Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
TREY
October
The blades of my skates tore up the ice as I shot down the ice, chasing after the puck with Devin Abrams, the third-line center, chasing after me.
Fuck, I love hockey!
Stretching my stick forward as much as I could, I hooked the puck and pulled it back to me, not slowing down.
“Pass!” I yelled, knocking the puck to the left where I knew Ethan would be.
He scooped it up, only to knock it back to me when Carly, Josh Carlson, one of the D-men on the third, came at him hot and heavy.
The puck bounced around on my stick, left side then right then back to left, my eyes focused in on the goal, the third-line D-man, Jacob Malany, or Lany to the team, the only thing left between me and Paddy, the third-string goalie.
Faking a deke one direction, I dragged my outside skate, slowing down just enough…
Lights and horns sounded.
“And the crowd goes wild as Captain Trey Malachek scores the winning goal.”
“I fucking hate you, Malachek!” Lany yelled.
He could suck it. The guy had hated me all our lives. He was a decent player—a homebody, which meant he would never be the superstar he thought he was. The problem was that he knew it and he knew I knew it.
My linemates piled on, shaking me, knocking our helmets together, and beating their fists on my shoulder pads.
“The way you dangle? Fuck me; it’s beautiful,” Ethan said, kissing my helmet.
A whistle blew from the bench. “Alright. That’s it for today, boys. Hit the showers, then get the fuck out of here.”
Cheers went up, and Grigor shook his head. “Don’t forget, you have morning skate tomorrow, and our first roadie in three days. So no fucking hangovers.”
“Yes, Coach!” I yelled over all the whining and moaning. I glanced at Coach as he made his way to the tunnel, and called out, “Coach? The Storm rules?”
Coach Grigor looked at me with a smirk. “An excellent idea, Trey. Thanks for the reminder. We’ve not done them yet.” He turned back to the team. “You heard your captain. Rule one!”
Everyone but the new guys—who looked confused as hell—yelled back, the sound echoing through the cavernous arena. “Drinking, driving, swimming, and sex…don’t do any two at the same time.”
Coach yelled, “Rule two!”
“Don’t end up in the hospital, the news, or the cemetery.”
“That one’s for our reigning Prince of Hockey!” Lany yelled.
I flipped him off with both hands, then called out, “Rule three!” before Grigor could.
“Don’t add to or subtract from the population.”
Isaiah nudged me, and I caught Lany glaring at me. Did putting an asshole teammate on IR count?
“Rule four!”
“Always wrap your stick so you don’t get sick.”
Some guys blushed at that one. Every freaking time. It wasn’t always the rooks.
“Last rule!” I yelled.
“Stay outta jail. If you end up behind bars, call Coach Grigor.”
“Why’s that team?” Rand O’Callahan asked, his voice echoing. He’d been the one to screw this one up last season.
“Because if we’re not smart enough to stay out, we’re not smart enough to get out,” we yelled.
“That’s all, boys! Hit the showers! Y’all stink!” Grigor yelled.
I opened the gate, touching knucks with the guys as they filed past. If it were a game, I’d be giving them all praise or words of encouragement, and for some of the younger guys, I did, and for some others, I reminded them of the rules they broke most often.
One rookie, Allen Dorsey, who was last off the ice, got a kiss on his helmet and my arm slung around his shoulders.
“How’s classes?” I asked.
The semester looked long as fuck to a freshman, but the days and weeks passed in a blur, and before you knew it, midterms were on your ass like a D-man out for blood. Plus, the kid struggled, according to Grigor, who’d asked me to look out for the kid.
He shrugged in that way we all did when we messed up or were on the verge of doing just that. “Which one?” I asked.
A muttered, “All of them,” filled the space between us.
“Text me your class list. You, me, and Coach will come up with a plan. College is supposed to be fun, not stressful. Hockey is stressful enough.”
“Thanks. But shouldn’t hockey be fun, too?”
The kid had the most adorable fucking blush.
If it weren’t for Slone, I’d totally have been trying to figure out how queer the boy was.
“Hockey, the game, is fun as fuck. It’s all the other shit—where the game turns into a sport—that turns it from fun to stress.
And Dorsey, I’m your captain. It’s my job to help you succeed.
So, it’s never a problem. We’ll figure out what the issue is and get it sorted. ”
“Thanks, Cap.”
With a laugh at the look of awe and adoration on his face, I pushed him through the locker room door ahead of me.
Locker rooms were loud, smelly, and almost always had a plethora of dick and ass on display.
The one at MU was no different, and today it seemed we walked in and everyone had their cocks out.
The kid shrank back before righting himself.
So, probably queer. Another thing he and I would need to discuss.
I refused to have the kid petrified. I refused to allow the kid to be petrified of the locker room, and I would handle anyone who gave him shit, along with the twins.
I wouldn’t have that shit in my locker room.
On the trip across the room to my cubby, I noticed Lany watching Dorsey and sighed.
The twins’ gazes locked with mine when I sought them out.
A ping from my locker drew my attention.
Slone
Dinner here or with your boys?
Me
With you. Always.
Slone
You just want my dick.
Me
I’m offended.
Typing bubbles danced on the bottom of the screen as he punched at the phone screen.
Me
For you. Obviously.
And almost simultaneously…
Slone
What the fuck are you offended by? I’m the one who’s being reduced to a booty call that feeds your starving ass.
I hate you.
Me
No, you don’t. You love me.
Slone
More than you’ll ever guess.
Dinner in an hour. See you then.
An hour. Not much time, but I could make it work if the jokers in the locker weren’t…well, worse than they usually were. Maybe.
Jersey dropped into the dirty bin. Skates and gear stowed in my cubby. Not nearly as neatly as usual. Sweaty compression gear got tossed into their laundry bins. Shower caddy in hand, I strode buck naked toward the showers.
Hot, humid fog and the cacophony of a hockey team showering off the stench and making plans enveloped me.
I hated showering in the locker room with everyone else.
Not for any reason because of my sexuality, but because with so many of us trying to get clean at once, the steam made it difficult to cool off enough that you weren’t still sweating your fucking balls off when you were done.
“Hey! Your Highness? You going out with us tonight?” Lany yelled through the chaos.
I hated that fucking nickname. Even more so since all the shit with the Wardens and my dad…
Donnie came to light. I didn’t mind some of the shit the team called me most days.
The titles I earned were fine, but the ones they used that focused in on me being a nepo baby pissed me off.
And Jacob Malany knew this, since he was the person who gave me that nickname to begin with.
I thought I’d gotten away from him and his shitty attitude, but here he was at The U using the nickname to his advantage. All because I showed him up on the ice.
Instead of answering, I finished my shower and stalked out to the locker room, drying my nuts as I went. The sooner I got out of here, the better, especially with Lany now on the team. The fucker was an asshole, and I needed to prove I could play nice.
My phone rang with an unknown number as I walked out of practice and headed to my car. I contemplated not answering, but something told me I should.
“This is Trey.”
“Hello, Trey. This is Charlotte.”
Confusion fogged my brain for a moment, but then realization dawned. “Richmond? As in the owner of the Wardens, Charlotte Richmond?” I asked, and laughter sounded in the background—faint and far away.
“Yes. We met…”
“At your house at the end of May. I remember. Sorry, I wasn’t…I didn’t think you’d be the one who called. I mean, if the Wardens called at all.”
“I felt it was my duty to handle this call myself.”
“Oh, well…thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now, I have an idea about your future. Do you have time to talk?”
I glanced at the clock. Fuck. “Yes, ma’am. I do.”
“How would you like to play for the Wardens?”
I closed my eyes. This was my chance. I could ask for a contract, or I could ask to be released.
My whole life I worked to be a Warden. They were the goal.
My dad and grandfather, who hadn’t spoken to me since I came out, taught me that the New York Wardens were the penultimate prize—the best of the best.
“Trey? Did I lose you?”
“No ma’am. You didn’t lose me.”
“We need a center, Trey. We need you.”
“Yes, Mrs. Richmond—”
“Call me Charlotte.”
“Okay, Charlotte. I’ll be blunt. You do need me. The Wardens called up Dylan Kahun rather than me because he’s squeaky clean. Unlike me, he doesn’t spend a lot of time in the box. He doesn’t have any majors, and his minors are accidental, but…” I paused with a sigh.
“Don’t hold back on me now. I want to know what you think.”
“Based on his performance at the end of last season and what he’s shown so far this season—Dylan Kahun is not ready for the NHL. Off the ice, he looks tough, he plays hard, but he doesn’t have the physicality to go up against NHL-caliber defenders.”
“He’s a great player.”
“In the AHL? Absolutely. He’s a fucking beautician.
Smart, fast, and a clean player, but he’s not NHL-level smart.
He’s not NHL-fast. And clean can’t make up for that.
He takes a beating every time he steps onto the ice.
It’s all ESPN is showing in his highlight reels.
He started protecting his ribs three games into the season.
What’s worse, he knows this. He knows he’s not as smart as the other guys on the ice.
Nor is he as fast or as tough. And he knows it.
It’s written all over his face. He looks utterly terrified. ”
Silence.
Fuck. What the hell was I—
Laughter—loud, cackling, snorting laughter from multiple people—interrupted the spiral that threatened to grab hold of me.
“I like you, Trey,” Charlotte said. “When can I get you to New York to sign a contract?”
Holy shit. A contract. I hadn’t fucked everything up, like my father said in the last text messages I received before blocking him.
“Ma’am, the Wardens were all I knew. All I thought about. My whole life I chased a Wardens jersey. I dreamed of it. I cried and bled for it—”
“The words coming out of your mouth sound like I should fuel up the jet, but something in your tone tells me differently.”
“Charlotte, I appreciate the offer, and if I thought I could stomach playing for the Wardens, after everything, I would. Because very few things would make me as happy as replacing my father and grandfather’s toxic legacy. I would…”
“You want me to release you.”
Not a question. A statement. Smart lady.
“Yes.”
“Well, given what I’ve found out about why you’re still in Manchester, I’m not shocked. Especially after you didn’t come to camp this summer.”
An apology burned the back of my throat, but I refused to apologize for protecting myself from toxic people.
“Your silence says a lot, Trey,” she paused, and the line went ultra quiet, as if she had muted herself. “Okay. I’m told I can release your rights, which will make you a free agent.”
“Yes, ma’am, but I have a suggestion.”
“Hmm…well, you nailed it with Kahun…” She paused, and a tapping sound filled the silence; then she said, “Okay, I’m listening.”
“I…I’m in a relationship with a man,” I said.
“I’m aware, and?”
I sighed. I had to shake off this compulsion to make myself too big, so that I pushed people away, or so small they didn’t notice me. And I needed to learn to ask…no, demand the things I wanted and needed. “He has a life in Minnesota.”
“Which means you have a life in Minnesota.” A few moments passed, and she said, “You realize you play hockey, right? That trades happen?”
“Yes. I do. But Manchester has become home. And besides that, I want to stay as far away from the epically toxic shitstorm that is the Malachek legacy in New York. I’m over being called Donald Malachek 3.0. My name is Trey.”
And I had the paperwork to prove it. I was Trey Malachek.
Not Donald Malachek III.
Just Trey.
“Well, Trey Malachek, I’ll be in touch.”
“I look forward to hearing from you.”