My palms sweat. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. I feel like I’m back in high school, surrounded by jocks who wanna pick on the gay kid. Only this time, it’s not because I’m gay. It’s because I’m—

“A reporter,” Ollie says, his jaw tight. “You’re a reporter.”

“Not the kind you’re thinking,” Damon says. “He’s a decent one.”

The flirty guy I’ve been talking to is replaced with an angry bear of a hockey player. “Decent? Lennon Hawkins thinks I’m a talentless pigeon.”

What the fuck? “Whoa, I did not write that.”

Ollie pales even more. “R-reporter,” he whispers, no doubt realizing someone in the media knows his biggest secret.

I wonder if he’s doing what I’ve been doing ever since he bumped into me—remembering what his mouth tastes like. His strong hands, hard body … Focus, Lennon!

“I work for Sporting Health,” I emphasize. “We’re not a tabloid.” I will not out you I want to say but can’t with Damon and Noah here.

Ollie shakes his head, abandons his drink, and walks away before I get a chance to explain. Damon calls after him, but Ollie’s massive body doesn’t slow down.

I’ve been preparing for this meeting ever since my editor reassigned me to hockey after I started writing articles about Ollie. The past six months have been a whirlwind, and I never meant for this to happen. I wrote the first article on a whim, because I found myself going home every night and watching old clips of Ollie’s games. He has so much fucking talent it’d make any sports fanatic cry to see how amazing he is on the ice. But that’s the thing; no one was seeing it, because Tommy Novak’s star shines too bright.

My articles on him got a lot of hits, more than any article the regular hockey guy had written recently, so as easy as that, Harry gave me the Eastern Conference to cover while Kevin got moved aside. He’s still covering the Western Conference, but he’s about as happy with the move as I was. I had little say in being transferred from baseball and football. That’s how my industry works. Shit pay, unstable jobs, and cutthroat coworkers who’ll steal your job if you drop the proverbial ball. Not that I meant to be cutthroat. I wrote an article, saved it in the work cloud thinking I could maybe pitch it to my editor or shop it around to other magazines for freelance pay, and then the next day, I had a phone call from Harry asking why I’d never expressed my interest in covering hockey before.

Because I’d never had a hockey player’s tongue down my throat before.

Now my editor has sent me to follow the Dragons’ journey to the playoffs.

I’d totally blame this run-in on fate being an asshole—I was never supposed to see Ollie again—but I can’t really do that. I’m the one who wrote that article because I couldn’t help stalking him and his career.

If anything, I should call myself an asshole for putting us both in this situation.

I thought I’d have a few more days before I’d need to explain, though. I was ready to meet him at the arena and tell him the deal and reassure him. In private. Running into him here, and then the way his face lit up when he saw me, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not right away. I wanted that spark, that connection we had six months ago, to last a little bit longer.

Now, I can’t do anything but watch him leave. A part of me says to run after him, but angry jocks were a nightmare to navigate back in high school and college, and I think it’s scarred me from ever trying to rationalize with a raging meathead.

“You think Ollie’s a talentless pigeon?” Damon asks.

My gaze breaks away from Ollie’s retreating ass and meets the gaze of another raging meathead, albeit a retired jock.

“You wrote that? Not cool,” Noah says. “Wait, what’s a pigeon?”

Damon continues to glare at me. “Someone who isn’t good enough to score goals on his own and takes advantage of their teammate’s skill.”

“I did not say that,” I argue.

I never said he was talentless. If anything, he has enough talent to be huge. While his stats are impressive, he could be one of the biggest contenders in the league.

“If we want to get technical, I said a trade would be beneficial for him so he could get out of Boston because his talent was being overshadowed by Novak. I thought hockey players had thick skin?”

Damon sighs. “Nah, just thick skulls. I’ll go talk to him.”

Noah remains with a knowing look on his face. “You didn’t tell him who you were, did you?”

I adjust my glasses, which don’t need adjusting, and don’t answer. I usually wear contacts, but I ran out and haven’t had a chance to order more since coming to New York, so I’m all self-conscious about being my nerdy self again.

“You’d think you would’ve learned your lesson after me,” Noah says. “I would’ve kicked your ass if Damon let me.”

When I met Noah in a bar, I hit on him and tried to get a scoop about his now husband. It backfired, but it’s how we became friends.

“I won’t print anything he said,” I reassure Noah.

“I know that, but Ollie won’t. He’s probably freaking out right now. What did he say to make him run out of here?”

I sip my drink. “Nothing, really.” Except, you know, outed himself to me and didn’t know I was a reporter. “Hockey is exhausting is probably the worst thing he said. No one would care about that.”

Noah’s eyes narrow, and I wonder if he knows I’m lying.

“How’re things in Chicago?” I ask, changing the subject.

Noah knows it but placates me anyway. “Windy.”

“I miss it already.”

I could be in New York for a few months if the Dragons make the playoffs. They’re only one win away from cinching their spot, and if they manage to do it, I’ll be following them to each of their games. I think my boss is hoping for a Cinderella ending—the underdog story of the year. However, from my research, I’ve learned the Dragons are known for cracking under pressure, so I’m not entirely sure my stay in New York will be long.

“While you’re here, I can hook you up with Matt’s brother,” Noah says. “He’ll be able to get you into clubs and all that shit. I’d do it myself, but Matt and I are going on a much-needed vacation next week.”

“Sounds great.” Totally lying. I’d rather stab my eyes out with a pen. I’m not the clubbing type. Nothing is a faster boner killer for guys than me doing the robot.

“Where are you staying?” Noah asks.

“The cheapest hotel the magazine could find. It’s above a Chinese restaurant, somehow smells like Indian food, and it still costs a fortune.”

We have a budget for travel expenses, but I’m still paying out of pocket. The only other option was to stay in Jersey, and I didn’t want to do that commute.

“You should come stay at our place. Save the magazine some money. I doubt Jet would mind having a roommate while we’re gone.”

“You do realize I could be here until the end of the hockey playoffs, right? That’s three months.”

He grabs my shoulder. “After what you did for us, we owe you.”

Did for them? All I did was keep my word that I wouldn’t print anything about his and Matt’s personal problems. I don’t want to be that kind of reporter.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Come by whenever.”

“Thanks. I might take you up on that. I’m paid up until the end of the week, but after that, I’m all yours.”

“Done,” Noah says. “And one last question. You’re not going to torment Ollie, are you? I haven’t seen a guy run away from someone faster.”

“No. I’ll apologize for not telling him who I was. Hopefully, start over.”

“Are you going to apologize for writing all that pigeon stuff? You say you didn’t mean it offensively, but it’s pretty clear he took offense.”

“I still maintain my article was favorable.”

“You’re so fucked,” Noah says. “You haven’t been around professional athletes much, have you?”

Well, no, I haven’t. I’m usually in the press box at games and in the pit at press conferences. Mass interviews, mass answers, and nothing personal. I’m never given the opportunity to ask a question. There are bigger magazines and outlets that get priority. Like Sports Illustrated and Fox Sports.

“Just because you’re married to one doesn’t make you an expert,” I say.

“I’ve spent time with Matt’s entire team. Trust me, there are more egos and diva attitudes in the NFL than on RuPaul’s Drag Race. Have fun with that.” He walks away, but I call after him.

“Hockey players aren’t like football players though.”

I screwed up, and I need to explain, but Ollie will take it okay, right?

All I get is a laugh in return.

Shit.

Noah may have a point. As I wait by the player’s entry at the Dragons arena, I get more glares than smiles. It’s no doubt because of my press pass. Or maybe they’re wondering why I’m not with the rest of the “vultures” who are here to report on the morning skate. The team plays Toronto tomorrow night, and if they win, they’re going to the playoffs, which will be the first time they’ve made it in the past five years.

I’m supposed to write an article today on who looks hungry on the ice, who’s going to kill it, and who’s going to choke.

The only way I’ll be able to write the article is if Ollie doesn’t kill me. And with the way he stalls in his tracks with a murderous glare as he sees me, I think killing me might be high on his list of priorities.

“Can we talk?” I ask.

“I don’t talk to reporters.” Even though he looks forlorn, he pushes past me with angry steps.

I chase after him, the slick floor beneath my feet making squeaky noises from my dress shoes. “Are you sure that’s how you want to play it?”

Shit, that came out as a threat.

Way to go, Lennon.

Ollie spins on his heel, and his meaty hand grabs my upper arm. He pushes me down the corridor, his grip getting tighter with each step.

My stomach does a stupid fluttery thing at his touch—even if it is rough. “You do realize I’m the one who wanted to talk, right? You don’t have to drag me. Not that I mind the manhandling …”

Wrong thing to say.

He shoves me into the room where press conferences are held after games and closes the door behind him. In his defense, he probably didn’t use a lot of force to push me, but he needs to be more careful with those guns of his.

His gear bag drops to the ground, and he stalks toward me.

Ollie’s intimidating with his size and large biceps, his short-sleeved T-shirt showing those sexy-as-fuck arms covered in tats. I want to run my tongue over them while my hands weave through his ash-blond hair, which always looks wet. With sweat, with gel, I don’t know, but I also don’t care, because damn, he’s hot.

What is wrong with me? He looks like he wants to kill me, and here I am wondering what he tastes like?

“What do you want?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“Right now?” I croak. Does he know I’m thinking about licking him?

“Money? Paying me the courtesy of warning me before publicly outing me? What? Why are you here?”

Right. No thinking about licking the hockey god.

“I’m covering the Dragons for the playoffs.” I’m proud any sound comes out at all.

An undignified grunt falls from Ollie’s mouth. “Of course, you are.”

“And I want to let you know I won’t say anything. Or print anything. About any of it. I want to support gay men in sports. Not ruin them.”

He looks confused for a second. “So, you’re not here for money?”

My eyes narrow. “Don’t you think if I was going to bribe you I would’ve done it by now?”

Ollie shrugs. “Maybe you ran out of money or lost your job or are desperate, I don’t know. All I know is a piece of shit article is written about me, and then I’m traded, and this uppity, pompous reporter won’t leave me or my career alone. Then it turns out that reporter is you. You’ve been making money off me for months, so maybe you’re getting greedy now.”

He has a right to be pissed, but that still doesn’t stop irrationality making me mouth off over my articles.

“My articles are not shit. They’ve all said you have potential.”

“You said I was hiding behind Tommy. And you’re the one person outside my family, Ash, and Tommy who knows I’m …”

The guy I met six months ago didn’t hesitate in saying he’s gay. This guy? He’s the angry jock I expected him to be when I found out who he was, so I don’t know why I’m disappointed.

“Can you even say the word?” I say and then tell myself to shut up. Taunting him isn’t a good idea.

His demeanor might be casual, but the vein in his forehead and the quick pulse in his thick neck says he’s freaking out on the inside. “Gay, gay, gay, gay, gay. You should know from when we met I have no issues saying it or accepting it. It’s the world who has an issue with who I am, not me.”

“And I want to ease your mind. I don’t want to make my career that way, and I’m not about to out someone. It’s up to them when they take that step.”

He doesn’t lose his cold composure. “Good to know you won’t sell out to get ahead.”

“Why are you still pissed? I don’t have to keep quiet about anything, but I am.” God, that came out wrong too.

Learn how to talk to an angry hot guy, Lennon, for fuck’s sake.

“Just don’t understand why they’d put someone on the playoffs who doesn’t know shit about hockey.”

I pull back. “What did I write that was so wrong?” Does he know how much time I spent writing about him?

I thought he’d be more pissed about the possibility of being outed than about a few online posts saying he has the potential to be a star but was being squashed playing for Boston. “I never said you were talentless.”

“Strömberg would thrive if he was in the encouraging environment he requires to grow into a player who doesn’t need to hide behind a sniper.”

I try not to smile, but it breaks free. “You memorized my article?”

“We’re done here.” He stalks toward the exit, and I can’t help being entranced by the way his bulky frame crosses the room. Hockey players tend to have this amazing ability to be graceful even though they’re over two hundred pounds and mow people down for a living.

With one more glare thrown my way, he picks up his bag and leaves, the door shutting with a resounding click.

“Could’ve gone worse,” I reassure myself.

I knew he wasn’t going to be happy when he found out who I was, but I fear it has killed any chance I had to ever see the Ollie I met six months ago.