11. Ben
BEN
My taste in men is fucking terrible.
Bobby turns toward the wall to play the puck with the game still tied late in the third. The opposing winger sees his back and finishes the hit anyway. Bobby goes face-first into the boards, and Fraser is on the guy before the whistle finishes blowing.
Every instinct I have says to grab the guy who hit him. Bobby stays down, so I drop beside him while gloves and sticks clatter behind me. He gets one knee under himself, swearing, which is better than lying still. Nara is already coming through the open gate. “Don’t move yet,” I tell him.
“I’m fine.” Bobby lifts his head, takes a breath, and winces. “Fuck.”
Behind us, Fraser drives the other player into the glass. The linesman grabs him around the middle, but Fraser gets an arm free and throws another punch.
“Fraser!” I shout, but he keeps swinging.
The second linesman gets between them. Fraser is still trying to reach around him while the other player shouts from behind the officials. Bobby starts to turn toward the noise, and Nara puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him where he is. “Leave it,” she says. “Look at me.”
Fraser finally stops fighting the linesman. His helmet is gone and his curls are stuck to his forehead. He looks down at Bobby, then at me.
Fraser’s shoulders drop when he sees Bobby sitting up. Then he looks at the man behind the officials and smiles.
Fucking idiot.
The official steers him toward the penalty box while the referees sort out the mess. It takes long enough that Bobby is on his feet before they finish. Nara walks him toward the bench for a proper look, and I follow until she tells me to get back on the ice.
Fraser stands inside the box, breathing hard. When the referee sends him off with a major and game misconduct, he pushes through the door at the other end without looking at me.
We come out of the penalties short-handed. I win the first draw and clear the puck, but they carry it straight back in. A pass cuts across the slot, our goalie makes the first save, and the rebound goes in before we can get a stick on it.
Bobby comes back after Nara clears him, sore and angry but skating normally. Gunderson puts another winger on our line, and our timing is shit. On our best chance, I send the puck toward the place Fraser normally appears. His replacement arrives late, and it slides untouched through the crease.
I swear and get back on defense. We spend the rest of the game trying to recover the goal Fraser handed them, but none of our shots go in.
The final horn goes with us down by one.
I look at the tunnel where Fraser disappeared, then follow the team off the ice.
I thought we’d found something close to normal after his party. The apology got us through the next practices without either of us avoiding the other. We did our jobs and went home. It was working, as long as I ignored how close we came to kissing on his porch.
I’m attracted to Nolan Fraser.
Denying it has gotten stupid after I followed him into a hotel room and almost kissed him in his home. He’s the first man I’ve ever wanted, and I picked one who’s determined to drag Seattle out of the playoff race with his bare hands.
I’m not going to do anything about it. Sex made everything worse the first time.
If we were still fucking, this fight wouldn’t end in the locker room.
I’d have to stand here furious with him while remembering what he looks like naked.
The thought puts him back on his knees in front of me, his mouth hot around my cock and his tattoos moving under my hands.
No. I am not doing this after a loss.
Thinking about fucking him leads straight back to the balcony and the way he lifted his chin when I looked at his mouth. I can call Arizona road-trip insanity and almost believe it. That excuse falls apart when I remember how badly I wanted to kiss him at home in Seattle.
Going onto the balcony was a mistake. I should’ve apologized and left. Staying gave me time to look at his mouth, and now I know I wanted to kiss him.
The locker room is quiet when I walk in. All I hear is tape ripping and gear dropping. Nobody has anything useful to say about another game we should’ve won.
Fraser is sitting in his stall, already showered and halfway dressed. He’s in his suit pants, and his white shirt hangs open while he works the buttons from the bottom. The tattoo across his chest disappears one button at a time. I bend over my skate laces before he gets to the next one.
Bobby sits down heavily and starts pulling at the tape around his socks. Fraser stops buttoning his shirt. “You good?”
“Ask me tomorrow.” Bobby gives him a tired look. “You didn’t have to do all that.”
Fraser’s mouth tightens. “Yeah. I did.”
“No, you didn’t.” I yank loose the knot in my skate. “The ref had his arm up. The hit was getting called.”
Fraser turns his head. “Thanks, Pope. I was there.”
“Then you should’ve known better.”
He goes back to his buttons, which pisses me off more than if he’d started shouting. “I’ll keep that in mind next time somebody tries to put Bobby through the glass.”
“I got boarded,” Bobby says. “Can we not make this my fault?”
“It’s not your fault.” Fraser and I say it at the same time.
Bobby closes his eyes. “Great. Glad we agree on something.”
I pull off one skate and let it drop beneath my stall. “You handed them a power play and took yourself out of the game. We needed you on the ice.”
“Bobby needed somebody to have his back.”
I wanted to hit the guy too. Bobby was down, so I stayed with him. “He had five teammates on the ice and a referee calling the penalty.”
Fraser leaves the next button undone and stands. “Are you always this much of a hall monitor, or is that a special thing you do for me?”
His shirt is still open. I shove myself off the bench. “You’re an undisciplined asshole.”
The hint of a smile leaves his face. “And you’re not my fucking captain.”
Caleb looks over from his stall. Half the room has gone quiet, but I don’t stop. “I don’t need a letter to tell you when you’ve screwed the whole team.”
“We had plenty of time to score.”
“You weren’t there for any of it.”
He steps toward me and stops close enough that I can see a drop of water caught in the curl above his ear. His shirt is still open at the throat, the tattoo disappearing beneath white fabric. The open collar is inches from my mouth, and I want to lean in.
“Enough.” Gunderson comes out of the coaches’ office and plants himself beside us. “Both of you, back off.”
Fraser looks at me for another second, then takes a step away.
Gunderson points toward the stalls. “Pope, finish getting changed. Fraser, my office tomorrow. We’re done.”
I sit while Fraser jerks the remaining buttons through their holes and shoves on his jacket. He grabs his bag.
At the door, he looks back at me. “Thanks for the lecture, Saint Pope.” He leaves before I can answer.
Someone tears off another strip of tape. Bobby mutters something about both of us being assholes, but I barely hear him.
Bobby throws a wad of tape at my chest. “You planning to go home like that?”
I look down. One skate is still on my foot.