Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
DANNY
Tonight’s game is a near sellout crowd, or so my uncle Joe said. And with the way this throng is shoulder to shoulder, trying to get into the Civic Arena, I believe him. He and his buddy Frank have season tickets, and they hardly ever miss a game. Tonight’s one of those rare times when they can’t use their tickets. Fortunately for me, Uncle Joe gave me his even though I’m not much of a hockey fan. In fact, this is my first in-person hockey game ever, and I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. It’s like everyone in this crowd knows exactly where they’re going. Everyone except me. Uncle Joe tried to explain which entrance to use and how to get to the correct seat, but most of it didn’t stick since I had no frame of reference.
I glance at my ticket again, then at the overhead signs inside the arena. If I’m right, I need to take the escalator up a level. There are a few ushers I could ask for help, but they’re busy with other people, and I’m not really good at patience when I’m stressed. I am good at figuring things out, though. And if I screw this up, it’s not that big of a deal. What’s the worst that could happen?
I step off the escalator and keep walking straight ahead. Am I going in the right direction? Who knows. But the place is a big circle, so if I’m headed the wrong way, I’ll eventually loop around to the right place. This is exactly why I got here early, though I hadn’t expected so much of the crowd to have the same idea.
It takes a few minutes of walking, but I finally find the right seating area. Since there’s still time, I stop at a concession stand and get an Iron City beer and some popcorn. I’m not a big drinker, but it seems like something I should do since Uncle Joe always talks about getting a ‘brewski’ and popcorn at the game, and Iron City is his favorite. Gotta hold up the family traditions. The good ones, anyway.
Telling myself this is probably a once-in-a-lifetime experience, I fork over a ridiculous sum of money for the snacks, follow a small cluster of people into my section, and locate my row. There are four empty seats in the middle, right where I expect them to be, and I shuffle past the folks sitting at the end, muttering embarrassed apologies for making them move. When I find seat ten, I squat along the edge, carefully lowering the seat with my butt since my hands are full, and scoot myself back, all without spilling my beer or popcorn.
Finally able to relax, I take in my surroundings. There are still some empty spots, but even if this is the entire crowd, it’s still a great turn out. Which isn’t a surprise. Mario Lemieux is skating tonight. Uncle Joe says Mario’s an amazing player, and he is, if his popularity is any indication. But that boy is also totally fine . Out of skates, he’s 6’ 4”, with dark, wavy hair and a shy smile that melts hearts. And that French-Canadian accent? God, I’d gladly listen to him recite the phone book. The Penguins acquired him in 1984, and three years in, he’s totally the reason Pittsburgh is turning into a hockey town.
I take a sip of my beer and catch the movement of someone shuffling down the row. I’m about to stand and let the guy pass when he stops next to me and clears his throat. “Excuse me. I think you’re in my seat.”
I glance up. And up. And up. My mouth drops open, and I struggle not to freak out as I flash back to high school. Why? Because my high school crush, Mike Graham, is standing next to me. No wait, he’s speaking to me. My palms go all sweaty, and my mind blanks, and suddenly it’s 1980, and I’m a dweeby sophomore in high school, staring at the brooding, hella gorgeous stoner I’ve been crushing on since the first week of freshman year. The guy who doesn’t know I existed. Okay, maybe he does now, as I sit here gawking at him, unable to say a word. Some things never change. His thick, dark brows furrow, and he glances around before gesturing to my seat. “Seat ten?” I shake off the surprise. I’m no longer a shy, awkward sixteen-year-old. I'm twenty-three and not nearly as timid or awkward. Mike’s about twenty-five. We’re adults now. I should act like it. He smiles warily. “Hello?”
“Sorry. Yeah. Seat ten.” Of course it’s seat ten. My seat.
“Row E?” His light blue eyes search my face. Maybe like he’s trying to figure out where he knows me from? I nod again, really hoping he doesn’t recognize me. Talk about humiliating. I wasn't popular or attractive in high school. Not that I’m either of those things now, but they matter less as an adult. At least that’s what I tell myself. “Are you sure you’re not supposed to be in Section C4? This is C3.”
Well, I was sure until he asked that. Shit. I set down my beer and popcorn and fish my ticket out of my pocket. And wince. “Oh hell.” I reach for my popcorn. “I’m sorry, dude. You’re right. I’m supposed to be in C4.”
Mike waves me back into my seat. Or, I guess, his seat. “It’s cool. Happens all the time with these two sections.” He sidesteps in front of me, giving me a very up close and personal view of his still incredible ass, and drops down into chair nine. “I’ll hang here, and if this person shows up, I’ll move to the next empty one.” He grins and winks at me. “But if they all fill up, I’m taking my seat back.”
“Sounds cool. If it happens, I’ll head over to C4.” I can’t believe Mike Graham is speaking to me. Or smiling at me. Or smiling at all. He never did that in high school, and my god, it lights up his face, making him even more attractive, if that’s even possible. And he winks at me. At me . That’s it. My day can’t get any better.
He holds out his hand. “I’m Mike.”
Like I’m in some kind of dream, I reach out and grasp his huge hand. His palm is warm, his grip firm but not crushing, and I stare into his pretty blue eyes. “I know.” Shit. That’s not what I meant to say. I meant to be all chill and introduce myself like I had no idea who he was.
He frowns. “Really?” Squinting at me, he gives me a once-over, and yes, please . “Have we met?”
My cheeks heat, and I glance away, nodding. “Kind of. We went to the same high school. You were two years ahead of me.” Christ, why don’t I just tell him his class schedule from senior year and mention that I used to drive by his house a dozen times a week hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
“Sorry, I don’t remember you.” Of course he doesn’t. No one but my handful of close friends remembers me from high school. That’s by design. When you’re short, skinny, and gay, fading into the background is a good thing.
I smile tentatively. “I’m Danny. Danny Sullivan.” He cocks an eyebrow at me. Just the one. And god, it’s still as sexy as it used to be. Then he hits me with that smirk, and oh man, I need to take a chill pill before I embarrass myself even more. He squeezes my hand, and I realize we never let go, so I yank it back with a nervous chuckle. “Sorry.”
His smile fades, and the humor in his eyes dims. “No problemo.” He holds up a hand. “I swear I’ve washed them. The grease just gets into the skin, and you can’t get it out.” He sits back in his seat and watches the ice, even though there aren’t any players on it yet.
“Wait. No. I…” I what? What can I say? I didn’t notice the grease? I don’t care about that? I want to hold your hand? That’d get me called faggot or queer, at the very least. If I’m not careful, I might end up with a fat lip. Most likely, he’d kick my ass until I couldn’t move. And in this testosterone-filled arena, there wouldn’t be many people who’d come to my rescue. Especially if they knew I got my ass kicked for being gay. Mike stares at me, so I’ve obviously taken too long to finish my sentence. “The hand holding went on a bit long.”
His entire body tightens, and I swallow deeply as he scowls. I scramble to try to salvage the situation. “You know. Two guys.” I try to smile, but my nerves turn it into more of a grimace. “It probably looked like we were holding hands.” His scowl deepens. Shitshitshit . Somehow I’m making the situation worse, and I have no idea how to fix it. But it does confirm that he definitely doesn’t remember me from high school. I’ve been bullied for being gay most of my life. Not that any but my very closest friends knew for sure that I was. Anyone who was even slightly effeminate in high school got called gay or fag. And though I tried to camouflage it back then, my voice has always been a bit feminine. I lost count of the times I was thrown into the lockers by the jocks. Someone would shout “pinball!” and my books would go flying in one direction, and I’d go in the other, slammed hard into the lockers, only to be shoved roughly across the hall into the metal doors on the other side. This human pinball game would only end once I was bounced all the way down the hall or a teacher broke it up. I wave my hand in a circle, encompassing all of him. “You’re very masculine. Definitely not gay.” I know damned well that has nothing to do with whether someone is gay or not, but most straight people believe that shit.
He turns toward me and pins me with a glare. “You’d have a problem if I were?” It comes out like a growl, and my entire body trembles with an odd mixture of fear and arousal.
Shaking my head again, I turn back to the ice. “Not my business either way.” Whoever said ‘never meet your heroes’ should have included high school crushes in that. I jump to my feet, realizing I can easily end this awkward and potentially volatile situation. “Look, dude, sorry I got my seat mixed up with yours. I’ll just go find my real one.” His big hand shoots up, grabbing my bicep, and my head snaps around, anger flaring. “Let me go.” I step back, dropping into a stable stance and glare at him. I’ve learned a thing or two about defending myself since high school.
“Look. I’m sorry.” He glances around us, and I do the same, suddenly aware that we might have an audience. Thankfully, no one is paying any attention. Yet. “Please. Sit.” He tugs gently on my arm, and I slowly sink into the seat, ready to bolt at the slightest hint of trouble. He turns to look at me, and I catch the glint of the arena lights on his earring. The earring in his right ear. My mind dredges up that ridiculous rhyme I’d learned in middle school. Left is right, and right is wrong. If someone has their left ear pierced, they’re straight, or “right.” If the right ear is pierced, they’re gay, or “wrong.” It’s why my parents refuse to let me get my ears pierced. I’m twenty-three and can legally do what I want, but since I still live with them, what Dad says goes. And what Dad says is that no son of his will be a faggot or queer. The last time he went off about it, Mom glanced at me, fear in her eyes, and I knew she knew. She scrambled to get Dad a beer, defusing the situation with chatter about what the neighbors were up to, and I went to my room and blasted AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” The irony was lost on him.
I yank my arm out of Mike’s grip. “I’m only sitting so we don’t make a scene. But if you’re planning to spout off homophobic slurs at me or the players, I’ll go and find my correct seat.”
Mike shakes his head, sending his dark wavy hair cascading over the tops of his shoulders. God, why does he have to be so sexy? “I promise. No slurs of any kind.”
At that moment, the crowd roars, and I finally pull my gaze away from Mike to watch the players skating onto the ice. I scan the black and gold jerseys for number sixty-six. It’s not difficult to find Mario. His bodacious bod towers over the other players, and although I can’t see his expression from where we are, I imagine he’s flashing his superstar perfect grin at his teammates or sporting an intense look of concentration. He’s the golden boy of the Pittsburgh Penguins, and Uncle Joe says Mario is going to save the team and get us a Stanley Cup. I assume that’s the trophy the teams play for.
Mario drops his stick to the ice and flies forward, picking up speed, rushing toward the goal, and then comes to a sideways stop before turning and skating back in the other direction. It’s a surprising and totally awesome display of control. God, he’s so studly. I must make a sound because Mike glances at me, smirk on his face, like he knows I was checking Mario out. There’s a spark in his eyes, and he looks me up and down. Wait. What? Is that—? Most of my anger changes to confusion as I watch the tip of Mike’s tongue caress the skin of his plump lower lip. “This your first live game?”
I still haven’t decided if I’m going to get up and find my actual seat or stay put, but since Mike seems like he’s being chill, I cut him some slack. “Yeah. My uncle couldn’t make it tonight, so he gave me his ticket. He said this game was going to be epic, and someone should use the seat.” I shrug. “So here I am.”
With a nod, Mike leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Mario’s playing tonight. He’s always worth watching.”
I glance sharply at him, sure I’ve misheard the innuendo in his voice. Carefully, I add a little into my own tone and watch his reaction. “Agreed. I may not know much about hockey, but I know that.”
It’s his turn to look at me, and when his eyes meet mine, I don’t look away. But neither does he. “You don’t know much about the game?” Damn, his blue eyes are pretty. Words fail me, so I shake my head. “Want me to explain what’s happening when the game starts?”
I melt a little but manage a nod as I clear my throat. “Yeah. That would be really awesome.” His gaze finally drops from mine, but it moves to my lips and lingers. A jolt of arousal zips through me. Oh my god . Does he want to kiss me? No way . I’m totally trippin’. “Thanks. That’d be great.”
“No problemo, dude. I love explaining the game.”
He leans closer, and I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with the combination of citrus and sweat, and remember Mike’s comment about his greasy hands. “So, um, before.” I take a breath and go for it. “I wasn’t grossed out by shaking your hand or anything.” I wrinkle my nose. “I can be kind of awkward, and I thought maybe I was holding onto your hand too long. But they’re nice hands.” Oh, god. Shoot me now. “Anyway, you work with your hands? I remember in high school you went to Parkway for part of the day. I’m guessing you went into the trades?”
The look he gives me is part amusement and part concern. “How do you know I went to Parkway?”
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “My neighbor went to Parkway.” Like that explains anything .
Thankfully, he lets it go. “Yeah, I studied auto repair.”
A muscle in Mike’s jaw starts to tick, and I realize he’s tensed up again. Does he think I’m going to judge him? Yeah, he probably does. Most people in my parents’ neighborhood would. “That’s cool. Useful. Better than my waste of a degree in business management. I’ll bet it pays better, too.”
The sincerity, especially in my last comment, must convince him that I’m really not judging him. The tension in his jaw relaxes slightly, and he nods once. “It’s a good career. I’m working on diesel engines now, and that pays even better.” We sit quietly for a minute or two, and it’s not exactly awkward, but it’s nowhere near as chill as it was when we were talking about hockey. “So, you’re a manager? Of what?”
I groan and flop back in my seat. “Retail. God, it sucks.”
He turns, smiling at me. “What, like KMart?” Before I can answer, he’s shaking his head. “Nah. You’d work somewhere classier than that. Waldenbooks? Radio Shack?”
Grinning because Mike Graham thinks I’m classy, I shake my head. “No. I work at Horne’s in South Hills Village. Dude, let me tell you, it’s hellacious. I’m still having nightmares about last holiday season.”
He tilts his head. “Which department? I don’t shop there much, but I do walk through on my way to National Record Mart.”
“They have me tucked away in housewares, so I doubt you’d’ve ever seen me.” He glances at the rink, and I follow his gaze in time to see the players heading off the ice. “Where are they going?”
“Warmups are over. The game’ll start in about fifteen minutes.”
I take the opportunity to change the subject away from my job. Thinking about it only depresses me or makes me angry. “What kind of music do you like?”
He takes the subject change in stride. “The usual. Van Halen, The Police, U2. I can’t wait for their new album. You?”
I like those bands well enough, but they aren’t my go-to. “Yeah, they’re good. But my favorite bands are Erasure, Culture Club, Eurythmics, Wang Chung. Music you can dance to.”
He smirks and lifts his eyebrows. “You like to dance?”
I don’t hesitate. “ Love it.” Too bad all the good local spots are either closed or on their last legs. Now you have to go downtown to find anywhere decent, and even those are closing. There’s also no way this gay boy is going to any nightclub alone, even if it is just to dance. That’s a surefire way to get my ass beat. Unless it’s a gay club. But I’ve never been, and I’m definitely not going to my first one alone. “I don’t go out much anymore. My best friend moved to California about a month ago. He got a job with a tech company.” Chris had begged me to go with him. He said we could finally be ourselves on the west coast, away from our homophobic families. But with no job waiting for me, and no family or friends there other than Chris, I’d been too scared to say yes. It’s something I regret every day. And now I have no way to get there, even if I was brave enough to try. “Since he moved, my life has been pretty boring.”
There’s a lull when neither of us says anything, then Mike jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Hey, I’m gonna hit the head before the game starts. Need anything while I’m up?”
I try not to take the abrupt departure personally. I’m used to that reaction to my oversharing. “No thanks. I’m still working on my beer and popcorn.”
“Back in a minute.” Mike hops over me and shuffles his way to the end of the aisle, then disappears up the stairs. I watch him, thoroughly checking out his amazing ass again, before I look around the rest of the arena. There’s a buzzing from the sea of black and gold jerseys and a few fans eagerly wave poster board signs trying to catch the attention of the players, or the television cameras. Glancing over at what should have been my section, I wonder if anyone took my empty seat. Will the real owner of Mike’s borrowed spot show up and make us separate? I hope not.
My stomach does a little flip because, my god, I’m hanging out with Mike Graham! Sixteen-year-old me would totally be dying. Shit, twenty-three-year-old me is dying. Because we’re just chillin’ like we’re buds. Like we do this all the time. God, what if we did this all the time? We could come to games, or hang at a bar and watch the game on TV. I ratchet down my runaway imagination. The likelihood is I won’t see Mike again after tonight.
A few minutes later, he reappears at the end of the row. Apologizing and smiling his heart-melting smile, he shuffles past the first few seats and steps over my legs, basically straddling me, and this time it’s his cock that’s right in front of my face. For all of three seconds, but hey, it was there! Thankfully, it’s too noisy in the arena for him to hear my whimper. “Did I miss anything?”
Just me fantasizing about you for the gazillionth time. “Nothing.” The Penguins’ theme song plays, and the announcer begins the game intro. I don’t pay much attention. I’m too busy watching how excited Mike is. His eyes, intent on the ice, sparkle with the flashing neon lights from the overhead scoreboard. When they start announcing the teams, Mike curls his tongue and whistles shrilly, and god, if he can do that to whistle… my dick perks up, and I yank my thoughts out of the gutter. Because as much as I’d love for him to be interested, Mike Graham never gave any indication he was into guys back in high school. To be fair, I never saw that he was into girls either. He never had a girlfriend or a boyfriend. Well, not that I knew. And I’d like to think I’d know, even if that does make me sound a bit stalkerish.
The announcer introduces the starting players for the Penguins. The Blackhawk players line up next to them, then we all stand for the national anthem. Once we’re back in our seats, I remind myself to keep quiet and not bother Mike, who obviously loves hockey and came here to watch the game, not hang out with me. In fact, I’m going to pay attention so I can talk to Uncle Joe about it tomorrow.
The players meet in the middle of the ice, and one of the refs drops the puck. From that point on, things get wild. There are players skating everywhere. Whistles blow, and the crowd is ooohing and aaaahing . It’s exciting, but I’m not following even a second of it. Then Mike grips my arm as the arena volume rises, and an incredibly loud horn sounds, followed by the announcer shouting “Score!” The crowd jumps to its feet, me included, because Mike hauls me up with him. The Penguins’ theme song plays again, and the announcer very excitedly tells us, “Goal by number twenty-one, Craig Simpson! With the assist by Mario Lemieux!” He spouts more statistics while players jump in and out of the team bench area. The game resumes, and I try to follow, but it’s pointless. I just watch where clumps of players are, because the puck moves too fast for me to see.
It’s at that point that Mike looks over and laughs. “You look confused.”
Grinning, I shrug, because there’s no point denying it. “I am. What’s even happening?” The ref blows the whistle, and the players coast around the ice for a minute until several of them glide over to a painted circle in one corner. “Why'd they stop?”
“Offsides.” At my obvious confusion, Mike leans in. “Here. See that big blue line?” He’s so close that our faces are barely inches apart, and I freeze. Oh my god, I could kiss him. Or lick him. Somehow, I manage not to do either. “The team with the puck tries to get it into their opponent’s net, but there are rules. One of them is that the puck needs to cross over that blue line in front of the net before any player on the opposing team crosses it. So if the Penguins are trying to score, the puck has to cross the blue line before any of the Penguin players cross that blue line.” He turns and looks at me, and now our lips are so close that I can feel his warm breath like a gentle caress. We stare at each other, and oh my god, is this a moment? Are we having a moment here? “Make sense?”
Before I can answer or lean in, some dude in the row behind us makes gagging sounds. “Oh my god. Who let the fags in? Fucking perverts.”
In an instant, Mike is out of his seat, pushing up to his full six feet, eyes blazing. “Listen, you...” He’s furious but still censoring himself, and I’m majorly impressed. “Watch your language. There're kids all around you.” He leans in. “And what’s your damage, dude?”
“Bite me, asshole.” The guy’s not much older than us and built more like me than Mike, so it’s not surprising that his eyes are huge and he’s obviously worried.
“Thought you weren’t into that.”
The guy sputters, and his friends laugh. “He got you, Brandon.”
Brandon is obviously pissed and terrified, and it’s actually a bit amusing. Mike shakes his head. “Dude, we’re just here to watch the game. Chill, and we can forget this happened.”
“Whatever.” Brandon sinks down in his seat. “You’re blocking the ice.”
Mike turns around and sits back down, slinging his arm over the back of my chair. Does he realize that’s not going to help the situation? I glance at him, and he leans in. “Sorry about that.”
I peer over his shoulder, but the mouthy dude is pointedly ignoring us. Good. I really don’t want any trouble. “Aren’t you worried he’ll think you’re gay?”
“Nah.”
My eyes snap to Mike’s. “What? Why not?”
He shrugs. “Because I am. Why worry about it?”
I can feel my jaw drop as I stare, my thoughts whirling in my head. “What?”
“I’m gay.” He smirks at me. “A fag? Queer? A homo?”
I nervously glance around, but Mike’s kept his voice low enough that no one else has heard. Either that, or they aren’t paying attention. “Shhhh! You can’t just say that!”
“Why not?” He frowns at me. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Rolling my eyes, I lean back, which puts my shoulders against his arm, sending tingles down my back. Mike is gay. Like me. “Dude—” I lean even closer. “I’m gay, too. Why would I have a problem with that? You know, other than not wanting to get my ass beat in public for it.”
His gorgeous mouth twists into a smirk. “So then, you’d be okay with getting your ass beat in private for it?”
I shove his chest. “Not even.” Manic laughter bubbles up, threatening to burst out of me, and I try not to freak out. Mike Graham, my high school crush, is actually gay. For sure gay. Like, self-proclaimed gay. I might die. The crowd collectively groans, and we both turn to the ice in time to see a Pittsburgh Penguins player skating toward the penalty box.
The announcer helpfully explains. “Randy Hillier, two minutes for hooking.”
I raise my eyebrows at Mike. “Hooking?”
His laugh is so carefree and loud that it makes my whole chest warm. “It’s not hooking like that. It’s when a player takes their stick and catches it around an opposing player, trying to keep them from making some kind of play.”
It mostly makes sense, so I nod, but my mind is still stuck back on his casual gay reveal. “Okay, I know you’re big and scary looking, but you can’t just go around announcing you’re—” I look around and then mouth ‘gay.’
Mike steals a handful of my forgotten popcorn and shrugs. “Again, why not?”
Why not? Why not? “What?”
“What?” He turns back to the game. “Do you tell people you're blond? Or your eyes are brown?”
I snort. “They can see that.”
“But it’s just as much a part of you as being gay. So why deny it?”
I shove myself to the edge of my seat and turn to face him. “Because that could get me beat up.” Or worse.
He nods. “Yeah, I’ve had my share of fights over it. But I am who, and what, I am.” His casual tone takes on an edge. “And I refuse to hide or apologize for it.”
The loud horn blares signaling the end of the first period, and Mike smiles. “I want a beer. C’mon.” He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet, leading me along the row until we blend in with the crowd heading for the concession stands. I glance around, but no one is really looking at us. They’re all too focused on talking about the game or getting wherever they’re going. When it becomes too difficult to keep my hand in his, I grab onto his jacket. Eventually, we make it to the top of the stairs, and the crowd thins out.
Before he can get too far, I tug him to a stop. “I’ll meet you back at our seats.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “Men’s room.”
“Okay. Remember we’re sitting in C3, not C4.” He winks. “Don’t make me come find you.”
My heart races, and I’m not sure if it’s because he wants to make sure I sit next to him for the rest of the game, or because he’d come find me if I didn’t. I spin on my heels and jog to the men’s room to take care of business.