Chapter Twelve
Eric loved playing against Toronto because he hated Dallas Kent.
Toronto’s star forward had loads of talent but was one of the biggest assholes Eric had ever met.
He was obnoxious like Ilya Rozanov, but without any of the charm.
Because for all of the talk about what a bad boy Rozanov was, he’d never, to Eric’s knowledge, used slurs on or off the ice, or posted sexist or homophobic jokes on Twitter.
Rozanov had a reputation as a ladies man, but he always seemed to treat women—and talk about them—with respect.
Basically the opposite of Dallas fucking Kent.
Eric had a lot of career achievements to be proud of, but his secret favorite might be that he’d never let Kent score on him. Not once. And that wasn’t changing tonight.
Eric noticed that Kent seemed a little quieter tonight than he had been last season.
Probably because he didn’t have his protector anymore—Ryan Price had quit hockey in the middle of last season.
Frankly, Eric couldn’t blame him; he’d rather drink poison than have to defend Dallas Kent for a living.
Kent might also be quieter tonight because he knew slurs weren’t going to fly with Scott Hunter’s team.
If he dared utter anything even remotely homophobic, the New York Admirals entire roster would come crashing down on him.
It hadn’t been a completely smooth road for the team since Scott came out—a few players had felt blindsided and uncomfortable by Scott’s very public announcement—but now, over two years later, there wasn’t a single man on the team who wouldn’t defend their captain.
Eric didn’t miss the way Kent glared at Scott on the ice, though. The sneers. Kent was a piece of shit.
And he probably wasn’t a fan of all the rainbow flags.
Since Scott came out, every arena the Admirals played in would have at least a couple of rainbow flags in the crowd.
Sometimes there would be homemade signs thanking Scott, or proposing marriage to him.
The flags might be for Scott, but Eric was heartened by them too.
It was nice to feel supported, even if the fans didn’t know they were showing support for him, specifically.
He wondered how many other players secretly felt that way. Maybe some of homophobic Dallas Kent’s unfortunate teammates. He remembered, again, that Ryan Price was gay, and it had been his job to protect Kent. How was Kent even still alive?
Eric narrowed his eyes at Kent as the asshole waited to take the face-off. “You see that guy? He doesn’t get a thing past us tonight, all right?” His goalposts were silent, but Eric was pretty sure they understood their orders.
Fortunately, Scott won the face-off and the puck was carried quickly to the opposite end of the ice. Eric stood up straight and shook out his shoulders, which had been tight for the past couple of days.
“Pass it to Carter, he’s all alone over there,” Eric muttered. But instead Scott took a shot that was deflected, and now Kent was racing toward Eric with the puck. “Okay, fellas. Remember what I said. He gets nothing by us.”
Matti caught up with Kent, so Kent dropped the puck back to his linemate, Troy Barrett, who Eric had always secretly thought of as “Dallas Kent-light.” He was almost as talented, and almost as gross.
At least, Eric assumed he was because he was known to be tight with Kent, and Eric didn’t think someone could be friends with Kent unless they were a shitty person too.
So Troy Barrett wasn’t allowed to score on him either.
Barrett was forced to turn back to the blue line with the puck so the Toronto forwards could regroup.
“Watch Aucoin!” Eric yelled, because the only Toronto forward who wasn’t a superstar was being left wide open. “Get on him!”
Matti heard him and went to cover him, but not before Barrett got the puck to Aucoin.
Eric went to the corner of the net and waited.
He was known for his patience, for being excellent at waiting the opponent out and forcing them to move first. He did this now, and was rewarded with a flick of Aucoin’s gaze that told Eric exactly where he planned to shoot it.
If Aucoin had been a more intelligent player, like Ilya Rozanov or Shane Hollander or, hell, Dallas fucking Kent, Eric would have to decide if that shift in his gaze was a bluff.
But Aucoin was more predictable, and he shot the puck exactly where Eric expected him to: high on the glove side. An easy save.
Kent bumped into him right after Eric caught the puck, knocking Eric back so his shoulders slammed against the crossbar of the net. It fucking hurt.
Eric shoved him back, hard. “Real fucking nice, shithead.”
Matti and Scott were both there too. “Get the fuck off of him!” Scott yelled, grabbing Kent.
Kent shook him off, then shoved him, “Don’t fucking touch me, Hunter.” He made a disgusted face, as if Scott were a pile of rotting meat, and tried to knock Scott’s hand away. Scott held tight and pulled him closer. Kent looked horrified, as if Scott was going to kiss him or something.
“Let go of me, you—” Kent cut himself off just in time.
“You what?” Scott yelled in his face. “You what? Finish your fucking sentence.”
“All right, that’s enough.” One of the refs arrived to separate them. “Go to your benches now or you both get penalties.”
“Finish your sentence!” Scott yelled again, over the ref’s shoulder at Kent’s retreating back.
“Hey.” Eric shook his glove off and put a hand on Scott’s arm. “Forget about him.”
Scott was a sweetheart most of the time, but he could turn violent on the ice if someone got to him enough. He was a big guy—over six feet tall and made of muscle—so he could do a lot of damage when wanted to.
“I hate that fucking guy,” Scott said. His voice was calmer now, so the ref released him.
“We all hate him,” Eric said.
“No comment,” the ref muttered, then skated away.
Eric noticed, then, that Troy Barrett was standing a couple of meters away, watching them. He didn’t look menacing at all. In fact he looked...embarrassed? Certainly uncomfortable.
Eric flipped his mask up and shot him a questioning glance. Troy opened his mouth, closed it, then skated away.
Toronto was a team of weirdos.
Eric drank some water and got ready for the face-off that would be happening right in front of him. “And that,” he told his goal posts, “is why we don’t let Kent score on us.”
It was too bad that Kent was such a shithead homophobe, because Toronto had a large and vibrant queer community. It would be nice if their star hockey player was a better role model.
Kyle had suggested that Eric go out while he was in Toronto.
Check out one of the many gay bars and find, in Kyle’s words, some sexy Canadian sweetheart to keep him warm.
Eric was definitely not going to do that, and he tried not to think about the possibility that Kyle was looking for his own bed warmer tonight back in New York.
Eric would much rather replay their kiss in his head.
And fantasize about Kyle’s offer to do more.
More. There was no way that was a good idea.
Also not a good idea: daydreaming about sex with Kyle while in the middle of a hockey game.
The play had been at the other end, but Toronto was charging back toward Eric with the puck now.
“Here we go, fellas,” Eric told his posts. “I’ll do my job, you do yours.”
The shot came from an unexpected angle. Eric had positioned himself to block a low shot from his right-hand side, but the puck was passed at the last second. Eric tried to slide over to stop it, but the shot was high and sailed over his blocker.
Ping!
That sound, that glorious sound, was Eric’s favorite in the whole universe. The crisp chime of a puck hitting the post and deflecting away from the net was a chorus of angels to a goaltender. If Eric made it to old age, he wanted that sound playing on a loop next to his deathbed as he passed.
The disappointed groan of the Toronto crowd that followed the ping was also a pretty excellent sound.
“Thanks, pal,” Eric said, once the play had moved out of his end of the ice. He gave the post a loving pat.
Okay. Focus, Eric. He couldn’t count on the posts to save his ass a second time, so he needed to clear his head.
Win this game, he told himself, and you can think about Kyle all you like when you’re back in your hotel room.
He didn’t feel good about using something that pathetic as motivation, but it worked. Toronto didn’t score again, and New York won the game.
Kyle: I found someone for you.
Eric squinted at the message on his phone screen. Normally he’d be asleep at this hour, especially after a game, but he’d been restless tonight. He wondered if Kyle was at work right now. He wondered what made him text.
Oh. Right. He found someone. As in, someone for Eric to date who wasn’t Kyle. Eric ignored the way his stomach clenched at that idea.
Eric: Who?
Kyle: I don’t know his name yet. But he’s perfect for you.
Eric laughed into the dark hotel room and pulled himself up a bit so he could lean on his elbow.
Eric: Sounds amazing. He hoped his sarcasm was clear.
Kyle: He’s definitely in his thirties, cute as hell, and I overheard him say he’s a vegetarian.
Right. Because dietary preferences were the number one thing Eric was attracted to.
Eric: He’s a customer?
Kyle: Yes. I think he was on a date tonight but it didn’t go well. Now he’s sitting by himself.
Eric: You were spying on a customer while he was on a date?
Kyle: I just bring the drinks! I can’t control what I hear!
There was a long pause, and then Kyle wrote, I also took a pic of him.
Eric groaned. It was week one of being a bisexual man on the prowl and this was already getting way out of hand.
Eric: That’s creepy.
Kyle didn’t reply. Eric sighed and wrote, Send it.