Chapter Four
If Ilya Rozanov didn’t get his ass out of Eric’s face right fucking now, Eric was going to chop his legs off.
Eric pushed him hard in the back with his blocker pad. “Fuck off, Rozanov.”
But Rozanov—an all-star center who had been a thorn in the side of Eric and every other NHL goaltender for nearly a decade—held his ground.
“I swear to fuck, Rozanov,” Eric growled as he stretched his neck to try to see over Rozanov’s shoulder.
“I heard Hunter’s getting married,” Rozanov said conversationally, as if they were having lunch together and not in the middle of a 1–1 hockey game.
“Looking for an invite?” Eric asked, shoving him again.
“To the most boring event of the century? No.”
Rozanov was a big guy, not easy to move. But Matti Jalo was bigger, and he finally came to Eric’s rescue.
“Took you long enough,” Eric grumbled, but Jalo was already gone, chasing after Rozanov. A few seconds later, Rozanov was racing toward the net with the puck. Instead of sinking back into the net, Eric moved to the top of the crease, fearless and challenging. Try me, motherfucker.
Rozanov let off a lightning-quick wrist shot that sailed toward the top corner of the net. The puck was fast, but Eric was faster, gloving it down with probably a little more flourish than was necessary. He only had so many chances left to make a highlight reel.
“Nice save,” Rozanov said calmly as he skated by.
“Plenty more where that came from.”
Rozanov turned back and grinned. “I doubt it. You are a hundred years old. I could hear your bones creak.”
“That’s not what your girlfriend said.” Eric was instantly embarrassed by his immature comeback. But Rozanov was laughing.
“I’ll have to ask her about it,” he said, then skated away, still laughing. Eric’s brow furrowed. He didn’t even know if Rozanov had a girlfriend.
The game ended with the Admirals beating Ottawa 3–1.
Normally beating a team as low in the standings as Ottawa wouldn’t make Eric feel this good, but after his abysmal performance in the last game, winning felt incredible.
When the siren sounded to end the game, he raised both arms over his head as first Jalo, and then the other defenseman on the ice, Brisebois, engulfed him in jubilant hugs.
Carter skated down the ice and butted the front of his helmet against the forehead of Eric’s mask. “You put on a fucking clinic tonight, Benny. Send them crying back to Ottawa.”
“They actually stay in town for a couple of nights,” Eric pointed out, because he couldn’t be cool and let things go. “They’re playing Brooklyn on Saturday.”
Carter looped an arm around Eric’s massive, padded shoulders. “Maybe I’ll recommend a bar they can drown their sorrows in.”
The locker room was boisterous and celebratory after the game. It was always a relief to win the last home game before a road trip; the confidence boost would hopefully carry into their game in Nashville in two nights’ time.
Eric sat to Scott’s left, as always, and listened to him happily telling Carter about his plans to visit Kip at work that night.
Scott truly did love hanging out at the Kingfisher.
Maybe after nearly thirty years of hiding, he was making up for lost time by openly hanging out in gay bars.
Kip had done that for him. Or rather, the love Scott felt for Kip had done that.
It had been strong enough to push Scott out of his comfort zone and into a better life.
Eric wondered what that felt like, to love a person so deeply that you become braver for it.
Become better. Scott laughed all the time now, where before he had always been quiet, guarded and stoic.
He’d rarely been social, always offering excuses to avoid going out.
Never dating anyone, obviously. Never sharing his life.
How different was it from how Eric was living now? Eric had ostensibly shared his life with Holly for two decades, but looking back, he realized they hadn’t shared much with each other at all. A house. A bank account. A bed sometimes.
And he had liked Holly a lot. She’d come from money, but Eric had found her remarkably down-to-earth and funny.
They’d been friends first, and then it became more when she’d playfully asked him if he was ever going to kiss her.
He’d been considering it for a long time, so he’d accepted her invitation, kissing her and forming a partnership that lasted twenty years.
Her parents hadn’t been thrilled with her choice of boyfriend—a charity case hockey player from Canada—but they had changed their tune about him when Eric signed his first NHL contract.
Eric wasn’t sure, even now, if he’d ever truly been in love with Holly.
It was entirely possible he didn’t have the ability to love at all.
Not the way Scott loved Kip, or Carter loved Gloria.
The love his friends felt for their partners shone out of them, lighting up their faces when they talked about them.
Maybe that kind of love was rare, and all Eric should hope for was a spark of attraction with someone, and some enjoyable conversation.
Scott’s chatter about the Kingfisher had Eric wondering if a certain other bartender would be working that night. And that maybe going out for a while would do Eric some good.
“Are you heading to the bar right from here?” Eric asked.
“Yeah. It’s closer to the arena than to my place.”
Eric considered this. He would be wearing a suit when he left the arena, but so would Scott. He supposed he could remove the jacket and tie before entering the bar.
“Maybe I’ll go with you,” Eric said. “If that’s okay.”
Scott looked surprised, then grinned broadly, his blue eyes sparkling. “That would be awesome!”
It was probably a terrible idea. Kyle had pretty clearly rejected Eric last week and probably wouldn’t be excited to see him at his place of work.
But Eric wasn’t going to bother Kyle; he wasn’t that stupid.
He would enjoy an evening hanging out with Scott, and if he stole a few furtive glances at Kyle, no harm done.
Eric and Scott shared a car from the chauffeur service they both liked.
As soon as the car started moving, Scott began removing clothing.
First his jacket, then his tie, and Eric did the same.
But as Eric began rolling up his shirtsleeves, Scott pulled his entire dress shirt off, revealing a tight charcoal T-shirt underneath.
It was then that Eric noticed that Scott’s “suit pants” were actually a pair of sleek black jeans.
When he raised an eyebrow at him, Scott grinned sheepishly. “The dress code is a stupid rule anyway.”
Eric shook his head, smiling. “When did you turn into such a rebel?”
“Probably when Kip ranted for twenty minutes once about how professional athletes are only required to wear traditional men’s suits as a way of repressing creativity and of enforcing gender norms.”
“Right.” Eric kept his shirt on, but he unfastened a couple of the top buttons. “Funny how we never talk about stuff like that in the locker room.”
“We’re getting there.” Scott said confidently.
Eric knew that Scott truly believed there was a not-too-distant future where hockey would be every bit as inclusive and welcoming as the bars that Scott now frequented.
Eric wasn’t sure if the future of their sport was quite that rosy, but if hockey culture changed at all, it would be largely due to this man sitting beside him.
Eric was proud to be his friend. He would be prouder still to stand beside him on Scott’s wedding day.
But tonight, Eric was nervous because he was secretly hoping that Kyle was working, and he wasn’t sure what that meant.
Or what exactly he was hoping for. For right now, all Eric knew for sure was that he wanted to look at Kyle.
To enjoy the way his blood fizzed a little when Kyle smiled at him.
Maybe it was sad that Eric’s sex life had gotten so dire that he was surviving on flirtatious winks from a man who had no actual interest in him, but at least it was something.
“So, um...” The unease in Scott’s voice got Eric’s attention. “I think someone else might be joining us tonight.”
“Oh? Who?”
“Rozanov. He texted me after the game. Asked what I was doing tonight, and I told him.”
Eric was stunned. “Ilya Rozanov wants to hang out with you tonight? At a gay bar?”
Scott shrugged. “Apparently.”
“That guy is so weird.”
Scott laughed. “He’s mysterious, for sure. But I think he’s maybe a decent guy. Remember when he showed up at that gay club in Vegas to hang out with us?”
Eric did remember. A nightclub had been holding a Scott Hunter Night to celebrate Scott publicly coming out.
The party had been the same night as the NHL Awards, after the ceremony.
Scott had extended the invitation to the entire audience at the awards, but other than the handful of Scott’s teammates who had been in town, Rozanov was the only one who’d shown up.
Eric had been as surprised as Scott had been to see Rozanov—a man who had gleefully taunted Scott as often as possible for years, who had a well-earned reputation as a ladies man, who was a famous hockey player from Russia, for fuck’s sake—calmly approaching them in a gay nightclub.
To this day Eric couldn’t wrap his head around it.
“So he’s in New York City, home of some of the best nightlife in the world, and he wants to hang out with you?”