2. Griffin
CHAPTER 2
GRIFFIN
“I know what it looks like when someone wants to fuck me.”
Locke is lying under a light blue Pontiac Firebird cursing up a shitstorm but pauses long enough to roll himself out and give me an exasperated look.
“You’re projecting.”
“Meet us after practice and tell me you wouldn’t want to get dicked down by this beast. Better yet, just google him.”
He rolls his eyes and groans when he rubs a layer of dirt over his forehead with a gloved hand. “Are you forgetting the whole ‘no sexual attraction unless we’re already into each other’ thing? The only person on that team I could find even remotely attractive would be you.”
Which is another case of been there, done that, and have no intention of trying it again.
“Stop talking about how much you want to bang your teammate. Don’t you have better things to do than distract me from working?”
“I could go back to the apartment and jerk off on the couch.”
He glares and lays back down, rolling under the car without another word.
Well, without a word that isn’t a grumbled, “fuck you.”
It’s only been a week since Riley’s boot came off, but he came out of it like a bullet. Practice has been intense, and seeing him you’d never think he’s been injured twice over.
He’s a force to be reckoned with, and one that gets my blood boiling with enough adrenaline to strain the cup beneath my uniform.
Instant infatuation and hero worship never make for a good combo, but goddamn is he an incredible player and good looking as hell and matches my wit like we’re tossing ping pong balls instead of snark.
It’s not like Coach’s grueling practice schedule has left me much time or energy for hooking up and ridding myself of this overdose of sexual tension.
A wrench hits my ankle—not hard—but enough that I frown and look down to see Locke peering at me.
“Why don’t you go grab us some lunch?”
Maybe he knows I need a distraction—or maybe he’s just hungry—but I don’t hesitate to grab the wallet he holds out to me.
“What do you want?”
He shrugs. “Surprise me.”
“Just for that you’re getting corn dogs. From Sonic.”
He wrinkles his nose and pushes back under the car.
I’m not heartless. As much as I want that Route 44, I know greasy food isn’t on Locke’s top list of dietary choices. He’ll eat sugar until his teeth rots, but super greasy fast foods? Not so much.
It never stops being strange: walking the town I grew up in. It never stops feeling like the last five years didn’t happen. Like I imagined my entire hockey career, and here I am with a blunt reminder that I never made it. Even if being a pro at the top of the hockey food chain was never really my goal, it still stings.
I’ve seen every major city in America and several in Canada; I’ve been around the block. That doesn’t mean people don’t talk, and in small town Tennessee life, folks love nothing more than juvenile gossip.
“I hear he’s a real hot head. Channels all that anger and aggression into beating people up. What kind of sport allows players to brawl in the middle of a game? It’s uncouth.”
Ah. Gotta love middle aged white women who never learned to keep their voices down.
I’m used to being the center of gossip.
I’m brash.
I’m vulgar.
I’m rude and disrespectful.
Because I have no intentions of hiding who I am.
Because I’ve decked more homophobes on the ice than hockey pucks I’ve caught.
Because people mistake my loyalty for insubordination.
Fuck ‘em.
Any insults they hurl my way, I can take.
This local sub shop is one of Locke’s favorites and the only place that accommodates his weird taste for chili cheese buffalo chicken. I know. Combination flavor overload. But it puts some meat on his twiggy bones, so I won’t deprive him of his monstrosity.
Waiting in line would be a much more enjoyable experience if the ladies at the table beside it would shut up for—I don’t know—the five minutes I’ll have to stand here.
“Did you hear about his father? Poor man had a heart attack last year when his youngest son?—”
“Hey!” I bark in my fiercest goalie voice, causing both of the ladies to jump and snap their wide-eyed gazes over to me. “Mind your manners when you’re talking about someone’s family three feet away from them.”
I might not be a household name, but no one forgets the local screw ups.
The ladies whisper amongst themselves with pointed looks in my direction, no doubt continuing their shit talk out of earshot. Which is fine. Bitch and moan about me all you want, but leave my family out of it.
I’ve got our sandwiches ordered and am standing off to the side trying to ignore the urge to stomp over to the whispering hags and give them a full piece of my mind when someone far too close clears their throat.
My hands are clenched in the pockets of my unzipped jacket, but I look up with as little animosity as I can muster—though that includes a smile that looks more like a snarl.
Riley is standing there with his copper hair tousled from the wind, a pair of round, metal frames sitting on his button nose, with his bare, muscled arms crossed over his chest. There’s the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips, so I mimic his pose and shoot him a glare.
“Problem, Easton?”
His smile blooms fully now, and he shakes his head. “You always think that.”
“You’re always looking at me like I’m some thought provoking mystery.”
He shrugs his shoulders and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Maybe you are. You’re my new goalie. I’ve got a lot to learn about you.”
Since getting the boot off, his ice time has been limited. He claims that he spent the last couple of weeks watching how I play, but it’s yet to be seen whether all that intense focus did him any good.
Besides, my dirty mind likes to think there are other reasons he was so insistent to keep his eyes on me.
Hey, a gay man can dream.
A finger presses between my scrunched brows, pulling me out of my thoughts, and I knock it away with a deeper frown.
“Why are you here, anyway?” I grumble.
“Honestly? I saw you looking like you wanted to throw down with someone and figured if you were going to throw a punch it’d be better if it were at me.”
That’s not the kind of throwing down I’d like to do with this man.
“I’m not going to hit anyone,” I say, lifting up my red and yellow hornets cap and dragging a hand through my messy, chestnut hair. “Some people are just assholes.”
That smile makes my stomach do a somersault, and it isn’t fair that he gets to be this attractive and not be even remotely interested in me.
“Kill ‘em with kindness?”
I scoff. “Easy for you to say. Have you seen you?” I sweep a hand in his direction. “You’re intimidating.” I repeat the motion at myself. “I look like a college frat boy.”
Listen, I’m not lacking in the muscle department, but I’m not bulky. You can’t see the veins flex in my arms when I work out, not like Riley, and it is annoyingly, ridiculously hot.
His eyes break from mine to scan down my body, and I swear to whatever god exists that when they travel back up there’s a spark of heat in them—a cavern of it even.
“You’re the hot head of the PHL. I’m just one of hundreds who couldn’t cut it in the NAPH. I promise, no one goes into a game with the Hornets and worries about me.”
“That’s because they’re dumbasses,” I bark, and his brows shoot up. “You’re a fucking powerhouse, and everyone on this team knows it.”
This man has the audacity to look surprised. As if Hawks didn’t advocate for him on the starting line up even when he was out of commission.
“And you’re practically a brick wall in front of that net. Don’t sell yourself short.”
I roll my eyes, because otherwise I’m going to do something stupid like grab the front of his damp-looking tank top and smash our mouths together.
Not a kiss but an ‘Oh my god, stop making me want to jump your bones’.
Someone behind the counter calls my name, and I grab mine and Locke’s sandwiches without a word, getting an aggressive side eye from the ladies still occupying the booth by the counter.
I expect that to be the end of mine and Riley’s interaction, but as I step out to the sidewalk, he follows along.
“Nothing better to do than to stalk your teammate?”
He shrugs and lets out a deep chuckle. “Not really. My family is in Colorado. So my days off are usually pretty chill.”
“What? No girlfriend to keep you busy? You’ve been here, what, two years now? That’s what Hawks said. Not the commitment type?”
He gets a little quiet at that, and I look over to see his eyes down, lost in thought. They flick up to me, and a peek of that smile returns.
“Nah. I just like my solitude, that’s all. I spend most of my days with a bunch of sweaty hockey players all piled on top of each other. It’s nice to have a breather.”
“Fair enough. So, what, you pick up from that cereal bar? Doesn’t seem like the place chicks go to for hookups.”
He laughs, and the sound goes straight to the cluster of sparrows ramming around for escape in my gut.
“I have my resources.”
“Any of those resources happen to have some queer men to help a hard-up guy out?”
I’m only half serious, because I need to get laid but I’m also not in a hurry to re-enter the Tennessee gay scene. It was never that good to me.
I walk a few feet before I realize Riley is no longer beside me and look back to see him frozen on the sidewalk. His eyes are wide, posture tense, and his Adam’s apple bobs on a gulp.
“Does it make you uncomfortable?” I ask after a moment of us staring at each other without a word. “That I hook up with guys?”
Riley licks his upper lip, blinks out of his haze, and shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry.”
I step toward him, and he doesn’t back away. Only tilts his head when we stand toe to toe.
“You know that’s how it looks, right? Anytime me being gay is brought up, you get weird. Being a gay man from the south—being a masculine gay man from the south—leaves me having to wonder every single time if the issue is malicious or ignorant or something else.”
He stares right at me, eyes lost and floundering mouth speechless.
“So which is it?” I demand with way more force than I feel. My heart is hammering in my chest, adrenaline picking up speed in my veins.
Riley breaks our invisible connection, dropping his eyes to the ground and stepping back. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and clears his throat.
“Not malicious,” he says with a scratch to his voice. “I promise.”
That doesn’t answer the question, but it quells the spike of fear that never quite goes away. About whether my teammates are chill or secretly wishing I’d wipe out on the ice.
It’s a toss up. A gamble.
But I believe Riley when he tells me he’s not the latter. Might not be the former, either. Somewhere in between.
I can work with that.
“I’m not contagious,” I say, continuing down the sidewalk. “Just honest.”
Riley’s footsteps pick up behind me, even if he’s still keeping a bit of distance.
“Honest? So, uh, does that mean you’re bringing this food back to your boyfriend?”
I throw him a bewildered look over my shoulder. “If I had a boyfriend, why would I be hard up enough for sex to ask if you know anybody?”
His freckled cheeks turn a dark pink, and he chuckles under his breath. “Fair. I just assumed. The guy gives you a ride each morning and picks you up each evening, so I just… figured, you know? Is he your brother?”
I laugh and flick my cap down to hide from the assault of sunlight coming through a break in the trees and buildings. “Locke? Nah. Might as well be at this point. Been friends since middle school. He’s letting me stay with him until I can find more permanent arrangements.”
If I end up needing more permanent arrangements. There’s nothing stopping the Hornets from trading me again if I don’t live up to expectations.
“You need somewhere to stay?”
“Need is a strong word. There’s no rush on moving out, but yeah, I hate feeling like a burden on my best friend, you know?”
“Have you talked to the guys? A lot of us rent out apartments in a building near the rink. Maybe there’s a vacancy.”
“Yeah? Maybe I’ll talk to Hawks about it.”
It grows quiet, and I’m not too sure why Riley is following me anymore. It isn’t like I invited him back to the shop, but if we happen to be walking in the same direction… and if he happens to stop in and hang out… who am I to complain?
“Evan would be good for you.”
I nearly stumble over my sneakers at a crack in the sidewalk when he suddenly speaks up. “Huh?”
“A good friend, I mean. Hawks is a strong ally. Goes to the Pride parades every year, is very vocal about injustices in the league where queer people are concerned. You’d get along well.”
It’s a little sudden and odd, but I nod anyway. “He seems cool. I definitely don’t want to shack up with my captain if it comes down to it, though.”
Locke is leaning against the fender of the Firebird when we make it back to the bay, and his brows shoot up when he notices I’ve brought a companion.
“Found a stray,” I say, pointing to Riley, who scrunches his shoulders up a bit and smiles.
“Riley Easton,” he says, offering his hand.
Locke—who is covered head to toe in oil and dust—doesn’t hesitate to take it. “Locke Madden.”
I pass over Locke’s sandwich, and he holds it under his arm as he twists his nearly elbow-length hair into a bun and snatches my hat to toss it over top.
“At this point, you should just cut it, man.”
“I’ll cut my hair when you cut your dick.”
I don’t miss the way Riley’s curious gaze does a quick sweep across my body and lingers on the crotch of my jeans.
“My friend is a very classy mechanic.”
Locke gives me the finger and digs into his sandwich. “His friend is the reason he’s not out on his ass right now.”
I don’t shove him because I don’t want him to choke, and I turn to find Riley watching us with a quiet contemplation.
“Cat got your tongue, Easton?”
He blinks, shakes his head, and offers up a smile. “It’s one of those days. Tired. A little out of it.”
Even if he brushes it off, I don’t like the exhaustion settling in at the slight crinkle around his eyes. Riley isn’t old—getting up there for the PHL, sure—but he doesn’t look as energetic as a man just pushing thirty should.
I find myself chewing on the pad of my thumb as I look him over. The boot is off, but he’s still favoring his left leg. His posture is tense.
“You know what?” Locke cuts through my evaluation, putting his sandwich on the bumper and wiping his hands on his dirty coveralls. “Griff needs friends. Please get him out of my hair.”
“Hey now.”
Locke snaps his fingers and points one at me. “Stop hiding.” But I see the meaning in his eyes. It’d be sweet if it wasn’t solely because he wants all of my horny testosterone out of his space. He’s more of a sweaty, dirty testosterone kind of guy and not in the fun way.
I turn to Riley and thrust my hands in my pockets. “Guess that means we’re going on a date.”
He frowns only for a second before he lights up with a smile. “See. I’m getting used to your humor.”
We leave Locke to his business, and I don’t know where the hell we’re going to go, but just walking around the town with Riley proves to be the most fun I’ve had in a day off since joining the team. Hell, since the last two teams I’ve gone through.
It’s not like we even get up to anything special. We talk. Split my meatball sub because I feel like a jackass eating in front of people and not sharing. Southern manners and all. It does actually feel kind of like a date, but I won’t risk making that joke twice.
“So,” Riley says from the back booth of a Waffle House we stop at later because not a chance a six inch sub fills up a man his size. “About the apartments.”
I look up from where I’ve been texting Locke with one leg taking up the other half of my bench seat and my arm thrown over the backrest. “I’ll hit Cap up at practice about it.”
Riley shakes his head, a sneaky little smile on his whiskered lips. He’s got a thickish red beard covering his jaw, too. “No, I was thinking. You think I’m homophobic.”
“I think you’re a little wary and weird, but?—”
“Hush, Foster.”
Quickest way to shut me up is to growl my name like an impatient animal while giving me the most salacious smile I don’t think he knows he’s giving.
“I rent a two bedroom apartment. Until about nine months ago, I had a roommate. If you need a room, I have one available.”
“You want to shack up with the sexually repressed queer player?”
The way he snorts and has to cover his face with a hand to fend off the coughing fit of laughter is strangely endearing. Enough to force out my own grin.
“Sexually repressed, huh? I think I can live with some rigorous jerk-off sessions.”
“Even if you know that picturing you naked has definitely been on my wank bingo card more than once?”
I swing my leg off the booth seat and drop my arms to perch on the table. “Can you handle that reality, straight boy?”
Riley doesn’t answer. His eyes land on mine, and they remain unwavering as unreadable emotions pass through his expression. There’s a tick of his jaw that eases with a swipe of his tongue across the seam of his lips. He strokes his fingers through his beard with terse, contemplated movements.
“You aren’t the first gay man to fantasize about me.”
“Cocky are we?”
He chuckles again and smoothes his fingers down his beard.
“Okay, smartass. Let me clarify. You aren’t the first gay man to openly fantasize about me.”
I tilt my head, and his eyes follow.
Interesting.
“You want me to move in with you?”
“I want you to be where you need to be and be comfortable. I want you to stop thinking I have a problem with you.”
“Then stop watching me like you’re trying to solve a puzzle.”
His breath visibly catches, and his eyes flutter for the briefest moment before a soft, subdued smile spreads across his cheeks.
“Stop giving me something to look for.”
I don’t know what to make of that. Of the words. Of something deeper in his tone that makes me want to dig into him myself, take him apart and piece together the Rubik’s Cube that is Riley Easton. To make sense of his hot and cold behavior.
“That’s going to be a lot harder with our rooms only a few feet apart.”
His smile widens. “I like a good challenge.”
So do I.