Goaltender Interference (Scoring Chances #1)

CHAPTER ONE

EARLY JULY

“Why is”—Connor O’Shea licked suddenly dry lips— “Why is your goaltender twerking ?”

Dustin Fowler snorted. “What the fuck did you just say? I think that whiskey is bringing out the Boston in your words, man.”

Connor glowered. His accent wasn’t that thick, damn it. “I said , ‘why is your goaltender twerking?’”

“ Twahking ? How much have you had to drink tonight anyway?” Dustin shot back.

“Fuck off. And answer my question.”

Shrugging, Dustin took a sip of his own cocktail, then leaned in to be heard better over the thumping music from the DJ. “If you think I have a clue why Webby does anything , you clearly assume I have better control of guys on my team than I actually do.”

Connor chuckled, tearing his gaze away from Jesse Webber who was holding court in the middle of the dance floor. Shit, until now Connor hadn’t known ass cheeks could move like that. If that wasn’t the most mesmerizing thing Connor had ever seen in person, he’d eat the nearby flower centerpiece.

“Yeah, you’ve had a couple of … interesting seasons.”

“You can say that again.” Dustin sighed. “I’m hoping this coming season I can focus on Jesse and get him … wrangled.”

Connor raised an eyebrow, skeptical about anyone’s ability to wrangle a guy like that. Even an NHL captain as talented and highly respected as Fowler.

Like many of the men attending the wedding, Webber had lost his suit jacket, tie, and shirt a while ago. Unlike most of them, he was whipping that shirt in the air over his head like he was wielding a lasso.

Worst of all, it was working . He’d used it to pull in no fewer than three people in the past ninety seconds.

“Mmm, good luck with that.” Connor’s tone was filled with disbelief.

Dustin laughed. “Tell me about it. Management is up my ass about the whole thing. They were livid about his post-Cup celebrations.”

“Can’t imagine why.” There were photos of the kid frolicking naked in the fountain outside of Toronto’s city hall. And with his tongue down the throats of half of Toronto’s drunk fans.

Charming.

“Right.” Dustin rubbed his head. “That’s the goal anyway. We’ll see how successful I am.”

“Cheers to that.” Connor held up his own drink.

“But, as much as I enjoy catching up with you, O’Shea, I’d like to dance with my husband now.” Dustin set his glass on the white linen tablecloth, then stood, lightly slapping Connor’s back. “See you later.”

“Later, Fowler.”

Dustin disappeared into the crowd and the lonely ache that had been lingering inside Connor all day—hell, all week—flared to life again.

This wasn’t the first wedding Connor had been to since he split from Viv. Not even the first since their divorce was finalized. Being in the NHL meant that summers were filled with weddings.

Unfortunately, today hit a little differently.

Connor was fucking happy for Kelly and Anders. He was . His brother deserved to find love like this and Anders did too, especially after the loss of his wife and baby girl in a devastating accident.

But now his baby brother was happily married and if Connor spent any more time thinking about it, he was gonna become that cliché sad sack sitting alone at a wedding looking miserable. Worst of all, someone in his family was probably gonna drag over some single woman who didn’t wanna be thrust at him any more than he wanted to be thrust at her.

Or maybe she would.

He supposed he was a decent catch, what with the NHL salary and being reasonably good-looking—according to some. Thank fuck, unlike Kelly, he hadn’t ended up with freckles and his hair and beard were closer to auburn than carrot.

But a few minutes later, when Connor spotted one of his aunts moving through the crowd like a woman on a mission, towing along a beautiful blonde in a slinky dress, he definitely knew he wasn’t in the mood to deal with that bullshit.

The wedding celebrations had put him in a decidedly unromantic mood.

With an annoyed grunt, Connor drained the rest of his drink then ducked out of view, using the crowd as a shield as he wove through the throng of people.

Clearly, the problem was that he was too sober.

Connor waited in line at the bar, making small talk with various relatives and friends who, thankfully, were not trying to set him up. The guest list was obscenely large—partly courtesy of the huge extended O’Shea family who’d made the trek to Chicago from the Boston area where everyone but Kelly was based.

Anders had retired from the NHL and now ran a hockey skills camp while Kelly was still playing for the Evanston River Otters so in addition to family, they’d had no shortage of friends and teammates to invite, plus people from across the league.

And all their plus ones.

Anders probably would’ve been happy with something small and intimate but he was a sucker for making Kelly happy. And Kelly had relented to the inevitable family pressure to throw a giant Boston Irish-American rager.

At least they hadn’t had to deal with the religious bullshit Connor and Viv had. Instead, Anders and Kelly had gone for a very nice civil wedding ceremony in a historic building with great architecture.

Though, Connor supposed they hadn’t had much choice. It wasn’t like anyone in the Catholic church was gonna bless the wedding of two men.

A cheer rose from the crowd and Connor glanced toward the tent’s dance floor, half-expecting the Toronto Fisher Cats goaltender to have started a strip show or something, but the music had shifted to something more mellow without him noticing. Kelly and Anders were wrapped tightly in each other’s arms, kissing deeply.

Fucking hell.

Connor glanced away with a wince, trying not to remember holding Viv like that all those years ago. Yep, he definitely wasn’t fucking drunk enough to deal with this shit yet.

He shuffled forward in line while people ordered their drinks, got them, then walked away. He finally ordered his own, drumming his fingers on the bar top, idly watching the play of lights over the bartender’s taut forearms as he shook someone else’s cocktail.

Connor swallowed thickly, looking away, jerking in surprise when his gaze landed on Jesse Webber.

“The fuck are you doing here, Webber?” fell from his lips before he could stop it.

Webber laughed. “I was invited?”

“Right, no, I figured that.” Though if anyone was likely to crash a wedding …

“I know Anders from his skills camp. He’s got the best goalie coach in North America working for him,” Webber said with a shrug. It showed off his bare chest and arms, glistening in the lights sweeping across the crowd.

Connor drummed his fingers on the bar top more impatiently this time. Christ, this bartender was taking forever.

“Right.” Connor cleared his throat. “Makes sense.”

“Your drinks.” The guy slid two double whiskeys toward him.

“Thanks, man.” Connor stuffed a tip in the jar then took the already sweating glasses. He turned back toward the dance floor.

Webber’s face brightened. “Ooh, you got one for me. Thanks.” He reached for one of the glasses.

Connor scowled, jerking them away. “They’re both mine. Fuck off and get your own, you little mooch.”

Usually when Connor growled, people backed off, but Webber grinned, letting someone else go ahead of him.

“So you’re like this all the time, not just on the ice. Huh.” He licked his lips, giving Connor a blatant once-over. “I kinda like the Captain Growly thing. It’s hot.”

Christ , he was annoying.

“See you around, Webber.” Connor turned and stalked away, making a beeline for one of the open flaps in the massive tent. Once clear of the crowd, he slugged back one of the drinks, set the glass on an empty table, then ducked out into the fresh air, grateful for the cooler temperature outside.

It had been a sticky July day, though Chicago would never rival Boston for summer humidity.

Connor made his way across the grassy lawn toward the waterfront, grateful for the breeze that cooled his overheated skin and the lap of the waves from Lake Michigan hitting the shore. The half-moon and city lights glinted off the dark water and a knot in Connor’s shoulders finally unraveled.

It wasn’t the Boston Harbor, but it would do.

Connor undid another button on his shirt, then pressed the cool glass to his overheated throat. He’d felt off all day, restless and tense. Maybe if he’d had a few minutes alone, a few minutes without someone wanting to talk about his fucking divorce or when he was gonna start dating seriously again or how he was handling seeing his kids less often …

“Thought I’d probably find you out here.”

What does it fucking take to get a moment of peace? Connor whirled, snarling, “Are you following me or something? What the hell do you want from me, Webber?”

Connor hardly knew the guy.

He was just some punk goalie for Toronto who liked to shake his ass around. Why did he keep popping up everywhere ? He’d been in Connor’s direct line of sight all damn day. Seated in the crowd when Connor stood at the front of the ceremony venue, then at a table across from the wedding party’s at the sit-down supper during the first part of the tented reception.

And then it was the twerking , which, if it wouldn’t be egotistical as hell, he’d swear the goalie did it intentionally to torment him.

Then again, netminders usually did have one or two screws loose, so that might also explain it.

Webber sauntered forward. “I’ve seen you looking at me, O’Shea.”

“Yeah, well, you’re good at making a spectacle of yourself,” Connor pointed out.

“Ever since that moment we had on the ice last spring …” Webber stepped closer, smirk revealing a dimple on his smooth cheek.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Connor’s grip on his glass tightened, mind stuttering, lingering on the memories of the playoffs. Losing his footing and crashing into Toronto’s net, Webber sprawled heavily on top of him, pink-cheeked and surprised.

Connor shook his head. He didn’t … he wasn’t …

“I could feel your eyes on me on the dance floor earlier,” Webber said. Still shirtless, he smelled of clean sweat and cologne, something that teased Connor’s nostrils and made him feel dizzy and flushed. “Checking me out.”

Fuck! No .

Connor’d been married to a woman for over a decade and the crush he’d had on his team captain his rookie year at Boston University was just a hockey crush. It wasn’t …

Webber brushed his fingertips across Connor’s hip, so light it was hardly a touch at all. But Connor still shivered, his gut going tight.

“You want me.” Webber’s smirk deepened, infuriatingly cocky, like he thought everyone wanted him.

Connor opened his mouth to protest, to say that Jesse wasn’t his type at all. He was straight. He was . Just because he’d blurted out the thing he’d never said aloud before to Viv in a heated moment, tongue loosened by anger and frustration at the way she’d been talking about his brother being gay …

Kelly coming out was the whole damn reason his marriage had fallen apart.

No, Viv’s bigotry is , he corrected himself. Because he’d be damned before he let anyone, even himself, blame his brother for being who he was. For loving who he loved.

But the fight between Connor and Viv over Connor supporting Kelly when he came out had made the other cracks in their marriage all too obvious and, well, he would never, ever forget the look on her face when he’d roared that if she had such a problem with Kelly being gay, what the fuck was she doing married to a bisexual man?

She looked like he’d slapped her.

It had gone downhill from there.

But nobody, fuckin’ nobody talked about his family that way. Not even the woman he was married to. She’d screamed that she was supposed to be his family too and maybe that was fair but the shit she’d said about his baby brother was fucking vile and Connor wouldn’t stand for it.

That pressure boiled up in Connor again tonight, lightning-quick and hot, like the steam on his ma’s whistling tea kettle about to pop.

“I’m not …” he rasped one last time, a token protest before he lowered his head and took Webber’s mouth in a heated kiss.