That Time We Faked It (Time On The Ice #3)

1. CAL

CAL

Single, Sparkly, and Slightly Tipsy

I could do this. I could be single… right? Yes. Right. I was a strong, independent gay man with a collection of dildos varied enough to rival a sex shop. What could a man possibly give me that a pregnancy pillow and a vibrating cock couldn’t? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Don’t question the pillow, okay? I saw it one day, and a lightbulb went off. I could spoon it and be spooned by it, and I wouldn’t feel alone. Add a little spritz of my favorite cologne, and voilà—it was almost like being embraced by a man. Almost. I’d even debated stuffing more filling into it, just to make it feel like a more muscular man. No shame. I liked my men big.

I mean, I’m a lot of a person, so whoever ends up with me needs the body mass to match. Not that I don’t appreciate a cute twink—I’d dabbled, of course. Who hasn’t? But at the end of the day, we like what we like, and I like big, burly men who could probably pick me up with one hand and toss me over their shoulder like I weigh nothing. A man could dream.

But dreaming wasn’t on the menu anymore. Nope. I was done with men. Is there an AA group for recovering romantics? Because there should be.

Hi, my name’s Cal, and I’m addicted to the idea of love.

It didn’t help that my apartment was a breeding ground for loved-up gay men. Seriously, it often sounded like I was living inside a porn studio. Whoever designed this place clearly didn’t believe in soundproofing bedrooms. Did they not know what was going to happen in there? Maybe when my skating career was over, I could consider a side hustle in home design. “ Cal Johnson’s Sensibly Soundproof Homes. ” Catchy, right?

With a shrug to myself, I took a deep breath and surveyed the place—a gay bar packed to the brim with men dancing and grinding, some already making out in shadowy corners. Basically, it was the last place a recovering romantic should be. Yet, there I was. The allure of men rubbing against men was pulling me in like cigarette smoke to a recovering smoker. God help me.

Seriously, I was starting to sound like an addict. My inner monologue cursed my friends and their unfairly beautiful love affairs, blaming them for my current predicament—standing in the middle of a gay club, the source of all my problems. A pulsing haven of temptation for a recovering romantic like me.

Here’s the thing: sex was never just sex for me. Those magical creatures who can flip an emotional off-switch the second a cock rubs their prostate the right way? Good for them, truly. But me? I was doomed to catch feelings faster than a bottom catches a load.

“Hey there, how about we start the new year with a bang?”

The low rumble of a man’s voice came from behind me, and goddamn, I was already fucked. My dick twitched at the prospect of being touched by someone who had no business doing so. Maybe I need church, I thought. A little repentance. A little holy water. That’d help with the abstinence plan… right?

I turned, and there he was: a big, burly man who checked all my physical boxes but none of the emotional ones. The scent of beer on his breath and the glazed look in his eyes told me he’d barely remember me in the morning.

This was New Year’s Eve- nearly the new year and a chance for a new me. With that thought (and with the smell of his beer-soaked breath making the decision easier), I gave the guy a polite but firm pat on his chest.

“Mm, no thanks, handsome,” I said, flashing a saccharine smile. “This prince wants to go to bed alone tonight. But I see a pretty twink over there who might be interested.” I pointed vaguely toward the bar, then added with a wink, “Maybe workshop the pick-up lines first, though.”

I patted his chest again, mostly to drive the point home. And, okay, maybe once more just to feel those pecs—because even though he gave me the ick, the man had pecs for days . What can I say? I’m a horny, lonely man.

I left before he could respond, weaving through the crowd and trying to find some other way to celebrate New Year’s. Preferably a way that didn’t involve overhearing my roommates banging when I got home.

This was it. I’d made a promise to myself: no relationships until I won the Figure Skating Championship. Period. Hard full stop. Which is why I ended up in the one place on earth I was guaranteed not to be hit on.

A sports bar.

Yes, it’s stereotypical. Sue me. But the TVs were all tuned into games, and not one of these men was going to hit on me. Most of them wouldn’t even notice I existed. And bonus: they were airing Tyler’s game from earlier today. He’d been killing it in the big leagues, and honestly? Watching him dominate on the ice made me feel like maybe I didn’t have to dominate my own life tonight.

“Can I get you a drink?”

I blinked, torn away from the TV by the deep rumble of a voice that could probably start an earthquake. I turned, and holy hell. Standing in front of me was a man who could’ve walked straight out of a lumberjack calendar. He was huge —like, chop-a-tree-down-with-one-swing huge.

His plaid shirt clung to his broad chest like it was doing the world a favor, and his beard? Perfectly trimmed, full, and just hipster enough without veering into “man-bun” territory. The dark, Thor-like hair that fell to his shoulders didn’t hurt, either. And then, his eyes: a piercing, stormy gray that made my brain short-circuit.

I stared at him for far too long, my jaw slack as my mind scrambled to come up with something—anything—coherent.

“Are you going to sit there checking me out the whole time, or are you going to order a drink?”

Oh, and the voice? It was deep. Like, caveman, drag-you-back-to-his-cave, make-you-forget-your-own-name deep.

I was frozen, my mouth dry, and my thoughts… decidedly not dry. My inner monologue screamed something along the lines of please fuck me, you Viking god. But, obviously, I said nothing.

The man cocked his head, his gray eyes narrowing slightly. “Okay, pretty boy, if you’re just going to waste a seat and not order anything, you gotta go.”

Pretty boy? Pretty boy. I might’ve combusted on the spot if I wasn’t too busy continuing to gape at him. I didn’t even have time to process the fact that I was being called out for—well, ogling.

“Are you deaf?” he asked, his tone slightly softer, but no less commanding.

“Because if you are, I just made myself look like an asshole, I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to sign. Could you, uh, move your head or something if you can read lips?”

That did it. My laughter burst out of me, loud and unexpected. “If I were deaf, do you really think that little tirade would’ve gotten you an answer?”

His scowl deepened, but there was a twitch at the corner of his lips that I couldn’t ignore.

“Well, some people can read lips,” he shot back. “But now I know you’re just blatantly ignoring me and checking me out. So really, you’re the asshole in this scenario.”

I blinked at him, stunned for a second. “Excuse me? I was not ! I was just—”

What? What was I doing, exactly? Because checking him out was absolutely the truth, but no way was I about to admit that.

“Just what, pretty boy?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave that sent a shiver straight down my spine.

Fuck. Me. Why did he have to sound like that ? My brain took a hard detour into the gutter, imagining what that voice would sound like whispering filth into my ear.

I had problems. Like, serious problems. Maybe it wasn’t just a Romantics Anonymous meeting I needed, but some kind of Sex-Thoughts Anonymous, too.

“Okay, fine, I was checking you out, but when you look like that—” I gestured broadly to his… everything like a complete idiot. I mean, come on. Beards weren’t usually my thing, and neither was long hair, but something about him had me questioning my life choices.

“It’s almost impossible not to. But I apologise for my blatant objectification. I’ll get myself in check right away.”

And then, because I apparently lacked any sense of self-preservation, I saluted him. Yes, saluted. Like an absolute clown.

He stared at me, all scowly and brooding, but there was a twitch at the corner of his very plump, very biteable lips. Down, boy.

“You say that,” he drawled, his voice dropping into that thunderstorm register again, “but you’re still staring at my mouth.”

My hands flew up to cover my face. “Ignore me. Really, just…pretend I’m not here.”

He groaned, the sound rumbling through the bar like an engine kicking into gear.

“It’s my bar. Hard to ignore someone when they’re wearing that. ”

He jerked his head in my direction, and I glanced down at my outfit. Okay, fine. It wasn’t exactly sports-bar-appropriate, but for a gay club? I was killing it. My glittery black sheer top and skin-tight leather pants were a look. My ass? Magnificent.

“Too gay?” I challenged, quirking an eyebrow.

Mr. Lumberjack just rolled his eyes. “No, it’s currently negative four outside and snowing. Your nipples look like they’re about to snap off, very hard not to notice.”

My eyes flicked down, and sure enough, there they were. Though, between us, it wasn’t the cold. The bar was nice and toasty. No, the blame for this one fell squarely on him. But he didn’t need to know that.

“Well,” I said, mustering all the sass I could manage, “I’ll have a vodka lime and soda… Jack. ”

His scowl deepened, and for a second, I worried I’d pushed too far. I wanted to tell him to stop before it froze that way and ruined his otherwise perfect face. But then I remembered he could probably throw me out the door with one hand, so I wisely kept my mouth shut.

“Jack?” he repeated, his tone laced with judgment.

I shrugged and gestured toward his whole Viking lumberjack aesthetic. “Seems fitting.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering, “Original.”

I watched as he poured my drink, his large hands moving with ease, the veins in his forearms flexing in a way that should be illegal. When he handed it to me, I took a sip, my nose wrinkling slightly.

“What now, pretty boy?” Jack asked, his voice laced with mild irritation, though his smirk was just visible under his beard.

I fidgeted with the glass in my hand, shrugging as I took another sip. In truth, a vodka lime and soda was about as exciting as a bran cookie when there were chocolate brownies on offer. But calories were calories, and I’d made a silent pact with myself to behave.

“Nothing, carry on,” I replied, gesturing lazily to the bar around us. It was oddly quiet, which was a shame because the place was nice—wood-paneled walls, dim lighting, and the kind of atmosphere that made you want to nurse a drink for hours.

“Actually, why is it so quiet?” I asked, finally taking in the near-empty room.

Jack crossed his arms, which only served to accentuate his biceps straining against the plaid. I had to swallow hard and remind myself not to stare. Focus, Cal. The man is not a sex object, no matter how much he looks like one.

“It’s a sports bar on New Year’s Eve,” Jack said, his tone deadpan. “Clubs are on every corner. Where do you think people go?”

“But what about all the lonely straight men?” I quipped, smirking at him.

Jack’s brows furrowed, and his arms flexed, drawing my attention again. Stop imagining him pinning you against a wall, for God’s sake.

“You know, that’s another strike for being an asshole,” Jack said flatly. “Not only straight men like sports.”

I blinked, my smirk dropping as my body flushed with guilt. My mouth had gotten me into trouble more times than I could count, and this was shaping up to be one of those times.

“Fuck,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “Sorry. My mouth is my greatest flaw. Again, ignore me.”

Jack mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “Pretty fucking hard to ignore.” I wasn’t sure if it was an insult or something else entirely.

I decided to change the subject.

“It’s a nice bar you have here,” I said, attempting to salvage the conversation. I took another sip of my drink, only for my nose to wrinkle at the taste.

Jack’s eyes narrowed as he abruptly snatched the glass from my hand. “Give me that. Jesus.”

Before I could protest, he dumped the vodka lime and soda into the sink, grabbed a bottle from the back shelf, and poured me a glass of deep red wine. He slid it across the bar to me, the movement so smooth it almost felt rehearsed.

I stared at the wine, blinking like he’d offered me my last meal. And damn, if he were my last meal... Cal, no. Focus.

“Drink that,” Jack ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Why people order shit they don’t like is beyond me.”

I hesitated, glancing between the glass and his steady gaze. My heart stuttered as I realized what he’d poured—Rossler Flats Merlot. My favorite. It wasn’t just any wine. Once a year, after my skating season ended, I’d splurge on a bottle of Rossler Flats, pairing it with a board loaded with cheese and chocolate, indulging in my absolute kryptonite.

“Don’t insult me, pretty boy,” Jack said, crossing his arms again, the pose exuding dominance. “You know you want it.”

Challenged, I raised the glass to my lips, the familiar aroma hitting me first. The taste was divine, smooth and rich, and it instantly warmed me from the inside out. My eyes fluttered closed for just a second as I savored it, but when I opened them, Jack was still watching me, his expression unreadable.

“Better?” he asked, his voice softer now, but still carrying that gravelly edge that made my knees weak.

“Better,” I admitted, feeling the corners of my mouth lift despite myself.

Jack’s lips quirked into the faintest smirk. “Told you.”

Jack’s eyes didn’t waver from me as I took another sip of the wine, letting the flavor coat my tongue and the warmth spread through my chest.

God, it really was my kryptonite. But his gaze, sharp and assessing, made me squirm in my seat as if I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

“You see…” I started, breaking the silence and deciding to lean into my usual self-deprecating humor. “I’m in the middle of a season. I can’t afford to put on any weight, and do you know how many calories are in this glass?” I swirled the wine as if it were the problem and not the lingering heat low in my stomach from his stupidly intense stare. “I overindulged at Christmas and gained two pounds. When my coach weighs me, I’m going to be doing extra runs for weeks.”

Jack leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the bar, and tilted his head in a maddening, calculating way. “Figure skater,” he said, his voice like gravel sliding over silk. “Either that or a dancer. But if I had to bet…” He smirked. “It’s figure skating. And if I’m right, I can also bet you haven’t eaten today. So drink the wine. It’ll fill the calorie void. It’s New Year’s—live a little, pretty boy.”

I sighed, dramatically defeated, as if his logic weren’t flawless. “Figure skater,” I admitted, swirling the glass again before taking another sip. “And fine. Only because it’s my favorite. And I’m weak.”

The second the wine hit my tongue again, I moaned—a sound that was probably inappropriate for public consumption, but entirely honest.

Rossler Flats Merlot was liquid gold. I was beginning to think it deserved a spot in my top five sensations alongside… other, far more carnal things I hadn’t experienced in far too long.

Jack’s lips twitched, and his eyes gleamed with what I could only assume was amusement.

“See? Worth it.”

I hummed, leaning back in my seat, closing my eyes to savor the moment. Between the wine and the man in front of me, my body was doing all sorts of things it shouldn’t have been doing in a sports bar on a dead New Year’s Eve. My dick stirred, and I willed it to settle down. Not happening tonight, buddy. Straight guy rules apply.

“I feel like I should leave you two alone,” Jack said, his voice teasing, though he pulled back and busied himself behind the bar. My stomach sank just a little at the loss of his closeness.

“So,” I ventured, hoping to keep the conversation going, “why do you even bother opening the bar on New Year’s if you know it’ll be dead?”

Jack grabbed a cloth and started polishing the already spotless rose-gold countertop. “So lonely assholes like you have somewhere to go.”

I laughed, loud and unrestrained, despite knowing he probably hadn’t meant it as a joke. “Well, I’m glad I could keep you company, Jack.”

He grunted in response, a low, guttural sound that shouldn’t have made me feel the way it did. But there was that rule again: never date—or fantasize about—the straight guy. It was a shame, really, because if I could turn Jack for one night… I’d be all over that.

The sound of fireworks and cheers from the street filtered into the bar, reminding me of the revelry outside. This place really was tucked away—a gem I’d only stumbled across after ducking into the alley to take a call from Tyler. My best friend, who was riding high on his game victory earlier, had been all kinds of adorable wishing me a happy New Year. Once the call ended, the dim light of the bar’s sign had caught my attention. It felt serendipitous at the time, but now? With Jack standing there, looking all broody and sexy? It felt downright fated.

I pulled out my phone, sent a quick message to the everything gay line, and waited, the glass of wine cradled in my hand like a lifeline.