Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys Book 1)
Egotistical Puckboy: Chapter 8

EVEN AS I’M shown through the third apartment I’ve viewed since coming home to Boston, I’m still not feeling it. The places are fine, but I don’t get the same sense of home like I did back in Philly. It’s a whole lot harder being back here than I thought it would be.

I don’t know if it’s my playing, the team, trying to be Ezra’s teammate, or a combination of everything.

The game the other night was a mess. It’s been so long since I’ve played a shutout match that I forgot how hard they hit you mentally. I have one job out there—to score—so if I don’t score, I’ve failed.

Not my team. Me.

The final preseason game is tomorrow night in Philly, and Ezra’s taunt of remembering who I play for keeps ringing in my ears. The only thing I’m using to keep my mood up is the thought of sleeping back in my old apartment. I know I’ll need to get around to leasing it or selling it eventually, but for right now, I’m holding on to that place like a lifeline.

“How’s this one?”

I cringe and turn to face Gerard. “I don’t love it.”

“Why aren’t I surprised?”

When I got back to Boston and needed to replace a place, he was the first one I called. We were hockey buddies in high school, and instead of aiming for the big time, he wanted to go into real estate like his mom.

“You NHL stars sure are high-maintenance,” he says.

I flip him off, which only makes him laugh. “Show me an apartment worthy of an NHL star and we’ll do business.”

The thing is, he has been showing me great places. They meet the brief I’ve given him, but what they’re missing is the inexplicable quality that grabs hold when you walk into a place and it refuses to let you forget about it.

“Still at that hotel?”

“Unfortunately. Though with the number of away games we have coming up, it’s not like it’s much different to how it normally is during the season. How’s the family?”

“Great. Michelle has been asking when you’re coming to visit. I think she has a crush.”

“Can we blame her?”

“Fuck off, asshole. Your lifestyle has made you look old.”

I rub my jaw. “Wow. Realtors in Boston are a hell of a lot less professional than I remember.”

“Seriously though, when are you going to make time for us? We want you to meet the little one.”

“You’re not worried I’ll steal your wife?”

He gives me a derisive eye roll because he knows that will never happen. Gerard is one of the first people I ever came out to. One of only a few from my high school days.

“If you get desperate for dates to all those charity benefits you hockey players go to, I’ll let you borrow her. Then I can brag to all my friends that my wife is still hot enough to bang an NHL player.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks. Though, my no-date rule is working for me just fine.”

“Don’t you want to settle down? I can show you a few houses big enough for a husband and maybe some little Antons running around.”

Gerard is living the kind of life I would have if I’d never made it in hockey professionally. Solid career, partner, new baby. All things I want eventually, though I’m still unsure about kids—that’s future Anton’s decision.

“Ooh, I was expecting you to cringe or flinch,” Gerard says. “You’re actually thinking about it.”

“I was contemplating which would be worse, a screaming kid or nagging husband. I don’t think I could handle both.”

Gerard laughs. “Come and meet Mick. You’ll see that not all kids are screamers.”

“I’ll visit in the off-season. With the trade, this is going to be my most intense year yet. I have something to prove.”

He claps my shoulder. “I am so glad I didn’t chase after that dream. It seems stressful.”

“And being a Realtor isn’t?”

“Not with the market the way it is. I’m raking in more than you in commission alone … probably.”

I snort. “You wish. But we’ll catch up when I can. I’ll text you when I can do dinner or something.”

“In the meantime, I will continue to replace you places you hate.”

I thank him as he locks up and head back to the hotel, annoyed I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.

It’s not like I’ve never played for other teams or moved out of home, but the decision feels bigger this time around.

I blame Ezra.

Because I can.

Because he’s always there.

Because out of all the other players in the league, he’s the one guy I can’t stand and yet the one person our team seems set on me getting along with. The photos from the charity day are everywhere, and the GM and PR department are eating up all the attention Ezra’s and my “bromance” is getting.

If the press knew how much time we spent bickering as opposed to actually working at the shelter, they’d be printing different stories.

I have to admit Ezra did better than I was expecting. He complained, but he got the job done. And then with the public, and that kid …

I saw a different side of him. A side I admired. I hold my orientation close to my chest because I don’t want it to define me, but watching how grateful that teenager was to see representation in pro sports made me want to kick my own ass for staying out of the spotlight.

When I get back to my room, I drop back on my bed. Some of the team were heading out for a quiet dinner, but I turned down the invite. The sooner I get to know these guys, the better, but we have an early flight tomorrow, and I really need a good night’s rest since I haven’t had one since leaving Philly.

It’s just started to get dark outside as I finally drift off, but I’m woken a moment later by my phone blaring through the room.

“’Ello?” I answer groggily.

“Are you serious right now?” comes Ezra’s incensed reply.

My lips curl into a smile, while my eyes stayed closed. “Ah. Always good to hear your voice.”

“Get your ass to this team dinner. It’s the least you could do since you got cat juju all over my game.”

I chuckle. “You did what with a cat?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Is there a point to this call?”

“Yeah. We did rock, paper, scissors over who would call you, and I’m the one who got screwed.” There’s noise in the background. “I have to make sure you’re on your way.”

“I’m not.”

“Then get on your way.”

I hum, pretending to think about it. “No.”

Ezra curses in what sounds like Polish. “Moreau is here.”

“Good.”

“He came with Diedrich.”

“Okay.”

Ezra sighs. “Why aren’t you coming?”

“I’m not turned on.”

He swears again, this time because he really should have expected that answer. “Funny.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re such a dick.” Frustration bleeds into his voice, and the more annoyed he becomes, the more my cock starts to take notice. I almost want to suggest that if he begs me, I’ll come—maybe in more than one way—but I really need to forget what happened between us.

We’re on the same team now, and encouraging anything like that will make things messy. Maybe I shouldn’t go back to my apartment tomorrow after all. All I could picture when I walked into that hallway was Ezra pushed up against the wall, no matter how many times I told myself to move on.

The one time I let my dick take control, and this is where I end up.

“Come on, Hayes. I thought you weren’t going to let your opinion of me get in the way of winning the Cup?”

“I’m not, but I don’t see how going out the night before a game is going to help with that.”

“It’s called team bonding.”

“It’s called a distraction.” I finally open my eyes and look around the dark room. “You’re good at those.”

“Distractions?”

“Obviously.”

His voice drops to a delicious level that my body agrees with. “See, it almost sounds like you’re calling me a distraction.”

“I’d have to notice you to replace you distracting.”

“You noticed me when you were dicking me out.”

Of course he had to go there. “Are you going to bring that up every conversation we have?”

“Probably. You don’t like it, so that makes it fun.”

“For you … Look, I know we don’t like each other, so I’m going to say this once and never again. I’m pissed about the New Jersey game, and yes I feel like it was my fault. Now tomorrow, we’re playing against my old team, and I have more on the line than any of you to make sure we win.” I’ve fought too hard for my first line spot, and I’ll do anything to hold on to it. “If I want to look you guys in the eye again, it needs to happen. I’m so sorry you lost the rock, paper, scissors thing, but I’m not coming. I’m going to bed, and I recommend you all do the same. O’Ryan is going to make sure Philly is ready to show Moreau and me what we’re missing.”

There’s silence on the other end, and I wait, expecting Ezra to come back with a stupid, obnoxious comment. He doesn’t.

“It’s a team game, Hayes.” He pauses. “You must think you’re really important to assume you’re the only reason we lost.”

He hangs up, and while at surface level his words sound like an insult, I think … did Ezra Palaszczuk just reassure me?

There goes any chance of sleeping tonight.

We’re deep in the third with scores locked up at two apiece. I’d been right that O’Ryan would be on fire tonight, but Wagner is also playing the best game I’ve seen from him in a while.

If it wasn’t for our goalie saving our asses, there’s no way the score would look the way it does. My back is drenched with sweat, and the crowd is absolutely deafening. I’m not used to being on this side of the ice, playing with these guys, and having the home crowd here against me, but dammit if I’m going to let them get in my head.

We line up, ready for the faceoff with only a minute left on the clock.

Diedrich shoots to Larsen, who passes back to Ezra.

Ezra blows past everyone, skating circles around all of them like they’re mere cones and he’s running a drill instead of what they really are—two-hundred-pound men trying to hit him as hard as they can.

His eyes lock with mine across the ice, and they don’t leave me as he passes me the puck. I flick a wrist shot at the goal and hold my breath.

The lamp lights up, and relief sweeps through me. I’m hit from all sides as my teammates converge, and we end up in a tangle of strangling hugs and back pats before we get back to it and run out the few seconds remaining on the clock.

It’s one of the sweetest home-side upsets I’ve experienced yet, and when the buzzer finally sounds, the weight of all that expectation, of all the pressure I’ve piled on myself, finally shifts.

Thank fuck.

I can breathe again.

We line up to shake hands, and instead of the usual smug mask I wear in this situation, I take my time, wishing my old team a good game. Because it was. They had us right up until the end.

There’s already music pumping in the locker room when I walk in, the guys in various stages of undress.

Kosik snaps his towel against my thigh as he passes, heading for the showers. “Finally showed up to play, eh, Hayes?”

“Just giving the rest of you time to catch up to my awesome.”

“Awesome?” Ezra snickers. “That’s one word for it.”

Feeling better than I have all week, I steal the towel slung over his shoulder and snap it against his ass. Ezra jumps and throws a scowl at me. I loop the towel around my neck instead. “I need this more than you. After all, you only need to shower if you actually played.”

“Who got the assist on that last goal, jackass?”

“I was too busy scoring to see.” Normally I’m all about sharing the credit, team effort and all that, but the way Ezra’s glaring at me …

I like it a bit too much.

“Hayes, Palaszczuk, post-game conference,” Stewart Frankenhorn, the team’s PR rep, says from the door.

Of course. Because what’s some more attention on this bromance? We scored a goal together, so see, everyone? We really are friends.

I channel that line of thinking on the walk there.

We get the formalities out of the way, and then the questions start. They certainly don’t hold back.

“You two worked like a team out there. Is it safe to say the rumors are true? Your feud is put behind you?”

I predict we’ll be answering about ten different questions that are the exact same thing worded differently. We’ve already said repeatedly that we’re friends now.

“There’s no need to fight when we’re on the same side,” Ezra says.

“Your playing was fluid, though, like you’ve been playing together for years,” the same reporter says.

I lean in closer to my mic. “We have been playing together for years. Just on opposite sides. I know how to read Ezra like a book. It’s how I used to score on him so much.”

The reporters burst into a round of laughs while I smile over at Ezra.

He cocks an eyebrow at me, and it’s like I can read his mind.

You know exactly how to score on me.

Ugh, is it possible for someone to be so cocky that their replies manifest themselves in your brain?

Once the press circus is over with, and by the time we come back from that to hit the showers, we’re the last ones in the locker room.

The whole time we shower, I stay firmly turned away from him. There’s nothing more awkward than popping a boner in the showers, and I always get horny after a win. Seeing Ezra naked on top of that will be way too much to resist.

The best thing I can do is shower as fast as I can, dress, and get my ass home. Well, after the celebration that I better haul ass to tonight. I owe O’Ryan a drink after that.

I know a lot of the guys whine about having to wear a suit before and after games, but I like it. It makes me feel part of something bigger than me. Reminds me that this is my job, and I take it seriously.

If only the same could be said for everyone. My suit is navy and fitted. It looks great, but I made sure it wouldn’t draw too much attention.

Ezra’s? He has a whole collection of suits I wouldn’t be caught dead in, and today’s is a black and pale gray floral print. Pants and jacket.

“You look like my nanna’s garden,” I tell him on the way out of the locker room as he falls into step beside me.

“And you look like an usher. But I promise not to hold it against you.”

“How generous.”

“I can hold something else against you, if you like.”

I quickly scan the corridor and make sure all the journalists have left. Then I glance over at Ezra as he pumps his eyebrows at me.

Goddamn. “Like a grudge? Because that’s not new information.”

“I was thinking something more physical. Don’t make me spell it out for you, Hayes.”

“I would if I thought for a moment you could actually spell.”

Ezra steps close. He grabs my wrist, just two fingers, and it’s nowhere near enough to hold me in place, but my feet stop moving anyway. “Come on, this is bullshit. We worked well together out there tonight, but we can’t be in the same room without getting pissy at each other. I’ve seen you checking me out in the locker room—”

“I never—”

“We both know it. And the solution is, we fuck it out.”

“There’s no end to your ego, is there? I check you out, so what? Who says that means I want you?”

“Don’t you?” His eyes are issuing a challenge, and his fingers flex that bit tighter.

“Fine. Yes. There’s nothing I enjoyed more than making you desperate, and knowing that no matter how much you might hate me, I’m still the one who made you come.”

“How do you know I wasn’t thinking of someone else?”

I step forward, way closer than is safe in this hall where anyone could walk past. I drop my voice. “You think I missed the way you moaned my name? You loved it, didn’t you? That’s why you’re always bringing it up?”

I did too. There’s no denying that. Fucking him was hot as hell, and I can’t stop picturing doing it again. I want to shove him to his knees and feed him my cock, to bend him over and rail him again, to jack him until he comes so hard he goes cross-eyed.

“You have a talented dick,” he grudgingly concedes.

“Well, you know what you have to do, then, don’t you?”

“There’s no fucking way I’m going to beg you.”

“Fine.” I go to walk away when Ezra’s grip on my wrist tightens.

He tugs me back. His gaze darts between my lips and my chest, clearly conflicted. Finally, so quiet I almost miss it, he whispers one word through clenched teeth.

“Please.”