Conditioning Loan (The Games We Play: Season 2)

Chapter 1

TAYLOR

Just after last season.

I hadn’t exactly been ecstatic about getting traded to the Everett Orcas earlier this year. They were the so-so PHL affiliate of the Seattle Rainiers, a mediocre NAPH team, and I’d come here from Vegas. The Vegas PHL team wasn’t spectacular, but the Aces hadn’t missed the playoffs in over a decade.

Ah well. This was where I’d landed, and it was where I’d stay unless I was traded again or another team made an offer.

And lucky for me, Shawn Morris had signed with another team about twelve minutes into free agency.

Finding out he wasn’t coming back next season had been a huge relief; playing alongside a man I’d flirted with, only to be not just rejected but laughed at?

That had sucked . But now Morris was New Jersey’s problem while I’d re-signed with the Seattle club.

I wasn’t super thrilled to be here, but at least I wasn’t playing with him anymore.

Another silver lining to playing here was that I was only about forty-five minutes north of Seattle…

which meant I was only forty-five minutes away from Seattle’s vibrant gay scene.

Now that my ego had healed a bit from Morris’s bullshit and I could actually think about meeting other men without dry heaving, it was time to put myself out there.

Especially since I knew for a fact he’d only come back from his vacation in Europe long enough to move out of his Everett apartment, and he was now settled in New Jersey.

That meant there was zero chance of crossing paths with him in a dance club (which would’ve been mortifying ).

Let’s do this.

Parking was a bitch and a half down there, though, so I left my car up in Lynnwood and took the light rail into the city. There was, conveniently, a subway stop in Capitol Hill, and the best-rated clubs were all within about three blocks. Perfect.

Tonight, I wasn’t in the mood to drink and dance.

Okay, I was, but only as a means to an end—I was horny as hell and wanted to get laid, and the apps hadn’t been working for me.

The whole swiping-and-chatting thing had never really been my strong point.

I could fumble my way through an in-person conversation, but chatting always gave me too much opportunity to overthink everything I said.

It was also a lot harder to pick up on subtext without body language and inflection.

In-person gave me plenty of chances to say or do something that I’d randomly cringe over at 2:00 in the morning twenty years from now, but at least it couldn’t be screencapped for posterity.

At the club, I paid the cover and made my way through the throngs of people to the bar.

The place was crowded, which I expected on a Saturday night.

With the heat of the day lingering outside, walking in here was a relief because the club had weapons-grade air conditioning.

With this many people in the room, it should’ve been stuffy and stifling, but it was way more comfortable than the oppressive mugginess outside.

I was used to heat from living in Vegas, but this humid bullshit could go straight to hell.

After I’d acquired a beer, I moved away from the bar to let someone else take my spot.

As I sipped my beer, I scanned the room.

No wonder this place was popular—there were hot men as far as the eye could see.

I was pretty sure I recognized two of them from a gym I went to up in Everett.

In fact—yep, I knew that pirate ship bicep tattoo anywhere.

I had no idea what it meant, only that I’d seen it many times while the one guy and his—friend?

boyfriend? no idea—were lifting. Maybe they were a couple looking for a third for the night?

That could be fun. I hadn’t had a threesome in a while.

Still, I kept looking around, getting a feel for the crowd and the lay of the land.

The dancefloor was packed. Some guys were dancing together, some alone.

I’d probably make my way out there after I’d finished my beer.

Maybe the pirate-tattooed weightlifter and his friend—no, that had to be his boyfriend—would join me. Stranger things had happened.

My gaze landed on a man whose back was to me, and his physique definitely had my attention.

He wasn’t particularly broad—not like one of the burly power lifters or body builders I saw at the gym—but he was lean and powerful.

His shirt was snug enough to reveal sculpted shoulders and a mouthwatering back.

And ooh, now that was an ass I wouldn’t mind seeing naked.

This man definitely didn’t skimp on squats or leg day, that was for sure.

In fact, his build reminded me a lot of the guys I played and trained with.

Something about the leanness coupled with all the power below the belt just screamed athlete.

A long-distance runner, maybe? A cyclist?

Well, whatever he did, I’d have bet my car that there was a six-pack under the front of that tight shirt.

Right then, the bartender set a drink down. The guy turned toward the bar to hand over his card, and when his face came into view, my glass almost slipped out of my hand.

Oh. Fuck .

That wasn’t just “some random hot dude who was kind of built like a hockey player.”

That was Vasily Abashev.

As in, the power forward Seattle had picked up from the Las Vegas Aces at the trade deadline.

He wasn’t a generational talent, but he was damn good, and he’d spent the playoffs either centering the second line or playing left-wing on the top line alongside Alex Condit.

There were rumors he was going to take over as top line center after Condit retired, which would probably happen in the next two or three years.

And here he was, alone and dressed to kill… in a gay bar.

In. A. Gay. Bar.

The kind of gay bar people went to when they wanted more than drinking and dancing.

And I mean, I knew he was gay. Into men, anyway.

Everyone knew that, and not just those of us who’d played for his old team’s PHL affiliate.

He and one of his teammates had been quietly dating for a long time—no one but them had known about it, even within their own locker room.

Then suddenly everyone knew because the two of them very loudly and publicly broke up last season, so yeah, it was no fucking secret that he was into men.

But my brain was still kind of shorting out over the fact that not only was Abashev queer and out on the prowl, he was queer and out on the prowl in the same club where I was queer and out on the prowl.

My mouth went dry.

Seriously: Oh. Fuck .

Abashev wasn’t the most conventionally attractive man I’d ever seen, but I’d had a crush on him ever since he was drafted almost a decade ago, and not just because he was incredible to watch on the ice.

My first year at training camp in Vegas, I’d struggled to skate and control the puck because Vasily Abashev had been right there.

The way he moved, the way he smiled—it all just fried my stupid brain.

Hell, training camp with him had probably made me a way better hockey player because I’d had no choice but to learn to play through some major distraction.

His nose had been broken a few times, and it showed, and even before that, he probably hadn’t been someone who’d have Hollywood or a modeling agency knocking down his door.

But his lopsided smile was ridiculously charming, and those dark eyes were enough to make me forget my own name.

Watching him in interviews was enough to melt my brain; he was a little shy with reporters and fans, and sometimes he’d laugh nervously in a way that was too goddamned cute for words.

And then there were the thirst traps his trainer liked to post. The guy trained several players from the NAPH, and he loved to post videos of them mid-workout.

I wasn’t ashamed to say I’d drooled over more than a few of those videos, especially when they highlighted Abashev’s powerful thighs and calves.

Or when it was a particularly hot day and he took his shirt off. God help me.

Now he was fully dressed, looking like a million bucks, and almost certainly here looking for a piece of ass.

Forget drooling over his trainer’s thirst traps—I was about to start drooling now . Jesus.

And do you think he’ll give you the time of day? You couldn’t even land a guy who’s going to spend his whole career in the minors. A star like Abashev? Keep dreaming, Wilson.

Why did I hear my own thoughts in Morris’s voice? Ugh. Fuck him.

Right then, Abashev’s gaze landed on me. He gave me an appreciative down-up that was anything but subtle, and I was grateful for the booming music because I was pretty sure I whimpered.

Get a grip, Wils. What the hell?

Yeah, get a grip when Vasily Abashev—a man I’d crushed on both personally and professionally and had literally jacked off to—was shamelessly checking me out. In a gay bar. Where men came to find other men for sex.

And then those stunning brown eyes locked on mine, and oh, fuck, his charmingly lopsided smile completely scrambled my brain.

No, he might not have been the type to land on magazine covers or starring movie roles, but there was nothing unattractive about him.

Especially not when he was looking at me like that.

Morris’s voice tried to put me back in my place, and nerves tried to keep me still, but Abashev’s magnetism drew me across the room. I was halfway to him when I realized he’d probably just recognized me. Maybe he’d been trying to place me. Trying to remember where he’d seen me before.

Oh God, what if he realized I’d been one of the starry-eyed kids trying desperately to impress my way onto the Vegas Aces roster? One of the kids who’d failed to do that every season I’d been there?

Was I about to have yet another hockey player snort derisively and tell me to keep dreaming?

Oh, fuck, he was probably?—

But as I came closer, I didn’t see any recognition in his eyes. Interest, sure, but not like he’d seen me before or had any reason to believe we’d ever crossed paths.

“Hi,” he said with a charming and slightly nervous smile.

I swallowed. “Um. Hi.” I held his gaze, wondering if he really did recognize me or not.

Apparently he didn’t, and he was watching me as if expecting me to carry this conversation somehow.

Aw, fuck. If we’d matched on an app, we’d have both been staring at our phones, each waiting for the three gray dots to appear.

I took a pull from my beer and gestured at our surroundings. “Do you come here a lot?” The cliché made me want to die, but I was so awkward in that moment—so freaked out as I faced down Vasily Abashev somewhere other than the ice—I had no idea what else to say.

He shrugged, glancing around us. “I’m new to town. This is my first time here.” He looked right in my eyes. “You?”

“Oh. Uh. I’m new to the area too.” Panic instantly shot through me because I knew what his next question would be, and I was suddenly afraid he’d figure out we’d met before.

I didn’t want him to know we’d been sort-of-teammates before, and that I’d been one of those kids who hadn’t deserved to share the ice with someone like him.

Sure enough, he asked, “Where are you from?”

“Michigan.” The answer wasn’t a lie, just not the whole truth. “You?”

“Russia. But I lived in Canada, and I was in Las Vegas before I came here.”

I chuckled, hoping my nerves didn’t come through. Not too much, anyway. “This must be a change—all the rain after living in the desert.”

He made a face. “It hasn’t rained since I’ve been here. I think it’s all a lie.”

I laughed. “You haven’t been here very long, then. October, November— that’s when the rain hits.”

Abashev scowled. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” He sipped his own drink, which was some sort of liquor on the rocks. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what, especially in the relatively dim light of the club. Lowering his glass, he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Taylor.” I gulped. “Yours?” As if I didn’t know, but I didn’t want him to know that, even if I couldn’t quite explain why.

That lopsided smile came back to life. “Vasily.” Then he leaned in close enough to be heard. “Do you dance?”

I could barely find my breath. “Not very well. But… yeah.”

Vasily laughed. Gesturing at my beer, he added, “Finish that. Then…” He nodded sharply toward the dancefloor and raised his eyebrows.

Oh fuck. Maybe Morris was wrong after all.

His voice inside my head had fallen conspicuously silent, too.

So I finished my beer.

And I followed Vasily out onto the dancefloor.