Chapter 17
Milo
Isit at the table, tucking into bland eggs because Beau forgot to season them, and listen as he chats with his old teammate. He’s asking some guy, Davis something, to have the Dallas WAGs check in on Bianca.
“See you later, man.”
Oh fuck, we’re playing Dallas tomorrow. I wonder how weird it must feel to play against former teammates like that. To forecheck former linemates. To chirp at players you once considered brothers.
I obviously have nothing to compare it to, but I can’t imagine I’d be gracious about one of my exes sleeping with my own agent. Though Miranda is incredibly professional, so I doubt she’d actually do that to me.
Beau finally sits down and throws his head back in frustration.
“Fuck, what do I do now?” he asks no one in particular, but I’m all he’s got, so I give him an answer.
“We need to get you a new agent, I guess.” I shrug, already planning to type up a message to Miranda and see if we can set up a meeting.
“We?” he asks.
“Of course.” I look up, and he’s staring at me. “What, like I’m just going to let you scramble through this alone? We’re friends, Beau.” I roll my eyes, but secretly hope he doesn’t latch onto the word "friend" too hard.
We’re not just friends, baby. We are much more than that. So much more.
He takes a big bite of eggs and makes a face at me.
“What the—”
“You didn’t season them.” I shrug, having already decided mine were a lost cause and sticking to the greasy hash browns.
“Jeez,” he huffs, “like, at all? This tastes bland as hell.” He tries another bite before shoving them aside, like I did, and tucking into the potatoes. Once he gets a big, crispy bite into his mouth, he moans. “These, you did perfectly.”
“Nuh-uh.” I put my fork down with a loud clink. “You are not blaming those eggs on me. You made them.” He stares at me, eyes wide.
“Oh fuck. Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” He smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughs. He tries mixing them with the hash browns and makes a face. “I really fucked these up, huh?”
I laugh with him because it’s dumb, but making bad breakfast together was nice. A lot nicer than I thought I could have for myself.
“Okay, look,” I say after a few moments of amicable silence. “My agent is great. Miranda Mason. She’s taken great care of me, and she represents several of the other guys on the team. She’s also married, so I doubt you’ll have to worry about her sleeping with your ex.”
“Well, I only have the one ex, so unless Miranda suddenly moves to Texas, I think we’re in the clear.” Beau smiles, and I’m glad he can be so open talking about something that made him uncomfortable only moments ago.
“Practice is this afternoon. Let’s swing by early and see how much we can talk about. I’ll message her and ask if she’s available to meet us.” I pull out my phone and send that exact message to Miranda.
We get into my car, and I think Beau must get some kind of flash of déjà vu from last night, because he’s suddenly acting very shy, very quiet. He’s blushing, pink spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. I keep my eyes on the road, not at all distracted by the gorgeous man beside me.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he says quietly. I nod slowly, unsure which part he could possibly be apologizing for. I ask him as much, and he gets even redder. “How drunk I got. I was jealous.”
“You were jealous?” I ask carefully. I’m unsure where he’s going with this. Could we really have made a breakthrough already? There’s no way, right?
“I was jealous of how much attention Jamie was giving you. Of how much attention you were giving him.”
Oh.
Oh.
This is better than I could have hoped for.
“I see.”
“Especially after last time, when you assured me you didn’t have feelings for Jamie, there was no reason for me to go off on a jealous bender the way I did.” He sighs, slumping into his seat a little. “I’m sorry.”
Fuck, this is some serious growth. I hold all my excitement inside and just nod along.
“I forgive you,” I say finally. “Maybe next time, just come sit with me instead of stewing from across the room. We can share some fries.”
“We shouldn’t, though, right?” he asks, and I’m confused. He just admitted that he likes me. That he was jealous last night because a bartender was flirting with me. “We should just be friends, right?”
I laugh, trying to keep the pain out of my voice when I respond.
“We’re just sharing fries, not swapping spit.”
Fuck, why does this hurt? Two steps forward, one step back. The cycle, over and over, and I’m willing to put in the work, but my feet hurt. I just need to sit for a moment and rest.
“I’m glad you came in.” Miranda is staring at her laptop, keys tap tap tapping away as she edits a contract for Beau.
“Christian Grady isn’t a huge name in the industry by any means, but I’ve heard of him.
” She makes a face, wrinkling her nose. “He did you a favor. You’re better off without him, in my professional opinion, and I’d say that to his face.
” She points at Beau, making sure he’s listening to her.
Miranda Mason is a powerhouse of a woman, all five foot four of her.
I’m a big believer that size isn’t everything, and she’s the reason why.
She’s saved me from being screwed several times in major endorsement deals, and she’s a fucking wiz with my finances.
Watching her face off with major brand-name lawyers has been a really fun pastime of mine.
Her skin is an umber hue, darker toned, and her hair is cut short. She once described to me what went into caring for Black hair textures. I was blown away by the amount of product she said she needed just for the pixie cut she keeps hers styled in.
Her large, red-framed glasses sit on the very tip of her button nose. She’s young, only in her early thirties, and one of the people I admire most.
She finally stops typing and prints out the contract before walking it over to the desk we’re sitting at.
“You take whatever time you need to look this over.” She pulls out a highlighter and begins marking different sections. “These are the terms of our professional relationship, this is the commission structure, and this here outlines my responsibilities.” She hands it over to Beau.
He looks over at me, question in his eyes.
“She’s not going to screw you. She takes great care of me and some of the other guys—Paxton, Brennan, Oskar. But we can get the team lawyer to look it over if you’d like.”
He shakes his head.
“No, I trust you.” He sets it down on the desk and signs.
Miranda smiles at both of us.
“You know, you both are so nice to look at. We should look into some joint endorsements. I bet some of the heavy hitters would be interested.” She walks back around and sits at her desk before launching into a list of brands that we should try to sell to together.
I can picture it, us doing commercials together, ad campaigns, photo shoots. We could build an empire.
I watch Miranda carefully, trying to take in her words as I picture the universe she could help us build.
I wonder if I should come out to her.
I wonder if Beau would want to come out to her.
“Can we have a moment alone?” I ask, interrupting her spiel. She stops and smiles at me.
“I’ll step outside. Just holler when I can come back in.” She walks out the door and it clicks carefully behind her. I turn to look at Beau.
“We should tell her,” I say with gusto, suddenly very excited about the prospect of coming out.
“Tell her what?” he asks, wariness in his eyes.
“About us!” I exclaim. I might be a little too excited about this.
“Us?” he asks, eyes widening.
Oops. Too excited. I mean about us being queer, obviously, but the words slip out before I can catch them. Us. Like we’re already something.
“Not us us. Us being queer,” I say quickly.
“You think she’d be cool?” he asks, raising a brow.
“I think her wife would have some issues if she wasn’t,” I retort, laughing a little. “She can help us come up with a game plan, a worst-case scenario plan. Come on.” I grab his hands and squeeze. He stares down at where our hands are joined, and I almost let go, but he squeezes back.
“Okay, yeah,” he says, nodding slowly. “Let’s do it.”
“Miranda?” I call out. She comes back in, nudging the door shut with her hip before walking over to her desk. Before she can even sit down, I blurt out, “I’m gay!” If she’s surprised, she doesn’t let it show.
“Me too,” she says. “Well, I’m bi.”
“Me too,” Beau adds for good measure.
She looks between us. I can feel my face heating with embarrassment at my outburst. I was excited a second ago, but was this too much for one day?
“So,” she asks slowly, carefully, “do you want to come out publicly?”
“No,” Beau and I say at the same time.
“Okay then.” She settles into her chair and begins typing again. “We’ll just make a game plan for if and when you do. If you’re outed, any scenario you can think of, we’ll plan for it.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
The game against Dallas has settled into a tense, grinding rhythm. There haven’t been any goals yet, but definitely not for lack of trying. I watch line after line form their attack against Dallas’s goaltender, only to be stopped short every time.
The rest of the team is feeling the heat, the pressure piling down on them. But me? I’m soaring.
I’m locked in, tracking the puck cleanly, squaring up to every shooter.
My rebound control has never been sharper, swallowing pucks and steering shot after shot away.
But we’re in the third, and I know Dallas is about to get desperate.
The number two team being shut out by the number seventeen team? Unheard of.
I’m quickly proven right. Dallas keeps sending shot after shot, all designed to test me harder and harder. Point shots through traffic, quick low wristers looking for rebounds, one-timers off the rush. Nothing gets past me.
This is the game of my life, one that will be shared on highlight reels for years to come. I’ve had clean, beautiful save after save.
I’ve never felt better than I do at this moment. I feel on top of the world, like this game would fall apart without me.
The clock is ticking down, but I know not to count them out for even a second. It’s late in the third. I’m still in top form, but Dallas is turning up the pressure.
I see the rush. I know it’s coming, but I still don’t expect what happens next.
One of Dallas’s defensemen drives the net hard. He crashes into the blue paint, spraying me with ice. Honestly, he’s much too close for comfort. I try to stay focused on the puck and not on the giant body in my space.
I keep my stick down, my pads tight, eyes tracking a loose rebound.
But this man… He wants attention. He plants himself firmly in the crease, crowding me. His shoving is subtle but effective, pushing and prodding me. His stick knocks against my skates, trying to throw me off balance. It’s blatant goalie interference, but no calls are being made.
He shoves me again, and I stumble a little before catching myself.
I’m five seconds from losing my cool and decking the guy when Beau explodes out of nowhere. His hand digs into the defenseman’s jersey, yanking him backward. He pulls him clear of the blue paint and shoves him hard.
“You don’t touch my goalie,” he seethes, his teeth bared.