Chapter 10
CHASING FREEDOM
JACE
The baseball cap was pulled low enough that it shadowed most of my face, and the glasses were non-prescription but thick-framed enough to change my profile.
I'd left my watch at home, swapped my usual fitted shirt for something looser and cheaper that I'd bought specifically for this, and when I looked at myself in the rearview mirror before getting out, I barely recognized the guy staring back.
The bar was called Revive, tucked into a side street in Toronto's Church-Wellesley Village.
I'd found it on online after an hour of research, cross-referencing reviews to make sure it wasn't the kind of place that attracted celebrity hunters or had TVs playing sports.
The last thing I needed was to walk into a gay bar and see my own face on the screen during a highlight reel.
I stood outside for a full minute before I made myself push through the door, and the first thing that hit me was the music.
Something with a deep bass line that vibrated through my chest, loud enough to drown out thought.
The second thing was the smell—alcohol and cologne and bodies in close proximity, the specific scent of a Friday night crowd.
The third thing was the laughter. Everywhere.
People at the bar, people clustered in groups, people on the small dance floor in the back, all of them looking relaxed and happy and completely at ease in a way I'd never been anywhere.
I found a spot at the end of the bar where I could put my back to the wall and watch the room. Old habit. Always know your exits. Always see who's watching.
Except no one was watching me. No one gave a shit.
Two guys were making out in a booth to my left, hands all over each other like they didn't care who saw.
A group near the pool table was laughing at something, loud and uninhibited.
The bartender—tall, dark hair, sleeve tattoos running up both arms—was pouring drinks and flirting with a customer, easy and confident in a way that made it look effortless.
Everyone here was just living. Being themselves. No fear that someone would see them and decide they were less than.
And I was sitting here in a disguise, miserable, my pulse spiking every time someone walked past like they might recognize me despite the hat and glasses and the careful way I'd positioned myself in the shadows.
I ordered a beer when the bartender finally made his way down to my end, and I kept my voice lower than normal, rougher, like that would somehow protect me. He brought it over without comment, and I nursed it slowly while I watched the room and tried to figure out what the fuck I was doing here.
This was stupid. This was reckless. If anyone found out—if a teammate saw me, if someone took a photo, if word got back to the team or the media or my parents—I'd be done.
Not just benched. Not just traded. Done.
The league would claim they were progressive and supportive, but I'd seen what happened to the guys who came out.
I took another drink and let myself imagine it anyway. Coming out.
It would ruin everything. My career. My reputation. My relationship with my family. All of it gone because I couldn't just keep my head down and play the game the way I was supposed to.
The bartender appeared in front of me again, leaning against the bar with his forearms braced, and his smile was warm and easy. “You look like you're having a terrible time.”
I blinked, pulled out of my spiral. “What?”
“You've been nursing that beer for twenty minutes and you look like you're at a funeral, not a bar.” His eyes were dark, his grin crooked, and there was something disarming about the way he looked at me. “First time here?”
“Yeah.”
“Thought so. You've got that 'deer in headlights' thing going on.” He tilted his head. “You want another beer or something stronger?”
“I'm good.”
“You sure? Because you look like you could use stronger.”
I laughed despite myself, and it felt strange. Rusty. “That obvious?”
“Little bit.” He grinned wider, and I noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the way his tattoos disappeared under the rolled-up sleeves of his black shirt. “I'm Ethan, by the way.”
“Jace.” The name was out before I could stop it, and I froze, waiting for recognition to flicker across his face. It didn't. He just nodded like that was a perfectly normal name for a guy in a baseball cap and fake glasses to give.
“Nice to meet you, Jace. You in town for work or just slumming it in the Village?”
“Work.” Another half-truth. We'd played in Toronto two weeks ago, but I lived close enough to drive here on a day off when I was feeling reckless and desperate.
“Well, welcome to Revive. Best dive bar in the city, worst drink prices, friendliest staff.” He winked, and it was so blatant, so unapologetic, that I felt something unclench in my chest. “You gonna tell me what's got you looking so miserable, or do I have to guess?”
“I'm not miserable.”
“Liar.” But he said it gently, without judgment, and he leaned a little closer. “Let me guess. Closeted? Figuring shit out? Thinking too hard about things that don't matter?”
I stared at him. “How—”
“I've worked here five years. I've seen every flavor of repressed gay panic that exists.” He straightened up, grabbed a rag, and wiped down the bar in front of me with quick, efficient movements.
“You want my advice? Stop thinking. Have another drink.
Dance if you want. Talk to someone. Just..
. be here. You're allowed to exist, man. No one's gonna judge you.”
I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That existing wasn't that simple. That being here, being seen, being honest, came with consequences he couldn't understand. But his smile was so open, so genuine.
“Maybe one more beer,” I said instead.
He grinned. “That's the spirit.”
He poured me another and set it down with a flourish.
“You're cute when you're not brooding,” he said, and then someone called his name from the other end of the bar and he was gone.
I watched him work. Watched the way he laughed with customers, the way he moved behind the bar like he owned the space, the way he glanced back at me every few minutes like he was checking to see if I was still there.
And I was. I stayed longer than I should have, drinking slower than I needed to, letting the music and the noise and the atmosphere wash over me until I felt something close to relaxed.
For the first time in weeks, I wasn't the guy who'd hit two posts in the home opener or who'd fucked up at practice so badly that his teammates had skated punishment drills. I wasn't the son who couldn't tell his parents the truth or the player who couldn't stop thinking about his coach.
I was just some guy in a bar. Talking to a bartender who thought I was cute.
It felt fucking amazing.
When the crowd thinned around midnight, Ethan leaned across the bar again, this time close enough that I could smell his cologne. Something woodsy and warm. “You sticking around or heading out?”
“I should probably go.”
“Should, or want to?” His voice dropped lower, more intimate, and there was no mistaking the invitation in his eyes.
My pulse kicked up. This was dangerous. This was exactly the kind of reckless decision that could blow up in my face if someone saw, if someone recognized me, if anything went wrong.
But I was three beers in and tired of being careful, tired of denying myself everything, and Ethan was looking at me like I was someone worth wanting.
“Want to,” I said, and his smile turned predatory.
“My shift ends in fifteen. There's an alley out back. Private. If you're interested.”
I should have said no. Should have walked out and pretended this night had never happened.
But apparently my dick was thinking more than brain tonight. “I’m interested.”
He winked at me before heading back to work.
Fifteen minutes felt like an hour. I finished my beer and paid my tab in cash, leaving a tip that was probably too generous but felt necessary given what I was about to do.
Ethan caught my eye from across the bar and jerked his head toward a door marked Staff Only, and I followed at a distance that wouldn't look suspicious to anyone watching.
The alley was exactly what he'd promised—private, dark, lit only by a single flickering light above the back door.
It smelled like garbage and rain and city grime, and I didn't care because Ethan was there, leaning against the brick wall with his hands in his pockets and that same easy grin on his face.
“You sure about this?” he asked, but he was already pushing off the wall, already closing the distance between us.
“Yeah.” My voice came out rougher than I meant it to, and when he reached out and pulled me closer by my belt, I let him.
He kissed me first. It was urgent and hungry and tasted like beer and something sweeter underneath. His hands went to my waist, then my hips, pulling me flush against him, and I felt the solid line of his body against mine and groaned into his mouth.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his pupils blown wide in the low light. “You want me to suck your cock, Jace?”
“Fuck. Yes.”
He dropped to his knees on the grimy pavement without hesitation, and his hands went to my belt. My zipper came down, and then his hand was inside my jeans, wrapping around my cock through my boxers, and I gasped at the contact.
“Relax,” he murmured, looking up at me with dark eyes that held no judgment, only heat. “I've got you.”
He pulled my cock free, and the cold air hit sensitive skin for half a second before his mouth was on me, hot and wet and perfect.
I braced one hand against the brick wall behind him and tried to remember how to breathe.
His tongue worked the underside of my shaft, slow and deliberate, and then he took me deeper, his lips sliding down until I hit the back of his throat.