the face-off Shane skated a bit too close to Huxley and checked him. “You wanna go, kid?”

“Really?” Huxley made it seem as though Shane had just offered him a car instead of a fight and a penalty. His answer was to pull off his gloves. “Hell, yeah.”

The crowd cheered, Shane threw off his own gloves, and they got in a fairly evenly matched fight. Huxley was a tough kid and an enforcer, so he was a lot more used to it than Shane was. But they were in Asheville, and that meant Shane better win, or the crowd—and his team—would be disappointed.

Shane ducked as Huxley threw a punch toward his head. He clearly respected Shane too much to pull his punches, which was flattering and vaguely terrifying. Shane tried to get in a few respectable hits of his own. At some point he realized he was laughing and he was pretty sure Huxley was too.

Shane laughed until Huxley socked him in the lower jaw and then in the gut. Then Shane got his head in the game, shifted his weight, and had to decide if he would go for the jersey or the takedown. Either would end the fight, and while it might be easier and less painful to yank Huxley’s jersey over his head, Shane opted for the takedown.

“Look, I’m too old for this,” Shane said, half aware of the linesman hovering near them who had yet to pull them apart. He clearly trusted one or both of the combatants not to make it dirty or brutal, and given it was a rivalry game, that was saying something.

“This is fucking awesome,” Huxley said, grinning around what might have been a split lip.

Shane snorted, and they went at it for a few more seconds, until some chipped ice sent them down. Shane landed on Huxley, more out of luck than anything. But hey, it counted as a win nonetheless. The crowd roared, and a linesman pulled at his jersey, but Shane got back up on his own.

He reached down, gave Huxley a hand, and tugged him to the ice. “Good fight, kid.”

Huxley righted himself and gave Shane a bloody grin. “You too, old man.”

“I don’t think you need me to tell you this, but get in the box,” said the linesman.

As Shane skated off, he reached out and gave Hux a discreet back pat. His team and the Spitfires tapped their sticks on the ice. The crowd—Ravens and Spitfires fans alike—cheered their heads off.

And Shane, skating on uneven ice beneath the hot lights of the Asheville Civic Center, aching from the hits he’d taken, and his eyes burning from sweat, had a moment of pure and simple love for the game he played and those he played it with. His career didn’t feel so much like a disappointment as it did like a gift, and it was a damn good feeling. He sat in the box, grinned at the fans who pounded on the glass, and chanced a glance over at the bench.

Coach Callahan gave him a look. Shane raked a hand through his sweat-soaked hair and met that look with one of his own. Then he turned his attention toward the opposing team’s box, where Matt Huxley was sitting in the box and smiling like he really had won a car.

 

 

THEY MET for drinks at Tombstone after the game—which the Ravens lost again, goddammit—and Matt Huxley came up to Shane immediately. He threw his arm around Shane and said, “I’m buying you a beer. Man, thanks for that. I’m a huge fan of yours.” He was also carrying something over his other arm that looked suspiciously like a Ducks’ jersey. “I bet Drake told you that too, goddamn it.”

“Yup,” said Drake, who appeared next to him. “Don’t pretend you’re mad, Hux.”

Drake wasn’t an inch over five foot eight—in combat boots. His eyes were the same dark blue as his hair and rimmed just a bit with eyeliner. He raised his beer. “You guys suck. Also I told you that you wouldn’t score a goal.”

“Fuck you,” said Shane, cheerfully enough. “I got an assist, you asshole. Where’re we at?”

Drake, Huxley, and Huxley’s defenseman partner, Shawn Murphy, were seated at a table with Wes Kelly, Cory Martin, Evan Snyder, and Xavier Matthews. There was another guy next to Drake who Shane didn’t recognize. He had dark hair that was half in his face, fair skin, and a full mouth. He was also ignoring everyone and messing with his phone.

Shane slid into a seat by Matthews and fell into the usual postgame talk. Hux did indeed want him to sign his jersey, which was embarrassing as hell and made everyone tease him, but Shane did it anyway. Hux’s lip was swollen, and Shane told him he managed to punch through to Shane’s spine and probably bruised it. Hux bought him a beer, and they were good.

“I can’t believe we’re having drinks with the enemy,” Evan said, after the waitress—presumably the girl he was in love with, since he flirted with her for five minutes before anyone could order—had left. “A lot different than last year.”

“Yeah. My team stared in shock when I said I was meeting some of y’all out for drinks,” said Drake, and for the first time, Shane noticed the slight Southern drawl. “Good game. I guess.”

“You should have had that second goal, though,” said the guy next to him, without looking up from his phone. “Weak on the stick side, Isaac.”

Drake rolled his eyes. “My boyfriend, art student who moonlights as my goalie coach. Oh, hey, North. This is my boyfriend, Laurent.”

Laurent looked up finally and met Shane’s eyes. His own were dark and thickly lashed, and he looked at Shane as though he expected Shane to stab him with his fork. “Hi.”

“Hey. It’s Shane,” Shane said. It finally clicked who the kid was. “You’re St. Savoy’s kid?” He wondered what magic had made Laurent so hot, but that was probably not something he should ask.

Laurent’s dark eyes went flat and cold. Shane could easily see that gaze staring out at him from a goalie mask. “Not anymore.”

“Ah.” Well, all right then. Good for him. Shane couldn’t imagine how much that sucked, living with a guy like Denis.

“Man, Savvy J, I wish you were still here.” Wes leaned forward. “Shit’s so much better. It’s like a whole different world in the locker room now. We actually get to play hockey.”

“Don’t call me that,” Laurent snapped. “You know I hate that nickname.” He might not look exactly like his dad, but apparently he’d picked up all of St. Savoy Sr.’s charm. Though Shane supposed it might be a defense mechanism, and who could really blame him for that?

“Sorry,” said Wes, and he sounded like he genuinely meant that. “Habit, man. Should I call you Laurent? I don’t think I’ve ever said your first name.”

“Because I never wanted any of you to talk to me.” Laurent showed something that might have been a smile. Shane wasn’t sure. “And none of you say my name right, anyway. Even Isaac.”

“Call him Saint,” said Drake—Isaac—with a grin at Laurent. “It makes him less cranky.”

“You’re an art student?” Wes asked, pressing on. Goddamn goalies. They were impossible. Wes was clearly determined to make up for not engaging with his fellow goalie by pestering Laurent into talking to him.

Laurent nodded. “Yeah. Well, art and business. I’m enrolled at Wofford College.”

“That’s great, Sav—Saint,” Wes corrected, still with the same sincerity in his voice. “Always felt bad that your old man was such a dick. I know we should have been friends when you were here, what with that whole goalie-brotherhood thing. But, well… you know.”

“Yeah.” Laurent’s voice was soft enough that it was almost drowned by the music playing in the bar. “I know.” He shifted slightly closer to Isaac, who glanced at him inquiringly. Laurent gave a slight shrug.

Xavier Matthews regarded Isaac and Laurent with something that looked like envy. Shane wondered if anyone else noticed, but probably not. Hell, he didn’t even think Drake noticed, though he was certainly friendly enough with Xavier. Even Saint, for all his prickliness and initial coldness, seemed to get along with the Ravens’ captain.

Shane stuck around for an hour or so. Then he paid his tab and made his farewells. He liked his teammates and enjoyed hanging out with them, and he even liked getting to know a few of the Spitfires. But he hoped to hook up with Troy at some point, and the beer at Tombstone was so good he worried he’d end up smashed and someone would have to take him home. Lame.

“Got a hot date, North?” Cory asked, his eyes liquor-bright and friendly. It was hard to imagine how Cory Martin had dealt with the situation in the locker room and with the team the year before. If he was a bird, he wasn’t a raven. He was something way more annoying, bright, and chatty. A parrot, maybe. Or a macaw.

“Nah. It’s just past my bedtime.” Shane tossed a few dollars on the table for a tip. He shook hands with the Spitfires, got a bro hug from a still-happy Huxley, and exchanged a polite nod with Laurent when it was obvious the guy wasn’t into being touched. “See you Shitfires later.”

“Fuck off, Assville Raven,” said Drake as he raised his beer with a grin.

Shane made his way outside, pulled his fleece jacket—the warmest one he owned—around him, and headed for his car. The Rabbit put up a good effort in the weather, but he didn’t think the little car could take another winter. It was made for warmer climates.

It took the car a few tries to start up, and it was barely warm by the time he pulled into his apartment complex. But Shane barely noticed. He was happy there, he realized. And it wasn’t just the regular sex thing either. That was nice, but it was more than that. He liked his teammates, he liked playing hockey, and he was glad, in the end, that he’d come there. That restless discontent from earlier in the season was gone, replaced by the simple happiness of playing the sport he loved. On the flipside he had no idea what to do next season, but maybe… maybe playing another season wasn’t entirely out of the question. Maybe.

Or, okay, fine. Maybe that coaching thing wasn’t such a bad idea. It held more appeal than playing another year.

Once he was in his apartment, Shane kicked off his shoes and changed his clothes. He was just about to text Troy when there was a knock at his door.

Thinking it was Troy, Shane padded over and opened the door with a lazy “I was wondering if you’d—oh, hey.” He stopped immediately as he realized there wasn’t a tall, scowling, dark-haired, head coach on his doorstep… but a mopey-looking blond team captain.

“Hey, are you—is this a bad time?” Xavier held up a six-pack of Ballast Point. “I brought beer.”

Instead of telling him it was a bad time, Shane stepped back and gestured him in. He had a feeling he knew what it was about, and he supposed it was good that Xavier felt comfortable enough to mope about his love life to Shane—even if he had no idea what he could say. “Come in. You can put the beer in the fridge.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “It’s through there.”

“Cool. You got a bottle opener?”

“Yeah, it’s on the counter.”

Shane went into the living room and checked his phone, glad he hadn’t sent that message to Troy as he switched it to vibrate and placed it on the coffee table. Xavier came back in, handed Shane a beer, and took a seat next to him on the couch.

“It’s from San Diego,” Xavier said. “Uh. The beer. You heard of the brewery?”

“Yeah,” said Shane, and he took a sip. “They’re one of Alani’s sponsors, so she took me on a private tour. It was pretty sweet.”

“Cool.” Xavier stared down at his beer and then took a drink. A long one. Like he was trying to drink half his beer in one swallow.

As much as Shane wanted to suggest playing a video game or something, he knew there was a reason Xavier was there, and they might as well go ahead and get to it. “Is everything okay, Matty?”

Xavier stared at his beer and picked at the corner of the label. Shane had read somewhere that it meant you were horny if you did that. “Not really.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Nope.” Xavier leaned forward and put his beer carefully down on the table. “I really don’t.”

Before Shane could say anything else, Xavier leaned in closer. It took Shane a second to realize that Xavier was going to try and kiss him. He reached out and put a hand on Xavier’s chest. “Hey, Xavier—” Fuck. What the hell was he supposed to say?

Xavier’s eyes widened in horror, and he moved away from Shane like a shot. “Oh, fuck my life. You’re not gay, are you? Jesus.” He ran a hand through his blond hair and shifted away from Shane on the couch. “I’m sorry. I thought… ugh, I thought wrong, obviously. Sorry. Can we pretend I never did that?”

“No, wait. Hey. You’re not wrong,” Shane said carefully. He thought back to all the times he could have come out to Xavier and hadn’t. This time Shane knew he had to. More importantly, he wanted to. He was ready. “I’m gay. It’s not that.” After all the years of thinking it would be a big deal, it was surprisingly easy to say.

“Oh.” Xavier gave a self-deprecating laugh. “You’re gay and just not into me. Got it.”

“Are you kidding? Have you seen yourself? You’re hot as hell, Matthews. That’s not it.” Shane had no idea how to deal with this without explaining he was sleeping with Troy. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Yeah. It never is.” Xavier picked up the beer again and went back to pulling at the label. He looked even sadder than before. A sad, hot underwear model who was a professional athlete. Xavier should be somewhere getting laid, not looking sad on Shane’s couch. And sure, maybe he’d come there to get laid, but goddamn. Xavier could do a lot better than a thirty-six-year-old hockey veteran who had it bad for his coach.

Speaking of, he should probably explain in a way that didn’t make Matthews feel like shit but also didn’t out that he was sleeping with Troy. “There are a lot of—uh, so, it’s just that—it’s complicated.” Great. That was basically useless.

Xavier scowled. “Spare me the bullshit, North. Just say you’re not into me. Okay? Trust me. I’ve heard it before. And you don’t have to make up reasons.”

“I’m not making up anything.” Shane moved just a bit closer. “I’m trying to be honest with you, since you were honest with me. Okay?”

Xavier nodded and leaned back against the couch. “Okay. Look. I know you’re leaving, North. We all know that. You’ve told us a million times. And I’m not asking you to marry me, dude. I just wanted to have sex with you.”

“I—uh.” Shane was at a loss. What did he do? Say thank you? Fuck. It was awkward as hell. And could he really say with certainty that he was going to leave after the season ended, when he had just entertained the thought of sticking around? “So, the thing is, I’m sort of seeing someone.” There. That was true. Vague as hell, but true.

Xavier nodded and appeared unsurprised. “Believe me, I’m used to hearing that too.”

“This about Drake?” Shane asked, even though he knew the answer. Because while he was flattered that Xavier wanted to sleep with him, he had a feeling he was nowhere near Xavier’s type. He was just convenient, which… well, that made him think about Troy and how it was absolutely not like that with him.

Oh God. Shane had feelings for him. Troy. He had feelings for Troy, and he hadn’t realized it until the hot team captain tried to have no-strings-attached sex with him. Shane almost laughed at the absurdity.

“We… it wasn’t really anything,” Xavier mumbled and added under his breath, “to him.”

Ah. That made a lot more sense. “But you guys did have a thing. Is that what I’m getting here?”

“Yeah. We hooked up a few times. But he’s… well, he’s always been out, and I wasn’t. He wasn’t into that, and by the time I’d come out to the team, he was already with St. Savoy. So.” Xavier sat up, grabbed his beer, and took another very long drink. “Can I have another one of these? If I can’t get laid, I can at least get drunk.”

“Sure,” said Shane, pointedly not mentioning that Xavier had brought the beer and could technically have all of them if he wanted. “I’ll even get you one. You might want to drink it slower, though. That’s some pretty high-gravity shit, there.”

Xavier rolled his eyes. “I get rejected and a lecture? That sucks.”

“Stop it.” Shane went, grabbed another beer, and came back and gave it to Xavier along with a PlayStation controller. “You’ll get NHL 17 and a couch to crash on too. How’s that?”

That got a smile out of Xavier, finally. “Yeah, okay. Also, I didn’t know you were seeing anyone. Did you meet them here? Does he have a brother?”

Shane absolutely did not want to talk about that. “It’s pretty new,” he said. “And I’m not sure if it’s… like I said, man. It’s complicated. Can we not talk about it?”

“Sure.” Xavier made a face. “I still feel embarrassed, though. Like maybe you’re making it up just to be nice about turning me down.”

“Well, I’m not that nice, and I’m not making it up. And listen, I’m flattered as hell, even if I think you might have a concussion, since there are way better-looking guys than me on our team.”

“Yeah, well. Evan went home with the waitress, Drake’s not into threesomes, and Coach Callahan is like, fortysomething.”

Shane let that go about Callahan. “Evan—wait. Why’d you put him on that list?”

“I just have a feeling he might swing both ways,” said Xavier. “Even if he’s not really my type.”

“What is your type?” Shane asked. “Me and Drake don’t really have anything in common.”

“Other than you’re both assholes.” Xavier raised his beer with a slight smile. “I don’t even know what my type is. Isn’t that sad? I haven’t been able to really figure it out yet.”

“You figured out I was gay, though.” Shane started the game and navigated through the menus to find the right settings. “Not very many people pick up on that.”

“I kinda got the idea when you were really emphatic how Alani wasn’t your girlfriend.” Xavier said. “Like, I thought maybe it was so that the guys knew you didn’t have dibs or anything. Don’t look at me like that, okay. I know it’s awful bro verbiage. But then you looked like you’d murder anyone who hit on her.”

“Yeah?” Huh. Shane wondered if his other teammates had made the same assumption, just without the “trying to kiss him” thing.

“Well.” Xavier gave him a sheepish smile. “Also, remember last week when you tossed me your phone and told me to put on that pregame playlist?”

“I remember. Yeah.”

Xavier’s sheepish smile slid into a grin. “You had the Grindr app on your phone. So.”

Ah, well. Yes, that would be a clue—even though Shane hadn’t opened it in ages and had, just a few days earlier, taken it off completely so he could free up some memory space. “Wow, yeah. Okay. That’d be a pretty good hint. Now pick your team, and let’s get this game started. This is probably the only way I can ever kick your ass in hockey.”

Xavier rolled his eyes and obediently selected the Hurricanes. Shane picked the Ducks in memory of his encounter with Huxley, and they settled in to play the game. Xavier drank two more beers, and Shane finally called it quits when the last game ended with him winning 10-2. Xavier’s tolerance for anything with more alcohol content than a Miller Lite was terrible. “You’re drunk, man.”

“The Hurricanes suck, s’why,” Xavier slurred, but he agreeably put the controller on the table, took off his shoes, and flopped back on the couch. Shane went to get a pillow and a blanket from his bedroom.

“You know, I wouldn’t hold you to anything if you wanted to blow me.” Xavier stared up at him when Shane returned to the living room and dropped the pillow and fleece blanket on his chest. Xavier grasped it like a lifeline. “I’d even return the favor. Unless I passed out. I don’t know if you’re my type, but you aren’t, like, hideous. And your tattoos are hot.”

Amused, Shane shook his head fondly. “Pass out already, Matty.”

“’Kay. Night, North.”

Shane was pretty sure he was asleep before Shane retrieved his phone from the coffee table. A glance showed he had some missed messages from Troy, which were all filthy and immediately got his blood heating. He was just thinking about how to put his hard-on to good use—jerking off in his room with Xavier passed out on his couch was totally acceptable—when someone knocked at the door.

That time, it was a scowling, dark-haired head coach. Shane frowned at him and stepped aside so Troy could come in. “It’s one in the morning, Cally.”

“And I told you I wanted to put you on your knees and fuck your mouth with my—” Troy stopped, and his light eyes narrowed as he took in Xavier’s sleeping form. “You got company?”

“Yeah. Xavier Matthews. He got sad and drunk and passed out on my couch.”

Troy brushed past him, immediately headed to Shane’s room, and barely spared Matthews a glance on his way. But once Shane followed him in and closed the door, Troy took off his coat and asked, “Why’s he sad? Do I want to know?”

Did he? Shane had no idea. “He’s got a thing for Drake. The Spitfires’ goalie, not the Canadian rapper.”

“There’s a Canadian rapper named Drake?” Troy carelessly tossed his coat on the floor. “There are Canadian rappers?”

“You’re so out of touch.” Shane moved in closer, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized he should probably tell Troy that he’d just come out to Xavier. “So, uh…. Matthews was hung up on Drake, figured out I was gay, and came here to make a pass at me.”

“What?” Troy’s eyes snapped. “The fuck he did.”

Surprised at the vehemence of his reaction, Shane was momentarily robbed of his ability to respond with a quip. “Uh… I said no, obviously.”

“Why obviously? Maybe he’s passed out because you blew him.”

Shane stared so hard at Troy that his eyes started to water. “Are you jealous?”

Troy’s glare hit Shane with the same force as Matt Huxley’s fists. “Fuck.”

“Since it’s you, that probably means yes. I didn’t do anything with him, and I wouldn’t. Okay? And yeah, fine. Some of that is because we… haven’t had that talk, but—”

“What talk is that?” Troy interrupted. “The one where we say we’re not sleeping with other people?”

The one where we say this isn’t just about sex. Shane didn’t know how to say that. “I’m not sleeping with anyone else, Troy. Jesus. I don’t have the time for that.”

That was maybe not the right thing to say. Troy’s eyes flashed at him. “That the only reason?”

“Are you kidding me with this?” Shane buried his face in his hands. “No, of course that’s not the only reason. It’s not even a reason. I’m not sleeping with anyone else because of this thing we have, is that what you want me to say?”

Troy gave a short laugh. “I don’t know what I want you to say. Which, it wouldn’t matter anyway, because if I wanted you to say it, you wouldn’t out of spite.”

“That is how we do things,” Shane agreed. He held his hands up and tried to steer the conversation away from serious issues that they should really discuss without the Ravens’ captain sleeping in the living room. “You want to have some kind of relationship talk right now, or try and fuck real quiet so that Matthews doesn’t hear us?”

“The fucked up thing here, North? I don’t really know the answer to that.” Troy glanced at the bed and then at Shane. “That’s my fucking problem with you.”

“Your problem is you don’t know if you want to fuck me or talk about your feelings? Really?”

“Something like that.” Troy was in Shane’s space all of a sudden, and his hands on Shane’s face were chilled in contrast to the warmth of his body. “I want to fuck you all the time. Even when you showed up and mouthed off in my office the day we met. That’s not the problem.”

“Okay, one,” Shane said against Troy’s mouth as they kissed, “I was not mouthing off. You were being your normal charming self. Two, what’s the problem? That you want to talk about feelings, or that you have them?”

“I’m not a goddamn robot.” They started to take each other’s clothes off, somehow—all hands and awkward fumbling in their haste. “You drive me up a fucking wall, Shane.”

“Everyone and everything drives you up a fucking wall, Troy.” Shane gave him a gentle shove toward the bed. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Troy grabbed his wrists, turned them around, and then half pushed and half walked Shane until he hit the edge of the bed with the back of his knees. Troy pushed Shane down, which was dumb because he was too tall to lie that way with another equally tall person on top of him. Troy didn’t seem to care, though.

“We’re not having a conversation about this while we’re fucking,” Troy informed him.

“You’re the one who won’t stop talking,” Shane pointed out as he reached for Troy’s pants. “Do you wear dress pants to bed? Seriously, put on some jeans.”

“You’ve seen what I wear to bed. Could you stop pulling the zipper like that? Your oafish hands are already the reason I had to have an awkward conversation with my tailor.”

Shane gave a delighted laugh. “I’m so not sorry.”

“I didn’t think so.” Troy kissed him, and they tried to rearrange themselves. Shane attempted to lie on the bed like a normal person, and Troy tried to do the same. They had the same goal and yet were constantly in each other’s way, which… if Shane were in the mood to think about “their relationship” that probably defined it as well as anything else.

“So we’re going with fucking?”

“We’re going with shut the fuck up. That’s what we’re going with.” Troy pulled at Shane’s running pants. It was a lot easier to get those off, since it didn’t involve any complicated buttons or zippers. Shane lifted his hips, and Troy made short work of them, along with Shane’s underwear. “Take your shirt off. Don’t fucking argue. Just do it.”

Shane did so and eyed Troy suspiciously as Troy unbuttoned his own shirt. “Why are you still wearing a dress shirt?”

“I went out after the game to get a drink and didn’t change.”

Shane’s entire body flushed hot at the thought of Troy out somewhere, and he didn’t like either the thought or the way it made him feel. “Where?”

“Contacts.” Troy’s mouth quirked. “Why? Are you jealous?”

Fuck, no. He was… goddammit. “Shut up and keep stripping.”

They both went quiet as they heard footsteps going into the bathroom, which was, thank God, in the hallway and not through Shane’s bedroom. Neither of them moved a muscle until they heard the toilet flush, and then they resumed in hushed whispers.

“I left you a text message telling you I was going there.” Troy tossed his shirt on the floor, followed by his undershirt.

“I just read the dirty ones,” said Shane as he threw his shirt down to meet Troy’s. He was intrigued that they were both stripping. He’d thought it would be the half-dressed sort of sex they apparently excelled at having, usually in situations where they could get caught.

“What a surprise.” Troy sat on the edge of the bed, pushed his pants off, and shucked his socks and shoes.

“You want to fuck, I gotta get the lube. It’s in my top dresser drawer.”

“Awfully far away from the bed, isn’t it?” Troy turned and crawled so he was on top of Shane. “You really do like to make everything hard on yourself, don’t you?”

“Yeah. We got that in common.” Shane immediately reached out, curled his fingers around Troy’s cock, and jacked it roughly. “Seriously. You’re not fucking me without lube.”

Troy glared down at him. “We’re not fucking or we’ll wake up Matthews.”

“We’re… gonna get naked and snipe at each other? We do that every single goddamn time we fuck, Troy.”

“We need to be quiet. And that means your mouth needs to be full—”

“Hey, Mr. I Could Have Been a Dirty-Talk Coach for Porn Stars, you know you—”

Troy clapped his hand over Shane’s mouth. “And I’m gonna make sure mine is. You following, or you want me to call Coach fucking Quinn and have him draw a goddamn diagram, since that’s the only thing he’s any fucking good at?”

Shane gave a rough nod, but he couldn’t resist saying “Do me a solid and never mention Coach Quinn when we’re naked and sex of any kind is involved. Okay? Actually, never mention him at all when we’re naked. New rule.”

“Shane, we make rules, and then we just break them,” said Troy as he swung around so he was on all fours above Shane and facing away from him.

“That was the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever—ah,” Shane gasped as Troy’s hot mouth closed around his cock. His eyes crossed as Troy took him deep. He let himself enjoy the sensation of Troy sucking him while he ran his hands up and down Troy’s muscular thighs.

Troy pulled off Shane’s cock and held it steady with his hand. “Get your mouth on my dick, North.”

“You got it, Coach.” Shane used his hand to position Troy where he wanted him. He thought idly about rimming him but then decided to save that for a time they didn’t have to be quiet and he could revel in the dirty talk it would surely produce.

Shane had done the mutual dick-sucking thing before, once or twice, but it was often awkward unless you were the same height, and even then it was easy to get distracted by the guy sucking your cock and forget you were supposed to return the favor. But this was Troy, and given their inherently competitive natures, focus wasn’t the problem. Being quiet was a problem, though. There were a lot of gasping and choking sounds, and occasionally one or both of them let a moan slip through. They could have fucked more quietly, but… yeah.

Shane knew what Troy liked when it came to having his cock sucked, and he knew he liked it sloppy and wet and liked Shane to choke on it—because it was Troy. Shane knew he couldn’t make the choking noises, so he played with Troy’s ass instead and fingered him just enough to make Troy’s thighs tremble. Troy retaliated by palming Shane’s balls and kneading them with the perfect amount of roughness that Shane liked. But Shane still got Troy off first and grinned like he’d won the goddamn Stanley Cup as Troy came in his mouth.

Until, of course, Troy’s response made Shane come and he had to turn and press his face into Troy’s calf muscle to muffle his own groan. It was an intense orgasm, even with the late hour and the beer he’d had. In fact, if he hadn’t had beer and played in a hockey game and stayed up too late, there was likely no way he could have been quiet.

Troy climbed off him and sat on the edge of the bed. His face was flushed, but his eyes weren’t as sharp as usual, and he looked… sort of like he had on New Year’s Eve, when they did that jigsaw puzzle. His expression was unguarded, as though he were trying to figure out what piece of the puzzle Shane was and where he was supposed to fit.

Shane groaned quietly and put his arm over his eyes. He was still catching his breath, but he wanted to say something, wanted to ask… what? He wasn’t entirely sure, but he thought about it as he watched Troy dress in the relaxed quiet of the room. When he was finished, Shane got up on legs that still weren’t quite steady and pulled on his running pants.

Shane went to Troy, took him by the back of the neck, and kissed him. It wasn’t aggressive, and it wasn’t exactly sweet. It was somewhere in between. There was no point pretending it was just sex, not anymore. “I’m not fucking around with anyone else, and I don’t want you to either.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t planning on it.” Troy tipped his head back and stared up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe this happened.”

Shane wasn’t sure he bought that at all. “Really? You can’t believe two contrary people who thought they were just gonna have sex every now and then decided to have feelings?”

“When you put it that way, maybe it’s not such a surprise.” Troy looked like he wanted to say something, but the sound of someone puking in the bathroom put an end to their discussion.