The Tornadoes’ bus pulled into the motel parking lot somewhere around three in the morning. Beau blinked at the bright light in the lobby and stretched the cramps from his muscles. What city were they in? Somewhere in Florida, since they left from Jacksonville after getting their asses handed to them.

It was hardly surprising they’d lost. The twelve-hour bus ride from Hidden Creek to Jacksonville had been grueling. There weren’t enough bunks for everyone to sleep at the same time, so they took turns watching TV, sleeping, reading, and playing cards.

As two of the team veterans, he and Delia had claimed the top bunks in the middle section of the bus. Beau had a curtain and his own TV screen, but he spent most of the ride texting Connor. At some point, the texting had devolved into sexting, and Beau had pulled the curtain closed to take care of business. Sure, he got shit from the guys, but he wasn’t the first one and he certainly wouldn’t be the last to jerk off in the bus.

At least it had been only six hours from Jacksonville to here.

Youngblood muttered something obnoxious as Beau passed him. He really was going to have to do something about him, but what? And what good would it do? One of them was going to be leaving soon, so it didn’t matter.

Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and he barely resisted using his gear bag to push his teammates out of the way of the air conditioner. Coach Mooney was speaking to a receptionist who looked as though he’d rather be anywhere but here.

Beau sympathized. They’d been on the road for three days. Or four? They played the Everblades tonight, then back on the road right after the game for another shot at the Icemen. Nothing like back-to-back games separated by a six-hour bus ride, and then the hellish twelve-hour drive back to Hidden creek.  

He chewed on his bottom lip as he tried to figure out what day it was. A few minutes later, he realized he’d been staring at the wall without seeing it. “Hey, Riley, what day is it?”

André Riley blinked, looking dead on his feet. He stared at his watch, trying to make sense of the display. “Tuesday, I think?”

He held his wrist out to Beau. He had one of those watches that showed the day and date. Yeah, Tuesday. They’d left Sunday morning, played the Icemen Monday night, and now here they were. Estero, Florida. The middle of fucking nowhere.

From the beginning, this entire trip had felt different from the hundreds he’d done before. For starters, he’d asked Riley if he minded switching roommates. Beau would get Delia, and Riley would get Baptista for the trip. For the rest of the season, actually.

Not that there was anything wrong with Baptista. The D-man was a nice enough guy from Ontario; easy on the eyes and fun in bed. They’d hooked up a few times on previous road trips, but Beau wanted to give him a clear signal that wasn’t going to be happening this time. Or ever again, if Beau had his way.

“You find something serious in Texas, Hopper?” André asked.

How was he supposed to answer that? “Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “Don’t know yet. This life, you know?”

André nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

Delia hadn’t minded a bit. He’d just nodded and asked, “You snore?”

“Like a freight train.”

“Good. So does Riley. I wouldn’t be able to sleep without it.”

So far, the room change had worked out in everyone’s favor. He’d caught Baptista and André looking more than friendly on the bus, and when they got their room keys, they bee-lined to the elevator.

The sounds of the freeway a hundred yards from his window greeted Beau as he opened the door to his room, the low bellow of a truck horn and the hum of tires on asphalt were a familiar lullaby.

Delia pushed past him to flop face down on the bed furthest from a door with a groan. “I’m too old for this shit,” he mumbled into the pillow.

 Beau sat down heavily on the edge of the other bed, trying and failing to summon the will to kick off his shoes. “Me too,” he said to the faded psychedelic carpet. “Is it just me, or is this the longest road trip ever?”

“That’s why we get the big bucks.” They both laughed tiredly. “You gonna shower?”

“Nah.” Beau closed his eyes. “You go ahead if you want.”

“Can you just give me a sponge bath right here? You can even do my dick if that helps.”

“Not even if you were Channing Tatum, dude.”

“I don’t know if I’m more insulted for me or Channing Tatum.”

With another groan, Delia sat up and dragged himself to the shower, stripping off his clothes as he walked.

Beau sat up, a buzz running underneath his skin. He’d had too much caffeine on the bus and not enough sleep. Sleeping now would be impossible, but he didn’t have the energy to do anything useful.

Beau shook his head to wake himself up, then pulled off his jacket and tie. He kicked off his shoes, wincing as he heard his mother’s voice in his head. You’re going to break the backs of those, and you paid good money for them.

With a sigh, he swung his legs onto the bed and rested against the pillows. Grabbing the remote, he flipped the TV on and clicked mindlessly through the channels until he found HLN and The Forensic Files. As far as Beau could tell, the show was broadcast twenty-four-seven in every cheap motel across America. He’d been thrilled to find Fiona was a huge fan. She’d seen almost as many episodes as he had.

“—always hand-delivered, because they explode if mailed.”

Beau closed his eyes and smiled. “It’s a pipe bomb,” he mumbled.

Something shook him, and Beau opened his eyes to find Delia in a towel, jostling his foot. “At least take that Armani suit off. You’re gonna wrinkle it.”

“It’s not Armani,” Beau said with a yawn. “It’s Tom Ford.”

 “Whatever, Zoolander. Strip.”

 Delia dropped his towel as Beau climbed off the bed and unbuttoned his shirt. As he dug through his duffle bag, Beau snuck a look at his ass. He had a great one, like most hockey players, but Beau couldn’t appreciate it as much as he once had.

Connor had a great ass, too. A great everything, really.

Pulling the covers down, Beau crawled into bed dressed in only his boxers. Wakeup was in six hours and he would need every minute of that to sleep.

* * *

Beau trudged into the locker room of the Germain Arena, one bag slung over his shoulder and the other hanging so low from his hand it nearly skimmed the ground. Thank God he wasn’t a goalie. Delia looked fucking miserable.

Goosebumps popped up on his arms as the chill from the cinderblock walls of the locker room hit him, a welcome change from the heat and humidity of the outdoor.

The ‘Blades visitors’ locker room was even worse than theirs at home. Metal folding chairs lined the walls beneath cheap metal racks that looked as if they had been bought at Home Depot. Two old stationary bikes were wedged into the hallway.

The pathetic excuse for a coach’s office had obviously been a closet at some point. A plastic table and chair were the only furniture that fit there. Showering after the game would be fun, with only two stalls.

Dropping his bags in front of one of the chairs, he stripped off his jacket and brushed it down before hanging it on a hook.

“You were right,” Delia said, taking the chair beside him. “You do snore.”

Youngblood kicked the leg of Beau’s chair and smirking. “That must be a pain in the ass for your boyfriend. Or maybe he’s a pain in your ass? How’s that work anyway? Is one always the girl or do you take turns?”

Beau took a deep breath in and held it before releasing. That was it, he would fight this battle, if not for himself, then for whoever was unlucky enough to have to play with Youngblood in the future. “Why? Are you looking for some tips?”

Youngblood recoiled. “Hey, the only penis I’ve ever touched was my own.”

“And on behalf of gay and bi men everywhere, we thank you,” André said from the other end of the room.

“Aw, man, you, too? Is it fucking catching?” Youngblood looked disgusted, and searched the room for someone to share his outrage.

“You should be so lucky,” Baptiste said, then turned to André for a high-five.

Beau stood up right in Youngblood’s face, they were eye-to-eye. “Stop with the homophobic comments. We’re not twelve-year-olds. Actually I know a lot of twelve-year-olds who couldn’t give a shit who dates who. Grow up. What exactly are you trying to accomplish with them? Get me to stop being gay? Trying to make me ashamed or something? What?”

Youngblood looked uncertain, eyes darting around the room for support that wasn’t there. “It’s disgusting. I don’t like fags in the locker room with me.”

“So the comments are an attempt to harass me into quitting the team? Quitting hockey?” Beau asked calmly.

It was Delia’s turn to stand up. Though he was only an inch taller than Youngblood, he seemed to tower over the younger man by sheer force of presence. “You know what the easiest solution to that is?” Delia pointed to the door.

All around them, the rest of the team continued dressing for the game. They had a lot of equipment to put on and the clock waited for no-one, no matter what the drama.

Delia poked Youngblood in his chest. “As Captain of this sorry ship. I don’t like your attitude. I haven’t said anything to the coach yet, because Hops has never complained. But I know you’re the reason he moved out of the house.”

“I’d rather have Beau’s boyfriend around than those skanks you bring home, Blood,” someone added.

“Hey, don’t drag the girls into this,” Beau said. “I’m sure they are lovely young women who just made some bad life choices.”

Youngblood looked around the room. “You guys are all okay with this? Knowing he’s checking out your ass and your dick all the time? I’m really the only one who gets grossed out thinking about him fucking other men in the ass?”

“How much time do you think about gay sex, Youngblood?” Delia asked. “Is it all guys or just Hopper you can’t stop thinking about? Because, dude, we have all seen your dick, and I guarantee no-one in this room is gagging for that cocktail frank. Not even Pangallo, and I’m pretty sure he’s still a virgin.”

The man in question flipped Delia the double bird. “Hey, I’m not above a round of charity sex. You need it that bad, Blood, come see me later.”

The room erupted in laughter. Youngblood’s face turned red with humiliation. A humiliated bully was a dangerous one, but Beau didn’t care. If Youngblood wanted to fight, he’d fight.

“Grow the fuck up, or get out,” Beau said. He started to sit back down, but thought the better of it. He put a hand on Youngblood’s chest to stop him from walking away.

“I don’t know why I’m even saying this, because you don’t deserve to hear it, but you have every chance of making it big.”

Youngblood’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

Delia nodded in agreement. “It’s true.”

“You could make the show if you stop fucking around and work for it,” Beau said. “But if you think there aren’t gonna be gay players there, you’ve got another think coming. And they aren’t nearly as nice about it as I am.”

Youngblood’s expression softened. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it. Shaking his head, he walked to the far end of the room to get changed.

Beau sat down with a grin. He had a feeling Youngblood wouldn’t be giving him shit anymore. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Enough personal confrontation for the day. Now, they had a game to play.