Love of the Game (The Games We Play)

1. Drake

CHAPTER 1

DRAKE

“Williams.”

Oh man, I flinched at the tone of Coach Robinson’s voice. Firm, with a hint that I wasn’t going to enjoy what he had to say. Last time he’d spoken to me like this, he’d shuffled me from the first line to the third, and the next week, I’d been scratched entirely. I’d spent the last three games in the press box. Bet plenty of people were loving that.

I paused in my quest to strip off my gear from practice. “Yeah, Coach?” I was still pissed at myself for my play so far this year, idling in the press box, and the damn drills they’d run at practice today (I was not a PKer, for fuck’s sake).

That frustration must’ve ended up in my voice, because he gave me a look that only a father of five could manage. “After you shower, JR wants to see you upstairs.”

Oh shit . JR was Jeremy Roth, our general manager. Going upstairs usually meant being traded. It was early in the season, though—just after Thanksgiving—so who knew what this meant. I swallowed and nodded. Once I was cleaned and dressed, I headed up the stairs that led to the staff offices above the locker rooms, and knocked on the doorframe of the GM’s office, my heart in my throat.

JR looked up from his laptop. “Drake. Come in and sit down, son.”

Son . Fuck. I kept my mouth shut, and took a seat in front of his desk.

He folded his hands together. “This is never easy, so I’m not going to beat around the bush. We’re placing you on waivers this afternoon.”

Waivers? “What?” I choked out the word, then slammed my lips together before the “Are you fucking kidding me?” poured out. I was still on my entry level contract until the end of the season, but I’d been waivers-eligible for a while. Hell, I’d never played in the PHL. I’d come straight to the Lions camp from the draft, made the team, and never left.

Now, I was likely off to some other NAPH team, slump or not. I was too good to end up in the PHL. Right?

Are you? That tiny voice in my head was awfully loud, and a certain set of direct messages flashed through my mind’s eye.

JR sighed. “I hate to do this, son, believe me. But the team’s in a slump, and so are you. We’re bringing up some fresh faces. Shake some things up a bit. Hopefully, you’ll find your game again with the Otters.”

The Greensburg Otters were the affiliate of the Pittsburgh Lions. They were only an hour away, but they might as well been on the West Coast for all I paid attention to them. “You—think I’ll clear?” That chilled me to my marrow. Was I so bad now that no other NAPH team would take a chance on me?

I don’t know if he was actually calculating in his head, or just playing the thoughtful manager, but after a moment, he straightened in his seat. “It’s hard to know how it’ll go. We’d prefer for you to stay in the system—you’re a good player when you’re on your game, Drake.”

I wasn’t on my game. Hadn’t been, despite blowing it out of the water in training camp. I had no idea what the fuck was wrong with me, and now suddenly, I had to prove myself. Two years of effort and good play wasn’t enough. “I guess—I guess I should pack my stuff up.” I was going somewhere tomorrow, regardless. Question now was where.

He nodded and rose. “Like I said, son. We’d rather you stay in the system, find your game, come back and play like you have in the past. Sometimes a change of scenery helps.”

Personally, if I had to choose—since I couldn’t stay here—I wanted another NAPH team to claim me. I had to believe I was still a good player in a slump not… useless. I shut down that thought, rose and shook JR’s hand. “I guess we’ll see. I like it here.”

That was the truth. Pittsburgh was kind of the perfect hockey town. Big city enough, but not so much that it was unbearable. And my entry-level salary went pretty far.

As I headed back down to the locker room to pack up my equipment and talk to the logistics people about moving—either temporarily or permanently. My God, if I ended up with the Otters, I was royally fucked. I’d be making a tenth of what I made now there. How the hell would I pay the rent on my downtown apartment? I’d still need it for when—if—the Lions called me up.

Shit. Fuck. This was so stupid, all of it. If I hadn’t been sitting in the fucking press box— Then again, I was sitting there because in eighteen games, I had one assist, no goals, and was a minus 10. Shit season. Shit play. Useless . There was that word again.

No wonder they were waiving me .

When I got back to the locker room, it was completely empty, except for Bearsy—Kevin Bear—our team captain. He had a fucking look of pity on his face.

“Guess you heard,” I said.

“Yeah.” He stretched out his legs. “You’ll be all right, Duck. And look, if you end up going to the Otters, there’s some great guys down there. And you’ll be back soon enough, if you do end up down.”

Ugh. I did not want to end up on the Otters. “I hate leaving. No matter where I end up. I wish—” Yeah, I wished a lot of things. I gave Bearsy a shrug. “Well, can’t do anything about it now.”

He clapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll see you around, eh?”

Yeah. Maybe. Hopefully.

Fuck. I was getting waived .

Didn’t take too long to pack up my gear and grab my sticks. Back in my apartment I ordered food, then paced my living room, and tried to figure out what the hell to do next. It wasn’t two o’clock yet. I knew once the news came out, my phone would be barraged with texts.

Phone. Right. I took a deep breath, then called my mom. My sperm donor would laugh when he found out, the fucker, but my mom had busted her ass to make sure I could make it in hockey. She shouldn’t find out I was being waived from the internet.

“Hey sweetie, what’s up?”

I couldn’t keep the tremble out of my voice. “Mom, they’re waiving me.”

“Oh, honey!” she murmured. “It’s okay.”

I sighed. “I mean, I know I haven’t been playing well, and I’ve been scratched but…”

“You’re just in a slump, that all!” She paused, and added, “Maybe a change of place will be a good thing. A new city.”

Assuming another NAPH team wanted me. With the way I’d started the year? Who knew what they thought. “Coach said they’d love to keep me in the system. But if I end up down with the Otters…” I heaved a sigh of my own. “It’s a lot less money.”

“Hmm,” Mom said, “You’ve been putting away some of your salary, right? Like the advisor said?”

“Of course.” First thing Mom suggested I’d get when I’d signed my contract at nineteen was a financial advisor. “I have savings. I just hate tapping into it.”

“Well, maybe it won’t come to that.” She sounded so sure. “Either way, at least you’ll be out of the press box, right? Playing again?”

Trust Mom to find the bright side of things. I laughed humorlessly. “Yeah, I guess.”

We chatted a little longer, the conversation moving from my impending doom to her job as an accountant, then news about some of the kids I’d grown up with. Who was getting married, who was still living in our little suburban Philly town, and who’d moved on to other things. Emily, one of Mom’s neighbor’s daughters, was doing really well in med school and Jaxson, a boy I’d had a bunch of fights with, then kissed once, had graduated from college with a degree in economics and was apparently dating a drama major.

It was supposed to make me feel better, but it only served to remind me that I, who’d been drafted in the first round (albeit last), and had played lights out my first and second year in the NAPH, was about to go through waivers because my team didn’t want me anymore. Because I sucked.

By the time I hung up with Mom, I was more than a little depressed. Part of me wanted to say, “Fuck it” and go head out to one of my favorite restaurants in town, have a huge meal, and get totally smashed. The other part of me wanted to fire up a hookup app and find a guy to fuck until my mind was numb.

What I did instead was trudge to my closet to pack.

At two-fifteen, slightly twenty-four hours after I’d been placed on waivers, Bearsy texted me.

Yo, Duck, glad you’re sticking around in the area. Pretty sure you’ll be up again before the new year. Give Jonny a call. He’s the captain. He’ll take care of you.

That was followed with a phone number with an 878-area code. I rolled my eyes and tossed my phone onto the couch. Lot of good a new captain would do me. I was done.

Every other team in the league had passed over me. No one wanted me. I was heading to the minors. I knew that this had been a possibility, maybe even likely, but now that the minutes had ticked past the deadline and I cleared waivers, the reality set in.

A complete gut punch, one that had my eyes stinging and my stomach roiling. I was now a Greensburg Otter, with the paycheck ninety percent smaller than before. As my mom had reminded me, I was fine financially, for a good long while, but it still fucking hurt.

In theory, I didn’t even have to move. Right now, it took me about twenty minutes to get to the Lions practice facility, and Greensburg was only an hour away.

But I knew it would be easier if I lived closer to Greensburg because that commute wasn’t always an hour, especially considering the Squirrel Hill Tunnel and the ever-present construction on the roads between here and there. Add other drivers to that mix, and I was looking at a long daily commute.

Fuck. My phone dinged again. This text was from Lions staff, connecting me up with Otter staff. Emails followed with more details I skimmed over. I was expected for practice tomorrow at the Westmoreland Arena at ten in the morning. They suggested a hotel nearby as a temporary place to stay, at least for a few days. There was also a list of short-term rentals in the area. Some other things about the team, the coach, and the leadership.

More texts from the Otter’s coach welcoming me. One from their captain. I ignored those. Couldn’t stomach reading through the rest of it, not with my eyes blurring.

I was going to the minors because no one wanted me . That thought kept circling through my head. It was all my fault. Maybe if I’d played better… Maybe if I’d practiced harder… Or maybe it was a damn fluke I was even ever drafted into the NAPH in the first place.

I’d had to block my sperm donor on Instagram. Hell, I shut down direct messages entirely, since my mother, teammates, and friends all texted, but some of the shit he’d said when he’d found me still ate at me.

I rubbed at my eyes. Okay, fine. I was here, now. First, get a hotel. Second, get the hell out of here before I had a breakdown.

A little under three hours later, I was checking into a Marriott on the edge of a strip mall on the outskirts of Greensburg.

Fuck my life. This box of a room would be home for… ho wever long it took to unfuck myself, I guess. Or until the Lions traded me.

Great… just…

I sat on the bed and searched for the closest gay bar. Yeah, I had practice tomorrow, but I needed a drink or three and a nice hard fuck, ASAP. It was a risk—get too far out of Pittsburgh, and the surrounding area got more conservative, but a long time ago, I realized there were queer people everywhere. And with Greensburg being a college town, there was likely some queer-friendly bar nearby, right? A little searching around in the right places netted me a good lead for what someone described as an eclectic queer-friendly biker bar tucked into where you’d least expect it in the hills between Jeanette and Greensburg. Sounded like it was worth at least a drive to check out.

Took me a little bit to find the place, aptly named the Hideaway. It really was in a location where you’d least expect it—off a road that was far away from any of the major ones, tucked between what looked like a dirt driveway that led back to a farm and a business that rented construction equipment.

The place didn’t look like much from the outside—a dive bar with some cars and several motorbikes out front, but there was a rainbow flag hanging in the window next to some actual neon signs advertising different brands of beer, so this had to be the right bar. I parked my SUV next to an older Ford pickup and got out.

I didn’t know motorcycles well, but I knew enough to identify a Harley, all black and chrome, parked close to the entrance. The interior of the bar was decorated like a tidy version of a garage that was the child of a leather daddy and a unicorn. Chrome, leather, tools, mirrors, bike parts, and rainbows. Somehow it worked. Quite a few people, more than I expected for a Tuesday night, were gathered. Some around the bar, a few in booths, and several around the two pool tables in the back.

Everyone was watching me, which was understandable. Local bar. Off the beaten path. I was a stranger, though apparently not threatening, because the two men in full biker leathers and club jackets nodded at me and went back to their conversation.

I wasn’t about to mess with them. I wasn’t here to mess with anyone. A drink had been my first goal, so I headed to the bar—and nearly stumbled over my own feet when I met the gaze of a man sitting there.

Goddamned, he was a looker. Dark brown hair and eyes accentuated by pale skin, a goatee, and a devilish smile. He looked like a dark version of a fox.

Trying to recover, I stammered, “Guess you don’t get new people coming in that often.”

That got me an even wider grin, one that lit up those eyes and sent them dancing. His voice was clear when he answered. “Well, it’s not rare, but let’s stay it’s unexpected.” He patted the bar stool next to him.

I took the invitation to sit, and the bartender, a Black woman with braids and a name tag that read Ella, strode up. “You sure he’s old enough to be in here, Jon?”

“Eh, he’s a little baby-faced,” the smoking hot guy replied. “But I bet he’s old enough.” The smile never diminished.

“I’m twenty-two.” Nearly twenty-three. My cheeks heated. Yeah, I looked a little young. Didn’t help that I was fair and blond and my stubble was barely visible most of the time. “I have ID, if you need to see it.”

The man—Jon—waved his hand as if to say, You see?

She rolled her eyes at Jon. “You know I have to check their ID if they look under thirty. You want this place to get busted?”

Jon rolled his eyes right back.

I showed her my driver’s license and she gave me a small smile. “What’ll you have?”

“Beer. Whatever’s local, good, and can help me put a bad day behind me.”

That got me a chuckle. “I got you. Hang on, babyface.”

While she got me a beer, I checked Jon out. Fuck me, he was in really good shape. The white T-shirt he wore stretched over muscles, and colorful tattooed sleeves snaked up both arms, vanishing beneath the bright fabric to peek out at the color of his shirt. There was even ink on the back of his right hand, but I couldn’t make out the design. He wore jeans and leather chaps, and I was glad I’d worn my slightly looser jeans, because this man was straight out of my wet dreams.

Well, hopefully not straight.

Still, I didn’t need to be tenting my pants like a teenager. “Hey, I’m Drake.”

“Drake? Like a dragon?”

I had to laugh. “Well, that’s better than Drake, like a duck.”

That smile again. “You look more like a dragon than a duck.” He turned to Ella as she brought me a beer. “He looks more like a dragon than a duck, right?”

Ella gave him a look that I suspected she’d cast his way several hundred times. “He looks thirsty. Leave the boy to his drink.”

He clicked his tongue. “I’m harmless.”

I nearly inhaled the beer, then met his wicked, wicked grin as I tried not to choke.

Ella chuckled, dropped a pile of cocktail napkins in front of me. “Sure you are, Jon.” Then she sauntered down the bar.

He laughed as I recovered my breath and took an actual sip of the beer. Good pick—not too hoppy, and with a depth of flavors that I didn’t expect in this area of Pennsylvania. “Oh, that’ll do.”

“So, Drake like a dragon, what brings you here?” There was a curiosity there that read genuine, like he actually wanted to know. Everything about Jon was open and free. Cheerful rather than smarmy.

“Work.” Then I amended. “Well, not here here. I found this place hunting for a queer bar. Here as in the area.”

He rounded his mouth in a silent “o” before it settled back into that seemingly ever-present smile. “So not here for the bikes?”

I laughed. “I’ve never driven one. I guess I was hoping for a different ride. Maybe not tonight, but sometime.” I paused and wrapped a hand around my glass and sighed. “It’s been a fucking day .” I took another sip.

Jon was halfway through his beer and took a pull from his glass as if he intended to nurse the remainder. He licked those pretty lips of his, then said, “I’m guessing the same work that brings you here is the one that’s made it a day?”

“Yeah.” I sighed and tried to figure out how to say what I wanted without letting on that I was a hockey player. “It’s… not a demotion at work. More like… temporarily moving to a different office. A change of scenery. But honestly, I don’t want to be here.” I paused. “I’m sure Greensburg is nice enough, but all my stuff is back in Pittsburgh, just far away enough to make commuting really difficult.” I rotated my beer glass. “In some ways, moving across country would’ve been easier.”

He cocked his head. “For a temporary assignment? I’d think it would be easier to be close to home. You could go home on weekends. See family.”

“No family nearby.”

He made another “o” with those inviting lips of his. “So, all alone in a queer bar somewhere you don’t want to be?” His tone was soft and friendly, and that perpetual smile real. He was… gorgeous. Relaxed.

But his words itched at me. “When you put it that way, it sounds kind of bad…”

“No, I mean—” He picked up his glass and waved it at the bar. “People not from the area usually come here for one or two things. A drink.” He clinked his glass against mine. “Or a fuck.” He sipped and watched me. “Or both.”

I scratched the back of my neck, embarrassment once more creeping up my spine. “I’m guessing the answer to the second thing is ‘No, kid.’”

The smile returned. “You’re not a kid. And it takes two dates to ride this ride.”

“So there’s a chance?”

He laughed, and it was high and wonderful and weird, and everyone in the bar must have heard it.

What really got me was the joy in his face. I’d never understood how people could be so damn… happy… all the time. I’d only known Jon a few minutes, and he made my heart race, seeing all that happiness. I wanted some of that, some of him .

He sobered a bit, but didn’t drop that sense of enjoying the hell out of everything. “Why don’t you come back here tomorrow night and ask me that?”

The Otters had a game tomorrow. Shit. “I have to work pretty late. I know the bar’s open but…” I trailed off.

He waved my concern away. “I’ll be here, promise. Don’t you worry about that.”

That had me giving him a once-over. “For me?”

What a fucking grin. “Yes.” Then I swear his eyes freaking twinkled, as he added, “And for me, too. I love this place.”

Ella walked by and smacked Jon lightly on the back of the head. “You own this place.”

“Well, yes. But that’s why I bought it from Frank when he wanted to retire. Because I loved it.” He shrugged. “It was either that or he was going to close it, and I didn’t want that to happen.”

I looked around the place, with its patrons of all genders, and the rough-looking bikers, including the two who had entered while I was taking the place in—wearing jackets emblazoned with their motorcycle club. They nodded to Jon as they passed us, and saddled up to the bar, chatting freely with Ella.

“This does seem a special place,” I said.

That seemed to please Jon. “Oh, it is. When I first came here—” He cut himself off with a laugh. “That’s probably a story for another night. Let’s just say it’s been good to me, so I decided to try to be good to it, and everyone around here.”

A group of four women headed over from one of the two pool tables— two couples from the way they were holding each other. One of them patted Jon on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow night, Jonny?”

“Absolutely,” he said, then added that big smile of his.

She gave me a curious once over, but she and her group moved on, heading for the door.

“Hey.” He tapped his shoe against mine. “You play?” He nodded toward the vacated pool table.

“A little. One of the guys has a table in his house and sometimes…” I waved my hand, because it hurt to think about those get-togethers. Those parties. I just been ce lebrating Thanksgiving with the Lions. Christmas was around the corner, and I was…here. In the middle of nowhere. At a bar. With no friends or teammates around me.

Jon tapped my foot again, and those deep dark eyes met mine, with all their sparkle and the laugh lines. “Come on. I’m absolutely horrible. It’ll be fun! You can laugh at me.”

I sighed. I should go back to the hotel, but I hadn’t even finished my beer. “Okay. A game.” I asked Ella for a glass of water to go with my beer, and we headed back to the table.

Jon was being honest about his skill at pool. His break shot—well—it didn’t really do much other than move the balls a little bit from their original racked position.

“Hmm,” he said. “Maybe we should try that again and you break?”

We did, and I managed a reasonable break shot. Jon potted a solid ball, and I managed two easy stripes. Then we took turns missing shots or sending balls wild or knocking each other’s into the pockets. Jon was hilarious, chattering away with a running commentary about his shots, his expressions and exasperation at his inability to sink the balls was comical, and his smile was pure sunlight.

Despite being not great at pool, I won easily, and by the end, I’d finished my beer and my water, and even felt some of the weight of the day lifting off me.

As we headed back to the bar, I hazarded a light pat on his back. “Thanks for the game.”

“And the beer,” he said.

When I started to protest, he waved that away. “On the house, don’t you worry. The owner’s a bit of a jerk, though. Don’t tell him.” Then he winked. Actually winked at me.

An actual chuckle squeaked out of me. “I won’t.” I paused by where we’d been sitting—the bikers were still there, talking—and faced Jon. “Was that a date?”

“Ha!” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Come back tomorrow night and ask me that.”

So maybe yes, maybe no. But it felt like that chance was better, now.

Maybe this place wouldn’t be horrible after all.