4. Allen #2
Riley growled like he was a viscous fae lord from a romantasy novel and then turned away from his adversary. He was glaring as he gently directed Allen to sit and began taking off his winter coat.
“What are you—” Allen grabbed his coat, trying to keep it closed, but Riley was strong. He clenched his jaw as his only source of warmth was taken away, and then sat in disbelief while Riley pulled off his sweat-damp jersey before unceremoniously shoving it over Allen’s head.
The smell of sweat wasn’t awful mixed with whatever cologne Riley was wearing, but Allen still grimaced and cursed, purposely kicking a padded leg to show how mad he was.
“I wasn’t going to touch your boyfriend, Evans,” Sloan snapped, sounding offended.
“Good, fucking keep it that way, you pigeon.” Riley hadn’t looked at the guy; he was too busy tucking Allen’s hair back into place and then wrapping his coat around his shoulders.
“Don’t talk to him,” Riley ordered.
Allen rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
Riley let out a strained laugh and turned away, his eyes staying on Allen as he followed the length of the bench, crossed the wall into the players’ box, and vanished into the tunnel beyond.
Feeling much like a tree that a territorial dog had pissed on, Allen groaned and began resituating himself. His arms weren’t even in the damn sleeves of the jersey, and he was tempted to take it off, but he had a feeling Riley would climb the damn glass and make him put it back on if he did.
“What a fucking weirdo.”
Allen was thinking the same thing, but it wasn’t him who had said it out loud. He kept his eyes facing forward as Sloan slid across the bench and bumped elbows with him.
“What is this, medieval times? Does he think I’m going to throw you over my shoulder like a sack of barley and ride my horse into the sunset?”
Oh, yay, how he loved feeling like an object. At least barley was an upgrade from a soiled tree.
“Are you talking to me because you want to, or because you want to piss off your rival?” Allen asked, still refusing to look at the douchbag. “He seems pretty trigger-happy if that’s what you’re going for. No need to drag me into it.”
The silence was deafening, as was the announcer's voice, who was starting to call out the lineups. These games weren’t official, but they were real enough to stir up old anxiety for him.
The glass separating the players’ section from the bench was low enough that Allen knew he could reach over and pat Jake on the head like a dog if he wanted to. The thought cheered him up and quieted the squirming in his stomach.
Then Jake and his teammates were on the ice, Riley among them, who was wearing a new jersey.
“I didn’t think Evans was into guys,” said Sloan, casually.
Allen’s teeth were ready to crack from how tightly his jaw was clenched. “Is there a problem with that?”
Sloan shrugged and readjusted his toque. “Not really. It doesn’t matter to me.”
In his anger, Allen had forgotten to point out that Riley was not his damn boyfriend.
“Everything about the guy pisses me off,” said Sloan. “I don’t know how you put up with him.”
And Allen felt like he was in kindergarten again, watching two morons fight over the blue crayon.
“It’s called being an adult,” Allen pointed out, so that he could draw a line between them. “How old are you? Sixteen?”
“I’m twenty-one, asshole.”
Scratch that, Allen was starting to feel like a damn kindergarten teacher, not a student.
But Allen felt obligated to stick up for Riley, despite still being miffed about the jersey claim. So, he turned to Sloan, smiling brightly, and said, “You’re twenty-one and you weren’t drafted? It sucks that you ended up on a farm team.”
Those angry, blue eyes widened before narrowing into slits.
“Hey!”
The sound of wood cracking off glass startled Allen so badly that he shouted a curse word, earning a dirty look from the mother sitting behind him with her kids.
He swerved around and saw Jake standing next to the player’s bench, his hockey stick now bent at an awkward angle as he stared Sloan down.
“Stop glaring at him,” Jake shouted, ignoring the nervous looks of his teammates and coach around him. “Whatever he said, you deserved it.”
It was swiftly becoming obvious that Sloan wasn’t used to being confronted so aggressively, or by someone as tall as the massive man that was Jake, because the anger flickered away, replaced by…awkwardness?
With his point made, Jake pulled his broken stick back and propped it against the corner, already searching for a new one.
It took several heartbeats for Sloan to speak again, but when he did, there was a hint of disbelief in his tone.
“Are you dating that one, too?”
Allen sighed and dropped his head into his hands, accidentally breathing in a lungful of Riley. “No, I’m not dating either of them. I just want to fuck that one.”
Sloan went quiet again, and Allen turned to look at him. There was no disgust or anger in his eyes, just unabashed fascination.
“Do you…” Sloan looked between Allen and Jake, brows pinching together. “Do you think it will fit?”
Allen wanted to hit him, but he also didn’t want to be arrested for assault tonight.
Sloan grinned and held out a hand. “I’m Kingston Sloan, and you?”
“Allen Monroe,” Allen muttered, unsure of whether Kingston heard him over the noise. “Are you always so abrasive?”
“No idea,” said Kingston. “I don’t know what that means.”
Allen pulled his phone out and googled the definition, holding it out for his new best friend to read.
“Yeah, that’s me,” said Kingston. “Got a problem with that?”
No, but Allen’s wine glass was sure to hear about it later.
“Just shut up and watch the damn game,” said Allen.
Fuck, he hated hockey.