Cherry Picking (The Games We Play)

1. Griffin

CHAPTER 1

GRIFFIN

Lucky number thirteen.

Five years and thirteen teams; they must be running out of places to put me.

Not that I blame them. Being king of smashing jaws and getting my teammates sent to the penalty box for stupid shit is a sure fire way to get myself booted.

What can I say? I’m a protective hothead who also happens to be over all the homophobic chirping that players think makes them sound tough.

That doesn’t mean I’m expecting a warm welcome from the Chattanooga Hornets at our first—absolutely not compulsory—practice of the off-season.

It does mean that I’m rattling the ratty old floorboard in my best friend’s truck with how aggressively I’m shaking my leg to all the nervous thoughts in my head.

A hand lands on my thigh with an iron tight grip, and I force my leg still even though it makes me feel like an over pressurized soda can.

“Griff. My baby is old. Shake her like this and she might just break down for good.”

There’s something ironic about Locke being a mechanic and owning the most beat down Chevrolet on the entire planet.

I shoo his hand back to his side of the truck, where he puts it on the steering wheel and rolls his eyes.

“Big Bad Griffin Foster nervous over some puckheads? Never thought I’d see the day.”

His eyes are on the road, and there’s a big ass smile on his face. While I’m settling in, Locke is letting me crash at his place, and since I don’t currently have a car, he’s also my temporary chauffeur.

Which sucks for him because it’s a little after five in the morning where Coach is having us do a morning workout before the grueling practice starts.

“You gonna stay and watch? I’m sure there’s some good asses in there.”

Locke came out to me in high school, and it was actually walking in on him and some guy fooling around that gave me a full blown sexual awakening. I thought most people preferred touching their own dick to getting off with someone else.

Turns out, I was just getting off with the wrong gender.

He snorts and shakes his head. “There isn’t an ass or dick in the world that could keep me from the sweet embrace of sleep. I’m crawling my happy ass right back into bed until the shop opens at seven.”

One would think an extra hour of sleep wouldn’t seem like such a big deal, but I learned a long time ago not to get between Locke and his rest. It’s like they’ve got some holy matrimony voodoo going on there.

“I’ll have you sick of me and kicking me out in no time.”

Locke reaches over the console and flicks my temple, throwing me a brief but stern glare.

“You gotta make this one stick, Griff.” Locke’s tone is uncharacteristically serious, and the silence that follows is mildly unnerving as he pulls into the Hornets’ rink and throws the truck into park.

I give him a lopsided smile. “You know I don’t try to get traded, right?”

He shakes his head, running a hand through his long, blond hair and throwing me those steely puppy eyes that always make me cave to his every request.

“I want to be able to see your stupid face in person more than once every couple of months. Try not to break any noses or royally piss off your teammates on the first day. Sound fair?”

With an exaggerated sigh, I seesaw my hand in the air and shrug. “Sounds boring, but I can give it a shot. No promises, though.”

Locke groans and drops his head to the steering wheel. “You’re a menace.”

“So has said every coach and captain I’ve ever had.”

I climb out with a laugh and grab my gear out of the bed, but Locke stops me with a two fingered whistle.

“My place is open as long as you need it. I’m really fucking happy you’re home, Griff.”

I give him a salute and a smile before his sappiness rubs off on me. The last thing I need is to walk into the team gym with onions in my eyes and take a round of ribbing before I’ve even learned anyone’s names.

It’s a strange kind of familiarity staring at the Hornet’s arena. Being back where it all started. I never played for my home team—jumping straight to Vancouver’s farm team—but it still feels like the cycle is coming full circle.

It feels final. Like I either make this work, or my time in the PHL might just be through.

No pressure or anything.

The gym has its own entrance with a keycard swipe, so I pull my lanyard out of my t-shirt and step inside the room of sweat and testosterone that smells exactly like where I want to be.

The guys are scattered, so it doesn’t seem like anyone notices me slip in. I use that to my advantage, finding a corner to drop my gear in and popping my wireless earbuds out to get started.

My days always start with the treadmill. Breath control, endurance, focus, all things a good goaltender needs. All things I’m excellent at so long as I can keep my head.

I get so lost in it that I don’t notice someone taking up the machine beside me until they clear their throat. Pulling one of my earbuds out, I glance over to find a surprisingly pretty face.

Here’s the thing about hockey players: we’re very rarely pretty. We’re lots of hard lines, bruises, broken teeth, and oftentimes ragged. So seeing someone with soft lines on their youthful face and long, light lashes that make their doe eyes pop is a little jarring.

“Foster, right?”

Even their voice is a little higher than most of the gruff players I interact with.

I offer him a hand that he gladly takes. “Yup. Griffin Foster.”

“Evan Hawks. Captain.”

When I raise my brow, his face breaks out into a grin. “I get that reaction a lot.”

“How old are you?”

Hawks rolls his eyes, but his smile holds strong. “Twenty-three. I have a baby face.”

My own lips twitch, but I refrain from any unnecessary comments.

First day on the team, Griff, behave.

“Are you here to give me the fear of God speech?”

The laughter that comes out echoes through the room, catching nearby players’ attention.

“Fuck no. I advocated for this switch; I’m fucking thrilled that you’re here.”

I scoff but can’t stop the forming grin. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. We’ve been complacent with our low rankings for too long. You kick ass and take names. We could use some of that fire.”

He’s almost too animated and chipper for my taste, but there’s something about that pleading smile that softens the anxious knot in my gut.

If cute were what I went for, Hawks might be a tempting body to latch onto. He’s short, but his physique is strong and well defined. But fucking around with teammates is a hard no.

Made that mistake.

Learned my lesson.

I have the crooked nose to prove it.

“Is this your first season as captain?”

Hawks’ smile wobbles, and he winces. “Second, actually. I hyped the team up for this when Coach told us.” He claps the back of my tank. “Don’t make me look bad.”

He says it with humor that has an edge of nervousness, and I can’t say that I blame him. I can say that knowing the captain went to bat for me makes me feel better about this placement.

Locke wants me to stick around, and maybe I do need to rest my wings a little.

“You do that all by yourself, Cap,” comes a voice from behind us, and I look up at the mirror we’re facing to be met with cool, gray eyes and upturned, amused lips.

The man is dressed in sweat-soaked workout gear, shaggy copper hair wet from exertion, and a broad heaving chest that my eyes shouldn’t linger on but absolutely do.

Hawks laughs and turns off his treadmill, turning to face his teammate while I keep up my pace and watch them in the mirror.

“Missing the first off-season practice.” Hawks shakes his head. “Losing your touch, Easton.”

He makes a gesture toward the man—Easton—and I glance down to see a walking boot covering his left leg.

“I’m here, aren’t I? I’ll ride the bench and study everyone’s plays. Gives me a chance to see the new guy in action without any distractions.”

He inclines his head toward me, and I can’t stop the grin that takes over.

“If you want to see me in action, why not stay after for a little private showing?”

I can flirt with the best of them, and most guys in the league know not to take me seriously. It’s almost a test in a way. To see how my new teammates react to the open queerness. Even if I’m not always this blunt about it, their reactions give me a gauge of how well we’ll get along—or whether I’ll be benched for decking my own teammate on the ice.

His shoulders tense even as his eyes threaten to drown me in their intensity. They’re the color of an impending storm, of clouds that roll through with heavy thunder, and it opens something deep and primal in my chest.

No lusting after teammates, I tell myself even as my dick takes interest in the way Easton’s shoulders flex as he crosses his arms over his chest.

Now would be a great time to turn around and introduce myself, but I’d like to keep the twitching in my pants to myself—good first impressions and all.

Thankfully, Hawks is on top of it.

“Have you met our new goaltender?” He says with a bright smile. “Griffin Foster.”

Easton looks at our captain with a soft fondness in his eyes, then turns the look back to me with an added edge that I can’t quite decode.

“Riley Easton.”

I know that name.

He played up in the Majors for three seasons before an injury at a game got him sent down to the PHL. That was years ago, and I haven’t heard whispers of him on any of my other teams, so I figured he’d quit for good.

Seems like he’s still reckless if that boot is anything to go by.

I finally slow my speed to a cool down, and my body agrees to give into the fresh burn in my legs and lose the unnecessary excitement.

“So what did you do, and how hard is Coach going to push you for it?”

Easton’s laugh is a rich, rumbled sound.

“Four-wheeling accident during the break. Double gym duty, and I get to be the equipment bitch until this bad boy comes off.” He taps his thigh, and my eyes travel down his muscular legs with an appreciative head nod.

When I shut the machine off and turn, his brows are pinched, and there’s a light dusting of red across his cheeks. Hawks hops off his own machine and claps Easton on the shoulder—which is hilarious because Easton has to have an easy foot on the captain.

“This guy here is going to be your best defenseman. He’ll quite literally analyze every move you make on the ice.”

Easton smiles and drops his eyes to the floor, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

You’re telling me this behemoth of a man has even a single shy bone in his body?

Color me surprised.

“I guess I’d better give it to you real good, then, right?”

Hawks cackles, but there’s that look in Easton’s eyes again. The one he throws my way that holds an underlying simmer that piques my curiosity.

Queer players aren’t necessarily common in the league, but there’s a good handful I’ve met over the years, and I’m usually pretty decent at reading them.

Easton, though, looks equal parts interested and confused.

I’d best stay away from that one.

A bi-curious hockey player is a dangerous one.

And I have no intentions of threatening my spot on the team by being some experimental booty call.

It’s a shame, because Easton has exactly the kind of body I appreciate on top of me.

I have to shake it off and show this team that even if I’ve got a loud mouth and busy hands, I’m a motherfucking asset.

Practice is grueling.

Not that I expected anything less, but hot-fucking-damn. I’m half dead in the shower when Hawks calls out for me to go to some bar I can’t remember the name of with them.

So I throw on a tank and a pair of basketball shorts and hitch a ride with one of the other players.

If you ever wondered where a group of athletic knuckleheads might hang out after sweating their asses off for hours, the answer would be a cereal bar known as Lucky Sparks.

If you’ve never been to a cereal bar, it’s exactly like the name describes. All those classic sugary cereals from our childhood? Those plastic bowls with an attached straw? Lucky Sparks has them. Along with a selection of fancy coffees and alcoholic beverages.

There’s also a game corner with a pool table, air hockey, and some of those shooter and racing games you’d see at an arcade.

Hawks claps me on the back when I stand frozen somewhere in the middle of this childhood memory conglomerate.

“Not what you were expecting?”

I open my mouth, but not a single sound comes out.

“Some guys like to unwind by getting trashed and finding a pretty piece of ass. Me? I’ll take spiked Cocoa Pebbles and kicking ass at generic Grand Theft Auto any day.”

He smiles bright and heads over to the counter while a couple of the other guys have wandered to the games with beer in hand.

It’s not what I was expecting, but the laughter and lo-fi music reminds me of building blanket forts in the living room with my sister as a child. Strange as a twenty-three year old man, but an odd kind of relaxing.

I’m not much of a drinker, so I make my way to the air hockey table where a tiny winger named Rory—and by that I mean I don’t know how the other players haven’t snapped him like a twig, he’s so thin—and a hulking forward named Mashburn are slapping the puck around.

I raise a hand in greeting. Mashburn doesn’t look up but grunts his acknowledgement. Rory flashes me a beaming smile that drops as soon as the puck pings into the hole on his side.

“Fiddlesticks.” He crosses his arms and aims a pout at our teammate, who finally looks over at me with an eye roll and smile of his own.

“Hey there, Thirteen.”

I frown, and Rory breaks out into a fit of giggles. “It’s what the team dubbed you. Since, ya know, we’re your thirteenth PHL team.”

Yeah, alright, that’s fair.

“Interesting choice of hangout.”

Mashburn knocks his hip on the table and shrugs. “It’s open until 2am and close to the practice facility. Besides, it still serves alcohol.” He picks his peer up off the edge of the table and tilts it to his lips.

“Or,” comes a deep voice from behind me that sends tendrils of arousal through my nervous system. “Rory has Mashburn wrapped around his finger, and the rest of us follow suit.”

Riley flashes us a grin as he joins the table, a whiskey glass of what looks like milk cradled in his massive hands.

“What in the hell is that?” I ask.

He goes to answer, but Rory pipes in before he can.

“It’s a cum shot!”

My eyes blow wide, but neither of the others seem phased. Riley rolls his eyes, and Mashburn just fixes Rory with a hard stare.

“Spiced rum with milk,” Riley says, shaking his head.

Rory flaps his hand dismissively. “It’s a thick, white liquid. Plus, rum and cum rhyme.”

I glance over as Riley brings the drink to his mouth, and I’m not even a little bit ashamed to admit I watch the dribble that tracks down his chin. Even less subtle is the way my eyes lock onto how he swipes his thumb over it.

A smart man would call the night early because I desperately need to get laid, but you know what they say about first impressions. I’ll just swallow down the need brimming in my groin at each gulped swallow this man makes.

Someone clears their throat, and I break my gaze away as Rory and Mashburn start up a new match. It’s interesting to watch Rory nearly jump on the table to reach his paddle towards the center, while Mashburn barely has to lean forward to almost cross into the opposite territory.

At practice, they actually make quite the power duo, and I wonder which developed first: their mesh on the ice or their friendship?

“How does it feel being one of the most talked about players in the league?”

Riley’s voice sinks in stronger than any alcohol, and I bring my eyes to his with a lopsided smile.

“Would feel better if it wasn’t ninety-five percent premature ejaculation jokes. And yes. That exact term. ‘Did you hear Foster was prematurely ejaculated from the Comets?’”

I roll my eyes, and Riley’s laugh gives me goosebumps.

“I’ve heard rumors of the opposite actually.”

My brows shoot up, and Riley must immediately catch what he said, because he flounders a bit before pressing his lips into a firm line and directing his stare at the ground.

I’ve hooked up with a handful of queer players throughout the years—some in the PHL, a few in the NAPH—but I can’t imagine any of them bragging or chirping about it in the locker rooms.

“You aren’t the only one who’s been around the block. I went through short stints on three teams before settling here. People talk. Especially when they’re drunk.”

There’s that hint of shyness I saw earlier, and it makes my chest swell a bit to think that I might make Riley nervous.

Not because I want him to be, but because it begs the question of if there’s more to his interest than just getting to know the new guy.

He finishes off his drink with one gulp that absolutely doesn’t garner the attention of my rising libido and hooks his thumb toward the bar. I’m not sure if it was a statement or an invitation, but I turn to follow, and he doesn’t complain.

“Why did you settle here anyway?” I ask once he grabs a regular whiskey and hands me a Coke. “What happened to the NAPH?”

The whiskey doesn’t last long, and his face scrunches as he slams the glass back on the counter.

“I’m wearing a boot. What do you think happened?”

“Right, because you’ve been wearing it for, what… three years?”

The sarcasm gets me a scoff but also another smile.

“Permanent injury. When it didn’t heal like the doc wanted, they sent me down. I can still play, but I’m a liability.”

“So you didn’t just hurt it in the riding accident?”

He shakes his head. “I irritated the old injury. Doesn’t need surgery again, thank god. They told me if it gets that bad, I can kiss my hockey career goodbye.”

I’m amazed he hasn’t already. Playing in the big league for years only to be cast aside to the trenches; I’m not sure I could rally my morale after that.

“Now I know why you practically fell off the map.”

He lets out a good humored laugh and scratches the back of his neck, gray eyes roaming me with a cool intensity.

“Your mouth is going to get us in loads of trouble this season, isn’t it?”

I stuff my hands in my shorts pockets and meet his grin. “My mouth is real good at attracting loads, so probably.”

A deep red soaks his cheeks, and I know absolutely nothing will keep me from seeing this easily flustered, bear of a man in my upcoming wet dreams.

“Out and proud might be an understatement for you.”

I square my shoulders and tip my chin up. “That a problem?”

Something soft and warm fills his eyes, and the way his smile dips just slightly doesn’t feel disapproving but almost sad.

“Not at all.”

I don’t ask, even if deep down the urge is irresistible. One secret is more than enough for one night, and I’ve already resigned myself to lusting over a potentially straight man. God help me if I find out he’s queer or worse: closeted.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that—other than it fucking sucks that people feel like they still need to be—but I’ve been the one to keep that secret before. I’ve seen the way it tears the other person apart.

I won’t put myself in that position.

I won’t let someone do that to me.

But with every unreadable glance and shudder inducing touch, I think my body might have other ideas.