Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys Book 1)
Egotistical Puckboy: Chapter 27

WE FUCKING LOST.

It was inevitable. The record for longest streak in the history of the league is seventeen. Did I really think my stupid superstition would somehow break that?

No.

Was I using that stupid good-luck-charm stuff as an excuse to keep sleeping with Anton without any consequences? You bet.

But there are consequences. Like being forced to either play it off or lay it all out there that I want to keep doing what we’re doing because I like being with him.

I’m half out of my hockey gear, my jersey and chest pads off but my hockey pants still on, and I stare at my phone for the inevitable call I’m dreading. I’m in no mood to talk to my father—or anyone—and it’s not just about the game.

This is the inevitable moment I never saw coming. Or, I didn’t want to see. Because I knew it would make me sit back and evaluate everything. And what I see, I don’t like.

I mean, I really do like it.

I like the way Anton makes me feel.

I love getting along with him, but we’ve never lost that spark between us—the one that made us want each other in the first place. It’s lust and snark rolled into an intense sexual connection … and then so much more. I’ve never cared about someone else’s happiness more than my own. I’ve never wanted to spend every moment with someone. I’ve never wanted to be vulnerable and feel safe with one person while protecting him with everything I have.

But telling him that and having him say this is still nothing? A lump gets stuck in my throat at the thought. I don’t think I could handle that kind of rejection after the loss we’ve endured.

Maybe I’m more like my father than I realized because when it comes to feelings, it’s hard for me to express myself.

“Expecting a call?” Anton asks.

I flinch at his voice and replace him sitting on the bench in front of his cubby, watching me.

“You know I am. Any minute now, this will start ringing, and I’ll be reminded how all those years of private coaching were put to waste, and I’ll never make a name big enough to be in the hall of fame. I’ll never win the Cup if I don’t step up. All the fun things I love to hear when I’m down.”

“So maybe don’t answer it?”

“I may as well get it over with. If I ignore it, I get it twice as hard the next time.” And there will be a next time. Because superstition sex isn’t the key to winning the season. No matter how much I wanted to try to convince myself that it was the key to holding this team together.

“Are you okay?” Anton asks.

I huff. “Did you really just ask that?”

“Well, shit. Sorry for checking in.”

Fuck. I’ve somehow reverted back to asshole Ezra, and Anton hasn’t even done anything but see if I’m all right.

Way to go, fuckboy.

I go to apologize when my phone lights up. I take a deep breath and answer. “Hey, Dad.”

“What happened out there?”

“Why don’t you tell me, seeing as you always know how to play my game better than me.” Maybe I shouldn’t have answered.

“It was my game first. I know what I’m talking about.”

“Even if I’ve been playing for longer than you ever did?”

“Not at this level.”

Yet. Come next year, I will have met his five years in the NHL.

“You were sluggish on the ice tonight. What has your diet been like?”

I want to yell that I’m not a kid anymore and that one bad night on the ice doesn’t mean I’m neglecting my diet or the exercise regime the team sets for me.

“Apart from the thousand calories on Thanksgiving dinner last night, I stick to team-approved diets. You know that. Even during the off-season, I tend to watch what I eat.” What I drink and who I sleep with, however, that could go either way. I don’t say that though.

“Thanksgiving and Christmas and any other holiday doesn’t give you the excuse to slack off.”

“You’re not telling me anything the coaches haven’t already reamed me for, so what do you want from me?” Heat rises up my neck and floods my face.

I’ve never felt so out of control of my emotions in my life.

“You might be a screwup and an attention whore off the ice like your mother, and I let your antics slide, but when it comes to hockey, you can’t be half-assed about it. You need to put in more of an effort and take the game seriously.”

The comparison to my mother, calling me out for the public antics that Anton also hates about me, and insinuating I don’t take my career very fucking seriously is too much. Even for him.

“If you think I don’t take hockey seriously, you haven’t been paying attention. Maybe if you actually saw the good in me and not the traits you claim I got from Mom, maybe you wouldn’t treat me like the mud under your shoe.”

“I don’t—”

“You do. You always have, and I’m sick of it.” What am I doing? Yelling at my elders? I send up an imaginary apology to my grandmother in Poland, whose heart just twinged and she doesn’t know why. But now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. “You only call when you want to feel superior. Like putting me down makes you feel better about yourself and your failed career. I know what I’m doing. I’ve already made it to more playoffs than you ever did.”

Dad goes silent for possibly the first time ever, but then he mutters the one thing that just digs the knife in deeper. “I shouldn’t have wasted all my time and money on you. You’re a disappointment.”

“Pierdol się.” Fuck you. There’s some Polish I do know. I hit the End button and throw my phone in my cubby.

“What happened?” Anton asks.

I shake my head. I can’t do this now. Not after that. I just … can’t. “Nothing. It’s not important. I’m going to go shower.”

I strip off the rest of my gear, grab a towel, and walk away. I’m usually good at it—walking away. But this time, it feels wrong.

My heart wants me to stay, to put myself out there, but my mind is telling me to run instead.