Chapter 7
ETHAN
Jake’s message bummed me out, but I didn’t let it show.
That’s cool. Actually need to make it next Wednesday. Got an away game on Tues.
I didn’t get a response. When I checked the screen ten or fifteen minutes later, the message hadn’t even been read.
Well, fuck.
I put my phone face-down on the end table, then shifted my attention to the television.
I’d been watching the New York-Dallas NAPH game with Nate and Sven, my housemates, but I’d stopped paying attention when Jake’s text had come through.
And now, as I watched Dallas battle like hell to tie things up in the dying minutes, I couldn’t shake that bummed-out feeling.
Except that was stupid. He was my fighting coach. Not my boyfriend. Not even my friend, honestly; I would’ve been happy to be friends with him (or more), but he was clearly coming at this professionally.
Which meant I needed to do the same. Getting all maudlin because he’d canceled a session on me, and then acting like an emo teenager when he didn’t read or reply to my text…
God. Ethan. Get a fucking grip.
I needed to. Seriously.
Maybe it would help if I stopped getting all stupid over my fighting coach.
I could get back on those apps I’d been perusing before the season started.
I’d been spooked off one because I’d stumbled across our assistant head coach’s profile; he wasn’t out to the team, and I’d been afraid I’d find other closeted players or members of staff.
Like it was totally cool if they weren’t ready to come out, but there was a lot of potential for things to get weird if we crossed paths on an app.
Or maybe I’d just been so nervous and freaked out about stepping onto the hookup or dating scenes in a new city, I’d jumped on the first available excuse to bail.
Coward? Yeah, that was possible.
Couldn’t hold my own in a fight. Couldn’t stick my neck out on an app. Couldn’t—
“Holy shit!” Nate shouted, startling me out of my skin.
Sven whooped and hollered too, and it didn’t take much to figure out why. With three seconds to go in the third period, Dallas had scored. They hadn’t won, but they were going into overtime; still a point, and still a chance to win.
I tried to get in on the enthusiasm, but I just… couldn’t. I still felt like crap over the brief interaction with Jake, and even worse over my own feelings.
Fighting coach, Ethan.
Not boyfriend. Not friend. Not hookup.
Fighting. Coach.
Pull it together.
While the game on TV shifted to overtime, I grabbed my phone and opened one of several hookup apps I’d been avoiding. I had to reactivate my account, and as long as I was doing that, I might as well go through and spruce up my profile.
Not that I was procrastinating or anything. Nooo. Not me. Never.
“Okay,” Sven said, “here we go.”
I looked up and—oh, right. Overtime.
Speaking of procrastinating…
I put my phone aside as the players set up for three-on-three.
Maybe I’d get lucky and they’d go the full five minutes, followed by a lengthy shootout. That could kill a good half hour or—
“New York scores!” the commentator shouted.
I blinked as Nate and Sven cheered. Holy shit. It was over in… fourteen seconds? That was it?
Yep. Because New York’s players were celebrating, tackling their game-winning scorer and their goalie in hugs.
The guys from Dallas were trooping off to the locker room, every one of them stunned and dazed.
They hadn’t been able to keep New York from tying the game in regulation, and then New York had just rolled right over them in overtime. Fourteen seconds.
Jerks.
Well, fine. No more procrastinating.
I left my housemates to debate the abilities of the players on both sides of the game we watched, not to mention clown on the commentators.
Usually I joined in, especially that last part; the commentators were such tools, and they said such ridiculous crap to justify taking up space on the soundstage.
Like, oh, wow, the backcheck was lacking on a team that had allowed nine unanswered goals in two periods?
Who could have guessed? Or, shocking, the team that only had six shots on goal going into the third period needed to remember how to play offense?
My God, I never would have pieced that together.
And whaaat? You’re telling me that if Boston wants to score, they need to get the puck into the offensive zone? Shocking.
I wasn’t in the mood to heckle them tonight, though.
I was still stupidly bummed over Jake’s text, and maybe it wasn’t the healthiest thing in the world, but I needed to throw myself into the dating/hookup scene.
I’d been alone since I’d come to Vegas during the off season.
I hadn’t had much of a social life outside of hockey in Dallas during the three seasons I’d played there, but I’d had a boyfriend for most of it.
I’d broken up with him about four months before I was traded, kind of half-assed the hookup scene for a little while, and then come here.
I still wasn’t sure why Vegas overwhelmed me so much. It wasn’t all the lights and casinos and shit; that was all the on the Strip. The rest of the city was more or less a normal city. It was just… big. Busy. Not what I was used to.
Or maybe I’d just been too focused on what my new head coach had said at training camp: “Keep it up, kid, and you’ll be called up to the Aces in no time.”
And that was the dream, wasn’t it? A lot of the guys in the PHL had more or less decided that was as far as they were going, and they were fine with that. Marek had practically been disowned by his hockey legend father when he’d decided this was all he wanted.
Me? I wanted to get to the top. I was coming into my prime, and I craved that call-up. That was one of the reasons I’d realized I needed to learn to fight—because I had to be able to both play and fight with the best of the best. Which was why I’d…
Hired Jake.
The man I was being stupid and mopey about tonight.
What the fuck, Ethan?
With a few colorful curses—hockey had given me a gloriously colorful vocabulary—I dropped onto my bed, phone in hand. Time to de-mope myself. Maybe chat with someone. Maybe even get laid. Stranger things had happened.
I put in a few basic parameters, pretended my heart wasn’t slamming into my ribs, and hit Search.
Being in a city like this, I wasn’t surprised to get a ton of hits.
A lot of them were probably guys passing through on vacations or for bachelor parties or whatever.
The last time I’d checked, I’d found two—two!
—men who came right out and said they were looking for male hookups while they were here for their own bachelor parties. I wasn’t one to judge, but… bruh.
And as I scrolled tonight…
Oh, hey, what a shock:
Only in town for the week. Looking to get dicked down one last time before the old lady locks me down for good. Must be discreet. First names only.
“What a douche,” I muttered, and swiped left.
I wasn’t bisexual, but guys like that drove me nuts because they were part of the reason everyone thought “bisexual” was code for “cheater.” My ex had been as bi as the day was long, and though I could say a lot about him, he was rigidly monogamous and honest to a fault.
Ugh. People sucked.
After that guy, there were a few thinly-veiled escorts, obvious bot or scammer accounts, men who still wanted cock even after their old ladies had locked them down, cheaters, scumbags—the usual.
There was even the token blowhard who made sure everyone knew who he voted for and why, and probably wondered why none of us would touch him with someone else’s dick.
There were some good-looking and decent-sounding guys, too.
I just kept zeroing in on the kokots, as Marek would call them.
I still didn’t know if that meant dickhead or asshole or what, only that it was one of his insults of choice when he was really annoyed with someone.
And I wasn’t sure why I kept fixating on those fuckers tonight instead of looking for someone I liked.
Yeah, right. I knew why. I just didn’t want to think about it because—
Wait.
Waaait, wait, wait.
Was that…
I shook myself and scrolled back to the profile photo that had flown by. I brought the phone closer to my face and squinted.
Nah, it wasn’t… I mean, there were a lot of guys in this town who were ripped. Stage performers (of the Cirque du Soleil or pole-dancing varieties). Escorts. Gym rats.
MMA fighters.
I tapped the profile and went to his photos.
And when I saw the third photo, I dropped my phone on my chest. I scrambled to pick it up, terrified I’d accidentally swiped while I’d been fumbling for it. I hadn’t, though. It still showed the photo.
The shirtless selfie from the sharp jaw down to the mouthwatering narrow hips. Pecs and abs on full display.
You’ve got to be shitting me.
Nope. That was him. It had to be him. Even without his face showing, I’d recognize him, because I had memorized every inch that was on display during our sessions.
Including that black and white tiger tattoo on his right arm.
Holy fuck. It was him!
I thumbed back to his profile, and sure enough…
Jake, 26.
For a long moment, I froze, not sure if I should swipe left and prevent us from ever crossing paths on the app, or if I should read on. I was intensely curious about him.
But would reading his profile be intrusive? I mean, it was public and all, and he’d put it out there, but still…
I chewed my lip. Then I reasoned that if I just read his bio and some of the basic stuff, that wouldn’t be crossing any lines.
I’d steer clear of the tab about turn-ons and turn-offs, no matter how much I wished it was appropriate for me to know if he was a top, bottom, or vers.
If he liked anal at all. If he was into any kind of kink or if he was as purely vanilla as my ex had been.
None of that was any of my business unless there was a chance of us hooking up, which there was decidedly not.
I did indulge in peeking at the rest, though.
And it didn’t help me pull my stupid head together at all.
New to this whole scene, both Vegas and hooking up with guys. Didn’t figure out I was bi until recently, and it took me a while to get my head around it. So I don’t really know what I’m doing. Not quite sure what I like or what I want. I guess that’s what I’m trying to figure out.
Swearing in at least three languages, I let the phone drop onto my chest again.
I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands and sighed.
Why? Why? How was it even remotely fair that the most gorgeous man I’d laid eyes on in a long time—which said something, given that I was constantly surrounded by naked hockey players—was queer and available?
And, if I was reading correctly between the lines, looking to explore his newly discovered sexuality?
I’d been with a couple of guys who’d very recently come out, and there was something so fun and hot about sex with someone who wasn’t a virgin, but was new to sex with a man.
The exploration, the curiosity, the newness of it all, watching him move past his shyness and gain confidence—it was amazing.
A lot of guys wanted partners who had tons of experience, but some of the best sex I’d ever had had been with men who were just getting the hang of being queer.
For a hot second, I thought this would work great. Jake could teach me the finer points of fighting, and I could be his guide into sex with dudes.
Except that sounded stupid, vaguely like prostitution, super pathetic, and extra stupid because it would require Jake to be into me.
Well. This would make my next fighting lesson… interesting.
Because I was never going to be able to concentrate around Jake ever again.