This feels … wrong. So wrong. And not because I’m kissing a woman, but because my lips are tingly. And numb.

Like my fingers.

And my ears.

Wait … can I normally feel my ears? Can anyone?

I wonder if this is as weird for her as it is for me, because there’s no spark. It’s not horrible, but I’m counting the seconds for her to pull back because pushing her off me would be rude … right? Or maybe I like leaning on her because I don’t have to think about standing upright.

She breaks the kiss, and yep, definitely using her to remain standing. We both stumble and then laugh.

“I really hope you don’t take offense to this, but …” She averts her shiny gaze away from me. “That felt like kissing my brother.”

“You kiss your brother?” I wonder what she’d say if she knew I’d rather kiss her brother.

She lets out a little giggle and slaps my shoulder, and I try not to lose my balance again. “No. You know what I mean.”

“Sorry,” I slur. It kinda comes out as Shlorry. “I’m, like, all kinds of drunk.”

Ash always used to warn me about leading puck bunnies on, but until tonight, I’ve never hung around them long enough for them to get the wrong idea. A hello and a selfie for social media is usually the extent of it. Never done the kissing thing. That’s definitely new.

“Ollie, I need a hand,” an urgent voice says beside us.

I turn, slightly dazed. Jet stands there, trying to hold up Lennon-fucking-Hawkins who’s hunched over and holding onto his stomach. “Wha… huh?” I ask.

“Lennon got super drunk and doesn’t feel well. I can’t hold him up on my own.” Jet glances at the girl and then back at me. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need your help.”

Reflexively, albeit slower and more wobbly than usual, I’m by his side and helping hold him up. Momentarily, I forget I’m mad at him. He grips me tight, and I hate that it feels good. He feels good against me. Just like kissing him in the stairwell of the Honey Bee did months ago.

“You should take the cab and get your friend home,” what’s her face says.

There’s a cab? My head snaps to the yellow car waiting by the sidewalk.

“Thanks,” Jet says to the woman who I should know her name but don’t, “but we’ve got him from here. You take this one, and we’ll get the next one.”

“Are you sure—”

Jet turns on his Southern charm. “Now, what kinda gentlemen would we be if we left a pretty girl on the street in the middle of the night?” It does the trick, and she gets into the cab with a sweet smile aimed in Jet’s direction.

Phew.

When the cab’s gone and around the corner, Lennon stands full height, knocking me backward.

I stumble and almost fall, but they’re both there to hold me up. I throw my arms around their shoulders, and one of them smells delicious. Like spiced vanilla. I think it’s Lennon, but I can’t be sure, so I lean in Jet’s direction for elimination purposes because he’s safer. Less Lennon-y.

“Whoa there, big guy,” Jet says.

“I’m fline. Uh … fline.” Ugh, why can’t I say fine.

“Yeah, you look it,” Lennon says.

My head lolls in his direction. “Aren’t you the drunk one here?”

He shakes his head. “Not even close.”

“You looked like you needed help,” Jet says.

“She looked like she was trying to eat your face,” Lennon adds. “And I know how pretty you think it is. Thought you might’ve wanted to keep it that way.”

I don’t mean to laugh, and my head tells me not to, but I’m starting to think my body isn’t attached to my brain right now.

“Brain don’t feel drunk. Body not listening.” That makes sense … doesn’t it?

“Okay, caveman,” Jet says, “how about we get you a cab?”

“I dunno even how it happened,” I slur some more. “I didn’t buy any drinks.”

Lennon chuckles. “You, Mr. Big Shot, had people buying you drinks all night.”

“Oh, right. Because I’m fucking awesome.”

Lennon pats my back. “Humility is an admirable trait. Just sayin’.”

“But did you see that goal? That shit is why I fucking do this. Ash always said it was a meaningless game—there are bigger things in life and other bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.”

“Who’s Ash?” Jet asks.

“A shithead,” I answer.

“Thanks for the clarification,” Jet says sarcastically.

A cab appears from nowhere, and they help me into the back seat.

“What’s your address?” Lennon asks. He has one hand on the door and stares down at me with an expression that’s either pissed off or amused. It’s weird he can pull off both at the same time and look hot while he does it.

I blink at him, my mind empty. “Umm …”

“That’s what I thought.” Lennon pushes me into the middle seat and gets in next to me while Jet runs around the cab and boxes me in on the other side.

“It’s not my fault I don’t know my address yet. I know how to get there.” I look around, but everything’s kinda blurry. “Yeah, bang a left.” I point. “I think …”

Jet rattles off an address, and when the cab starts moving, my stomach churns. That can’t be good.

“You’ve been here for months,” Lennon says.

“Numbered streets are hard.” The words are mumbled, but Lennon still finds them amusing.

“Tell me ’bout it,” Jet says. “Took me forever to work it out.”

The car turns a corner, and the alcohol threatens to make a reappearance. Urngh. I close my eyes and throw my head back on the seat.

Jet and Lennon talk, but I don’t take in what they say—something about giants not being able to hold their alcohol—and the next thing I know, I’m being shaken awake.

“Come on, big guy,” Jet says. “You’re twice our size and a bitch to carry.”

My eyes slowly crack open, and I’m hanging halfway out the cab.

“Maybe we should drag him,” Lennon says.

“There you go being all nice again.”

“Hey, I’m always nice.”

“I can walk.” I can totally walk.

My legs tell me that I’m lying. Seriously, I didn’t drink that much, did I? When I fall out of the cab, Lennon and Jet pull me up by my arms and help me to the steps leading up to an expensive-looking brownstone.

I groan. “Fuck. Stairs.”

Jet and Lennon laugh as they help me tackle them.

As soon as we cross the threshold one hundred years later, I mutter, “Thanks. And not for the stairs. But, like … you know … things.”

“Things?” Jet asks, his tone mocking.

“Thanks for saving me from that chick.”

“Woulda thought a straight guy like you would’ve been pissed,” Lennon says.

God, his knowing attitude is annoying. “Fuck off, you know I’m gay.” And apparently my mouth has no filter now.

“Well, I didn’t know,” Jet says, “but I suspected because you totally checked me out when we met.”

I straighten up. “No, I didn’t.” I look at Lennon. “I swear I didn’t.”

Lennon shrugs as if it’s no big deal, and that pisses me off. Can’t he care even a little bit?

“I was looking at your tats,” I say to Jet.

“Sure you were,” Jet says. “That’s what all the straight boys say when they wanna go gay.”

Thumping in my brain rhythmically pounds, and I think it’s the alcohol, but then Lennon grumbles as if he can hear the pounding too.

“Do they seriously ever stop?” he asks.

“Who?” I’m confused.

“Matt and Noah,” Jet says. “And no, they don’t. But they leave for Fiji in a few days for a long vacation.”

Is he saying they’re doing what I think they’re doing? “Wait … they’re …”

Jet slams the front door hard. “That should alert them to our presence.” The sex noises don’t stop. “Shoulda known they wouldn’t have cared.”

“I think it’s sweet. In a perverted way,” I say.

Lennon huffs a small laugh. “I think I like drunk Ollie.”

“Bullshit. You hate me.”

“Think you’ve got that the wrong way around there, buddy.” He slaps my shoulder.

“Mmm, true. You don’t hate me. You think I’m shit at hockey.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re great at hockey. The best. We should give you the number ninety-nine jersey and tell Gretzky to move over. There’s a new legend in town.”

“Gretzky’s number’s retired. But you’d know that if you knew anything about hockey. Which you don’t. Which is why I hate your ass.”

“Wait … you hate me or hate my ass?” Lennon appears more amused than offended.

“Your ass. I want to hate you but can’t.”

“What’s wrong with my ass?” His smile pisses me off.

“It’s a great ass,” I mumble.

“He has a point. It’s a really nice ass,” Jet says.

Ah shit. Stupid mouth. “For the love of Gretzky, this is why I don’t drink. Like ever. Mouth. Stop. Talking.”

“Who knew all you needed to bust open that closet door was alcohol,” Jet says.

“I’m not closeted,” I argue. “I mean … not really. Just, you know … to the NHL. My family and friends back home know. Ooh, the great and powerful Tommy Novak knows. That counts.” Neither of them says anything, and I realize I’m rambling. “Oh my God, shut up,” I say to myself.

Jet grabs my arm. “How about we tackle these stairs, you can sleep it off, and we’ll talk when you’re sober.”

“More stairs?” I ask, my voice coming out as a whine.

“One more set,” Jet says.

“Ugh, you sound like my trainer. When I get to the top, are you going to tell me one more set again? That asshole does it to me every time.”

“Just the one. I promise,” Jet says.

“He says that too!”

Lennon laughs, and I find myself smiling back at him.

Damn it.

Mad, Ollie. You’re supposed to be mad.

Ash always used to complain that I don’t get hangovers. The worst I generally get is a headache. Today is one of the few times in my life I wish I wasn’t like that. The stupid shit I said and did isn’t distorted or blurry or something I could easily forget.

I wince when I remember being passed drink after drink, and I took them no questions asked. Then I remember the girl, the obvious come-ons that I ignored to keep gazing at Lennon across the bar, wishing he could be anyone else but … him. A journalist who calls me on hiding shit. Because that’s why I’m truly pissed, isn’t it? It’s not that he thinks I’m talentless, which is bullshit. I know he doesn’t think that. I used that girl last night to distract me from gravitating toward Lennon, and then I walked her out anyway when I wasn’t interested. God, I’m an idiot. And an asshole.

If it weren’t for Lennon and Jet, I might not have gotten away from her so easily without blurting out I’m gay …

Oh, fuck. I told Jet I’m gay.

I tell myself not to panic, because it’s Jet. He’s Matt Jackson’s little brother. He’d know what kind of position I’m in.

Doesn’t help settle my stomach, though.

The sun streams into Lennon’s bedroom, where they dumped me because it was the closest room off the stairs and they were exhausted from hauling my ass up them.

I try to psych myself up to go out there and face the fallout from last night, but a note on the bedside table catches my eye. It sits on an open laptop with an arrow pointing to the screen. It reads: Truce? Click here—L.

I hit the space bar, and the computer comes back to life from power-saving mode, opening to Lennon’s article that was posted this morning by his magazine.

For the first time in my history of nonexistent hangovers, I might actually be sick.

Strömberg Trade Saves Dragons.

While we won’t see an end of speculation over the success of Strömberg’s trade until the end of the playoffs, it could have been all over last night with the Dragons’ epic battle to take Toronto down.

The Dragons have had a rocky season, beginning strong but suffering losses due to injuries, trades, and obvious tension on the ice.

Last night’s game was brutal, ending in a desperate fight to stay alive. In the last second of the last minute in an overtime period, Ollie Strömberg skated like his life depended on it.

Having been traded from Boston earlier this season, he had the need to prove himself to his new team. Without the overshadowing Novak figure dimming his light, Strömberg proved his rising stardom worthy.

My heart beats erratically the entire time I read—which takes longer than usual thanks to the whole squinting-at-the-bright-light-of-the-laptop thing.

He still doesn’t get it, but he’s right about one thing. My teammates are not on the same wavelength. Last night’s game never should’ve gone into overtime, and even though we’re taught not to play the blame game, all of us question what went wrong and when.

It could be internally debated all morning without coming up with an answer.

I can’t delay having to go outside this room and face both Lennon and Jet no matter how much I want to, so I find my clothes on the floor and recoil when I remember both Jet and Lennon undressing me down to my boxers while I was dead weight. Even my dick couldn’t get excited about them taking my clothes off because I was too drunk, but it definitely doesn’t have that problem now at the memory.

I palm my cock to try to squash my growing erection. Stupid dick getting excited over Lennon, and it’s not like it’s the first time it’s happened in the past six months.

I try to tell myself this morning’s hard-on is over Jet, but my brain and my body know I’m lying. Jet’s objectively hot, but the thought of going there? I shudder. I like my men old enough to drink.

It’s because you haven’t had sex in a year, I remind myself. Yep, let’s go with that excuse.

While I get dressed and wait for my cock to deflate, I can’t help snooping around Lennon’s room. The furniture’s rich intricacies and meticulous matching design is old New York meets modern. From the slate feature wall behind the bed to the heavy wooden vanity and drawers, everything looks like it cost a shit ton money. The only thing giving any indication of Lennon’s personality is the pile of clothes hanging out of a suitcase.

I know how that is—traveling from city to city and living out of a bag.

While I contemplate how much trouble I’d get in if I went through Lennon’s things—curiosity about the guy is a bitch—yelling from the hallway catches my attention.

“What in the ever lovin’ fuck’s goin’ on in here?” The Southern accent is deeper than Jet’s. Sounds like Matt.

“Whoa,” another voice says. “You two are fucking?”

When I open the door to see what’s going on, I immediately regret it. Across the hall, where Matt and Noah stand in the open doorway, Jet and Lennon climb out of bed wearing nothing but boxer briefs. They scramble for their clothes, but I can’t stop staring at Lennon’s long and lean form. He’s toned enough to have a little bit of definition in his abs and pecs.

More memories from last night haunt me. Jet and Lennon holding hands in the bar, the way they stuck by each other’s side all night, and then when I said Lennon has a nice ass …

Jet agreed about Lennon’s ass, and the more I think about it, I remember it being flirty and a hell of a lot smoother than when I’d said it.

They … hooked up? Why do I hate that idea so much I want to punch something?