Chapter 15
TAYLOR
Down on the ice, a handful of rookies were running drills, getting their first taste of what it meant to play professional hockey.
Bell and Cam “Bonesy” Bonelli had already claimed two stationary bikes in front of the window that looked out over the rink by the time I arrived.
“T-Mo!” Bonesy hollered when he saw me. “Get your ass over here. You’re missing the show.”
I jogged over and hopped onto the bike on Bell’s other side.
“We’ve been taking bets on which one of them is gonna puke first,” Bell said, upping his resistance.
“My money’s on number seventy-three.” Bonesy pointed at a tall kid who was already doubled over, his palms braced on his knees, his back lifting with labored breaths. “Kid’s been green for the last ten minutes.”
I began my workout, watching the action unfold down on the ice. “Jesus Christ. Coach is really putting them through it.”
“Better them than us,” Bonesy said as I picked up my pace.
We rode in silence for a few minutes, watching the rookies struggle through a set of suicide drills until number seventy-three skated off to the side and threw up, bright red Gatorade leaving his body like a scene from a horror movie.
“Called it,” Bonesy crowed triumphantly.
“And there goes another one.” Bell lifted his chin to indicate a guy skating in the opposite direction, his hand over his mouth.
“He’s going for the trash at least,” Bonesy observed. “Though it doesn't look like he's going to make it.”
“You're terrible,” I said, right as the kid hurled, missing the trash can by at least a foot.
“Half these kids aren’t going to make it past the first cut,” Bell pointed out. “No use getting too attached.”
I snorted. “Easy for you to say.”
He’d been a first-round draft pick, but chose to go to college first, where his team won the Frozen Four. When he eventually went pro, he showed up in Austin knowing he had a spot on the roster waiting for him.
That wasn't my story.
I was more like these kids.
I’d been solid at the collegiate level—good enough to get scouted, at any rate. Which meant I was good enough to dream, too. But an abdominal injury in my senior year meant all those scouts stopped reaching out. I’d spent that summer rehabbing and wondering if my shot at the NHL was over.
Thankfully, the San Francisco Gold Rush took a chance on me in the third round. Third round picks were a gamble—some guys made it, but most didn’t. I’d shown up to my first camp with a chip on my shoulder and something to prove, terrified I’d be the guy who got cut the first week.
I made the roster that first year, but just barely.
My second season, I got sent down to the team's AHL affiliate in Sacramento. My coach had explained it was only temporary, just until I worked out some kinks with my game, but I felt expendable. But when one of the Rush’s top defensemen went down with a gnarly knee injury six weeks later, I was called back up as injury cover.
I was only meant to fill in for a couple of games, maybe two weeks at most. But when the injury turned out to be worse than initially thought and the poor fuck had to have surgery, I made damn sure they couldn’t send me back down.
Two seasons in San Francisco, then I was traded to Seattle. A year there, followed by Vancouver. Then it was off to Chicago and Atlanta. By the time the Marauders picked me up in the expansion draft, they were my sixth team in ten years—seventh, if you counted Sacramento.
All of which meant watching these rookies fight for their lives hit a little too close to home.
Bonesy nodded toward the ice. “You get a load of Callahan yet?”
“Which one’s he?”
“Number seventy-seven. The tall one with the dark hair over there," he said, pointing out a guy who was hard to miss.
One of the tallest players on the ice, he'd been one of the few who moved through the drills with confidence, his skating smooth and powerful.
“Kid’s got wheels,” Bonesy observed. “Saw him doing one-on-ones yesterday, and he was flying.”
Bell’s expression turned instantly competitive. “Fast doesn’t mean shit if he can’t slot into the team.”
I bit back a grin and forced myself not to point out the irony of his statement.
To hear his husband, Ethan, tell it, Bell had been just like Callahan down there—all raw talent and lightning speed, though he'd had an attitude problem and was prone to showboating.
Almost immediately, their coach had assigned Ethan as Bell's mentor and babysitter, hoping a steady veteran influence might help him channel all that natural ability into something more in line with the team's structure.
It had worked, eventually. Though probably not in the way anyone expected.
“Someone feeling threatened?” I chirped, just to get a rise out of my captain.
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not threatened by some nineteen-year-old who hasn’t learned how to wipe his own ass yet.”
“I dunno, Cap,” Bonesy drawled. “You’re what, almost forty now?”
“I’m thirty, fuck you very much.” Bell flung his arm out and shoved Bonesy in the shoulder.
“You sure?” Bonesy eyed him. “You look way older than that. Tired, too. You getting enough sleep?”
I snorted. Bell looked like he’d just stepped off a yacht in the Mediterranean—which, to be fair, he had.
The tan he’d picked up in Greece only made his eyes more striking, and his blonde hair was pulled back from a face that had graced enough magazine covers and runways that actual models hated to see him coming.
The man was two hundred pounds of pure muscle with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass.
If this was what “old and tired” looked like, sign me the fuck up.
“I will end you,” Bell threatened, though there wasn’t any actual heat behind his words.
“You can try, old man,” Bonesy cackled.
At thirty-four, Bonesy was the strongest guy on the team. He was also a fan favorite. And not just our fans, either. He was loved in every city we played in.
The problem with our team wasn’t talent—we had some.
I mean, Bell was one of the best wingers in the league, and Bonesy could shut down just about anyone on defense.
I, for all my issues, had my moments, too.
Unfortunately, we didn’t have a goalie who could stop a beach ball at a picnic, and Bell couldn’t carry the offense alone.
He needed linemates who could keep up with him and wouldn’t fold under pressure.
Callahan had the look of someone who might be able to do that.
“When Callahan takes your spot on the first line, can I have your parking space?” Bonesy asked, his voice pure faux innocence.
“Fuck off,” Bell said. “Nobody’s taking my spot.”
“That’s what they all say before they get replaced by someone younger and hotter.”
“Impossible. I’m already the hottest.”
I laughed, falling into the familiar rhythm of their chirping. This was what I’d missed most during the off-season—the easy back-and-forth with my teammates, the shit-talking that somehow doubled as affection.
A shout reached us from below, and in unison, Bell, Bonesy, and I turned back to watch Callahan take a pass and deke around two defenders before burying the puck top shelf.
“Okay. He’s not terrible,” Bell admitted grudgingly.
“‘Not terrible,’ he says.” Bonesy laughed. “Such high praise.”
Bell began to slow down, setting his bike into cool-down mode. “He’s still got a lot to prove.”
Bonesy’s watch beeped. He glanced down at it and swore. “Shit. I gotta bail. Promised the wife I’d pick Emmy up from gymnastics.” He hopped off and grabbed his towel. “If I’m late again, she’s gonna kill me.”
“Tell Carly hi for me.”
“Will do.” Bonesy clapped Bell on the shoulder. “Try not to let the new guy steal your job while I’m gone, Cap.”
“Get out of here before I change my mind about ending you.”
Bonesy’s laughter echoed through the gym as he jogged toward the locker room door.
Bell and I continued our cool down while watching the rookies reset for another drill.
“How was Mykonos?”
His expression turned dopey. “It was incredible. Like, genuinely one of the best trips we’ve ever taken.”
“Oh yeah? How so?”
“Ethan, mostly. Seeing him just let go.” He shook his head slowly, a soft smile playing at his lips.
“We went to this party where it was immediately obvious everyone there was queer as hell, and he just rolled with it. More than rolled with it. He was right there in the middle of the dance floor, soaking it all in.”
“No way.”
Ethan Harrison was the very definition of buttoned-up. He was a naturally grumpy, stoic guy who looked like he’d been born wearing a scowl. He was the kind of person who made small talk feel like pulling teeth.
When he came out at the end of Bell’s rookie season in a three-page spread in Sports World magazine that included a photo of him holding Bell’s hand at center ice, it had rocked the hockey world.
I’d played against them that season, but hadn’t picked up any vibes. In what was my (admittedly narrow) circle of hockey-playing friends, no one understood what the hell they saw in each other. Bell was flash and sunshine, while Ethan was … not that.
“Right?” Bell chuckled, shaking his head.
“I mean, he was still very Ethan about it, setting an alarm on his watch to make sure we didn’t stay out past two.
But he was there—shirtless, sweaty, and covered in glitter.
Just completely in the moment.” His voice softened.
“I think it was the first time he’s really been comfortable existing in a space like that. ”
Bell came to a stop, and I did the same. When I glanced over at him, he was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “He looked so fucking free, T. I was so proud of him.”
My throat went unexpectedly tight. “That’s … amazing.”