Chapter 6
SIX
TREY
We followed the crew member across the tarmac out to the plane, but my head swirled with the realization that the mystery man from the rink walked behind me. And one guy who attended games with him—the sexier of the two guys, but nowhere near as sexy as the mystery man—walked next to him.
“…sound a guy or two. We’ve spit-roasted more than one submissive…”
Holy fuck!
That’s…
WOW!
Fuck my life.
No wait. That made it sound bad. This wasn’t bad. This was good.
Was it?
It was. Right?
Holy shit.
Were they together?
Was the other guy one of the ones they’d shared?
How did someone go about applying for that position?
My dick pulsed and thickened at the idea. I liked that a lot, but I’d dressed for comfort since I fucking hated being bound up when I traveled. So yeah, athletic pants, and no underwear…not a great combo for covering up a boner. Even if the pants were black and on the thicker side.
Luckily, the cause of the pants party walked behind me, and the boys were all in front of me.
We climbed the steps into the plane and…
Wow! I’d known the Holts were loaded. The twins, Asher and Bauer, owned a hockey team for fuck’s sake.
You didn’t get that privilege without some serious dollar signs and commas in your bank account.
But this plane was off the charts. And that’s saying something because I’d flown in several privately owned jets in my life.
The Holt logo stood out everywhere—blatantly in your face, but there were very subtle nods as well—all of it tastefully done because not even the blatant branding came off as garish.
The boys dropped onto the couches and chairs facing the television. Instead of joining them, I sat at a table. I had a paper due next week; I hadn’t even started.
Ewen and the mystery man, whose name I’d yet to learn, dropped down in chairs diagonally from me, and I knew then I would need to pull out my headphones once we were airborne so I could focus on writing my paper.
They sat facing me, with their backs to the cockpit.
Without the headphones, the smooth, velvety sound of my mystery guy’s voice—which was fucking beautiful—would continually draw my attention.
As soon as the pilot had us at cruising altitude, I accepted the soda the crew member offered and pulled out my headphones, laptop, and iPad.
“You’re seriously going to do homework right now?” Ethan Ruggers asked from behind me, where he sat with the guys.
“Yeah. I’ve got a paper due.”
“Alright, weirdo.”
With a quick glance at the gorgeous guy across the way, I put my headphones in noise-cancellation mode and set to work on detailing the impact of sports on globalization and cultural diplomacy.
My professor hadn’t been overly on board with the topic, but being a hockey player meant my brain funneled everything through the sport, and if I had to write a paper, it was going to be about hockey.
Someone pulling my headphones away from one ear startled me. I knocked the hand away and pulled off my headphones.
“Damn, Cap! We’ve been yelling your name for the last five minutes!”
A change in engine sounds told me we were beginning our descent into Nashville. The clock on my laptop and the flight path showing on the screen nearby told the same story. I packed away my headphones and electronics.
My brain was still focused on the paper I’d been writing. Another few thousand words and it would be finished. The task list I kept on my phone showed I needed to do some discussion posts and replies. The replies I could knock out before we touched down.
“Jesus, we’re headed to Nash Vegas for a wild weekend, and our resident nepo baby is playing Poindexter,” Zane grumbled.
“Shut up, asshole,” I replied, typing a response to one of my classmates’ discussions about the importance of a diverse workforce. “I want to enjoy myself, and that means planning ahead for a colossal hangover. And next week is Greek Week.”
The boys whooped with excitement. They started rattling off what the university, fraternities, and sororities were planning. Greek Week at The U was epic. I’d been on other campuses for games during theirs, and they were nowhere near what Manchester’s always rounded out to be.
I smiled, listening to the boys while I typed, and snuck peeks at the gorgeous man sacked out at the front of the plane. How he slept through the boys being loud motherfuckers I couldn’t say, but I could enjoy the view. I finished the post, closed the app on my phone, and opened Insta to scroll.
Tires screeched when they hit the runway, and the sleeping man, who held my attention, opened his eyes and sat up straight while fiddling with his ears.
Earplugs.
That’s how he slept through the boys. He couldn’t hear them. They must be damn good because even with the best noise-canceling headphones on the market, when the guys got loud, I could hear them.
SUVs waited for us on the tarmac when we rolled to a stop in Nashville. The flight crew handed luggage over to the drivers.
“Who rides where, Nigel?” Ewen asked the driver.
“You and Slone are with me. I’ll drop you at the club. Timothy will take the six hockey players to their hotel.”
Slone. His name is Slone. Was that a last name? A first name?
“Thanks, Nigel,” Slone said, handing Nigel his bag before looking over at the boys and me. “Have fun at the game.”
I nodded, then did a double take. “Are you going? To the game?”
Ewen smacked Slone on the back, then let loose a noise that resembled a laugh but sounded more like…cackling? “Fucking feathers.”
“What?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder when Ryan Riordan called out to me. “Chill your tits, Riordy!”
Slone was laughing when I turned back. “What’s funny?”
“You guys remind me of my guys and me. We rag on each other hard, too.”
“Rag on… Oh, you mean the chirping?”
“Chirping?”
It was my turn to laugh. “Chirping is a hockey term for insulting or poking at your teammates or opponents.”
“So, yeah. That. We do it, too.”
Ethan yelled, pounding the outside of the front passenger door, “Hey! Let’s go! Mercy’s getting us an arena tour!”
“See you,” Slone said, opening the back door of his SUV.
I walked backward toward my ride, calling out, “Hey, Ewen! What’s feathers?”
The passenger-side mirror framed Ewen’s laughing face. Slone swatted the back of Ewen’s head, but never responded.
“Cap, dammit, I’m going to toss your ugly mug in the hatch if you don’t get the fuck in the car right this fucking second!” Isaiah yelled.
Turning into the car, I swore, “You fuckers! Where am I supposed to fucking sit?”
They all laughed like fucking hyenas as they pointed to the third row in the middle. At least the SUV had captain’s seats in the middle row, and I didn’t have to climb over everyone. Although if it had been a bench seat in the middle, I could’ve just made somebody scoot over.
Aiden Mercer, former Manchester University starting center and new Nashville Nighthawk, stood on the sidewalk in front of the Hilton when we rolled up.
Splashed with the Nighthawks logo, the Bridgestone sat across the street.
We couldn’t have gotten any closer unless we slept on the benches in the locker room.
“Welcome to Nashville, boys! Hope the flight was more enjoyable than the drive would’ve been,” Aiden said as we rolled out of the SUV.
We dogpiled the guy, but he took it in stride.
Zane said, “Some of us had a good time. Cap, however, did homework the whole flight.”
Aiden smirked. “Probably why he wears the C.”
My eyes rolled over my former teammate. Aiden stood on the sidewalk in a southern state, wearing eyeliner and lip gloss, with his nails painted black. He was a sexy fucker, and I envied him.
What you had to know about Aiden was that he didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought.
Aiden Mercer was authentic. He refused to conform, not that I thought he should.
I didn’t. I’d refused to be closeted myself, but Aiden was one of three out-and-proud professional hockey players.
But more than that, Aiden pushed the envelope even more, embracing his, I don’t know—queerness, masculinity, gender fluidity—whatever it was; he presented and expressed himself how he wanted, and said “Fuck you” to anyone who didn’t like it.
He announced his sexuality to the world on national fucking television, kissing our former coach, the legendary Sasha Svartstrom.
My father had lost his fucking shit. He’d spent the whole game texting me about what a disappointment I was. Then Nashville won.
DAD
If you weren’t such an idiot and listened, that could be you.
I ignored him. Never a good idea, but the team was going fucking nuts cheering for our buddy.
And then, our former coach had just walked out onto the ice and kissed our former teammate on center ice, on a national broadcast in front of a sold-out crowd.
If the team had been losing it before that, the pandemonium afterward was on par with our Frozen Four celly the year before.
DAD
Wonder if he’s fucking and sucking the owners like he is Storm. I heard they’re all deviants. Maybe you should give it a try. You like that nastiness.
I shut my phone off and didn’t respond to him at all until he showed up at an away game and manipulated his way into the locker room.
So, yeah, I envied Aiden Mercer. I didn’t envy him the relationship with our former coach.
Or the NHL contract—okay, that was a lie; I kind of envied that.
It wasn’t even his freedom to be who he was, because it wasn’t like I hid who I was, much to my father’s chagrin and utter fucking dismay.
What I envied that night, watching him be swamped after the game, was the loving family he had found and the fearless way he lived his life.
“Let’s get checked in so Aiden here can give us a tour before the game,” I suggested.
Half an hour later, the seven of us strolled out of the hotel to find Gavin Samuelson and Shane Morrison waiting for us. I’d never met Gavin, but Shane visited Aiden when he still lived with the twins and me.