Trade Deadline (Chicago Thunder #1)

One

Blaine

Seconds later, my wish is granted, and the room drops into a peaceful silence.

“Mm, thank fuck,” I mumble as I lay back down.

Pulling the covers up over my head, I let out a happy sigh and nuzzle my face into the pillow. It’s too early. I have at least another hour until I need to get up for morning skate, so it’s time to get cozy again. Whoever it is can wait.

Maybe I can get back to that dream I was having where this gorgeous guy was about to go to town on my dick.

Wishful thinking, though, because the annoying sound starts up again.

“For fuck’s sake!”

I grab my phone and quickly sit up, staring at the screen, when I see Hayden’s name displayed on the caller ID.

My agent is calling at six thirty in the fucking morning.

Nothing good comes with your agent calling at six thirty in the morning.

My heart beats like a crazy drummer in my chest as I swipe on the screen to accept his call and raise my phone to my ear.

“Hello?” My voice comes out croaky. I clear my throat and try again. “Hayden?”

“At least one of us has had some sleep.” Hayden grumbles.

“Well, good morning to you too.” I scoff, stretching my arm above my head.

He wakes me up at this time and doesn’t even have the decency to say hello? Christ.

“Fucking hell, Blaine! Do you realize what kinda shit you’re in? Do you seriously not give a single fucking fuck?”

“Whoa, that was a lot of fucks for this time of the day.” I rub my eyes with the heel of my palm. “What have I done?” comes out in a garbled yawn.

Scooting up the bed, I lean back against the headboard, bringing the comforter with me.

“Do you recall the night you spent with three puck bunnies?”

I grin at the memory. “Mm, yeah, I do. Quite the wild night, that was.”

It’s not often I get involved in a tryst of multiples, but I couldn’t turn down those three beauties the other night. It was like a trio of decadent desserts.

One light, one dark, one cherry.

The way their bodies moved on the dance floor, their sexy clothes teasing me about what was beneath under the flashing lights of the club. All luscious curves and dangerous smiles.

“Blaine!” he shouts, pulling me out of my wayward thoughts. I pull the phone away from my ear with a wince. “Quit joking around, okay? It’s four thirty here in LA, and I’m not in the mood. I’ve been up all fucking night trying to put out this wildfire, so the least you can do is listen to me.”

Suddenly, the tiredness I was feeling evaporates. My spine goes as stiff as a rod, and my eyes are no longer heavy with sleep.

“What?” I whisper.

“They posted some bullshit on that bunny blog, The Warren Post , going into detail…” He trails off, not needing to elaborate any more because I know from experience what gets posted on there. A heavy sigh echoes through the phone. “Blaine, there’s photos.”

Dread pools in the pit of my stomach. Twisting and churning as my hands start to shake. It’s easy when it’s just some text claiming I did this or that, it can be brushed off as fabricated, but when there’s photos? That’s when it gets harder. That’s the proof I can’t deny.

“Photos?”

“Yeah. We’ve managed to get them taken down, but the Thunder PR team has been working throughout the night as they keep reappearing.”

“What kind of photos are we talking about here? Is my dick on Twitter?”

It wouldn’t be the first time there’s been something incriminating posted about me. Luckily, my dick hasn’t graced the world wide web.

Yet.

“No, thank God. They are all from behind, so all you can see is your back and ass, but everyone can tell it's you because of your tattoo. They must have set up a camera, or one of them took it while you were entertaining another, I don’t know, but there’s also a photo of the three of them posing by your Frozen Four jersey with a rather … inelegant caption.”

I squeeze my eyes closed, raking my hand through my hair.

I’ve always been super careful with everyone I brought back here.

Taking them to my spare room like I always do because it’s so fucking minimalist that there’s no way they can take anything as a trophy or go snooping where I don’t want them.

I was naive not to think about the jerseys on the wall in my hallway.

Because if they wanted a hey, I was here! brag post, it would be the perfect one.

My heart thumps wildly in my chest. Anxiety crawls across my skin like an army of fire ants.

As I said, nothing good comes from your agent calling at six thirty in the morning.

“Has Coach…?” I trail off.

“Yeah, he’s pissed. The only reason why you’re not packing your bags right now is because I’ve given him my word that we’re going to work on cleaning up your image.”

“This fucking sucks.” I grumble.

I’m a fucking amazing hockey player, with the stats to prove it.

I’m currently sitting second in points in the league.

It’s not my fault that everyone wants to hook up with me for bragging rights.

It’s hard not to give into the temptation of a good time when I have attractive people throwing themselves at me in every city.

It's part and parcel of being a professional hockey player in the NHL.

Plus, I always make it crystal clear that this is a no-strings-attached, fun time in fucktown. No false hopes and empty promises of something more.

Sex.

Just sex.

An aid to help blow off steam and tension.

“I suggest you keep your head down for a while, at least until the trade deadline has passed. The GM isn’t happy with you either, so we need to work on ensuring that you keep your spot on this team because you deserve it.

You’re an incredible hockey player, Blaine, and I would hate to see you lose everything you’ve worked so hard for because of people who only care about your status. ”

I drop my head into my hand and pinch the bridge of my nose.

I want to stay on this team. It means more to me than just a paycheck. These guys have become my family, and I don’t want to lose them. I know it comes with the territory, but I love it here.

“I’m putting my reputation on the line for you, Blaine.

Don’t let me down. Your contract is up at the end of this season, and while I’m still working on negotiations, the last thing we need is this kind of attention.

I’m about to board my flight to Chicago, so I’ll see you in a few hours before my meeting to discuss a plan for what’s next. ”

He doesn’t give me a chance to respond before he hangs up.

The room plummets into silence apart from the blood thumping in my ears as I stare out of my bedroom window overlooking Lake Michigan.

I don’t usually close the drapes when I sleep, except when I have my pre-game nap.

The bustling streets of Chicago and the expanse of water is usually soothing.

Only now, the lake is rippling with waves from the wind, crashing aggressively against the shoreline.

It’s chaotic.

Turbulent.

Which is strangely apt for this moment, especially as the sky is gray and cloudy. Like a storm is brewing, threatening a torrential downpour.

Just like my career.

You could say I’ve always had a bit of a reckless streak.

When I was a kid, I would always be the one pushing the boundaries, seeing how close to breaking the rules I could get without being reprimanded.

Then, before I left college, I fully embraced the perks of being a hockey player and the attention that came with it.

The thrill of being wanted became a drug I craved, constantly feeding my ego—essentially feeding a monster.

And now it could be what potentially causes my career to crash if I’m not careful.

All I’ve ever wanted since I was a kid was to play hockey in the NHL.

To play the best sport in the world on the biggest stage.

I can’t let someone take that away from me, even if that person is me.

With a sigh, I kick the sheets off and get in the shower. I don’t need to be at the rink for practice until eight thirty, but there’s no way I’ll be able to go back to sleep now.

My jaw ticks as frustration creeps in as I stand under the warm spray. It’s bullshit. I’m just a guy living his dream and making the most of the opportunities that are presented to me.

Once I’ve showered and shaved, I slip on my matching team sweatpants and hoodie and head out with a thermos of coffee in hand, descending two flights of stairs to knock on the door to my brother’s apartment.

Elliot is my twin brother and the newest goaltender for the Chicago Thunder. He came here in the summer when his contract was up with Vancouver, and we’re finally getting to play on the same team together.

The door swings open to reveal a fresh-faced Elliot, his hair slicked back from his shower.

We’re not identical twins, as Elliot was blessed with my mom’s genes.

Strawberry-blond hair, green eyes, and light freckles sprinkled across his nose.

We often joke that he has a face for magazine covers rather than guarding the net.

He looks at his watch, then back at me, confusion lining his forehead.

“I’m early, I know.” I drawl.

“Just checking I hadn’t overslept, and this was some weird dream.” He chuckles, stepping aside so I can enter.

I rub my face with my hand as I lean against the back of the couch.

His apartment has the same layout as mine.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake.

Open floor-plan kitchen and living room, although his is still a little chaotic.

Boxes are piled up waiting to be unpacked from his move nearly four months ago, claiming he’ll do it another day.

“Hayden is on his way,” I announce, figuring I should let him know as we share the same agent.

Elliot’s brows furrow. “Why? What did you do?”

I roll my eyes, “How do you know it’s something I did?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Hayden called me this morning. You know those girls I hooked up with the other night?”

“The awesome foursome you had?”