Stubborn Puckboy (Puckboys #9)

Colby

PROLOGUE

With my head in my hands, sweat dripping from my forehead, the stench of man musk mixed with gagworthy sweaty gear, and my entire hockey career draining the toilet, the last thing I need is Radimir Novicov’s taunts.

“You, uh, how you say, suck.”

I’ll hand it to him though. He knows how to make me laugh.

I lift my head and come face-to-face with his towel-covered junk. If he only knew how much I suck and that for the last six months, all I’ve thought about is sucking what’s under that towel … Well, if he did know, my ass would be kicked six ways ’til Sunday.

Novicov and I were in the same draft class. Me, a top ten real prospect coming from the juniors, and him, a fourth-round choice from Russia, both picked by Anaheim.

We were sent to the AHL for more conditioning, and all I’ve done this season is prove that I did not deserve to be that tenth pick. Novicov is crushing it though.

I’d be jealous if he weren’t all kinds of adorable.

His hair is a mess from the shower, wisps of dark brown hair going in every direction.

He has dark hooded eyes, thick eyebrows, and flat lips that aren’t conventionally attractive, but they suit his face.

His features make him look the part of angry Russian, but there’s something about his dopey smile that speaks to me on a primal level.

I swear I sometimes see that same primal look in his eyes when he stares at me, but I’m not completely delusional about it.

I’m not out, obviously. No way am I going to fuck with my career that way.

Not when the first out dudes in the NHL only came out last season.

While it gave me hope that I could be an out player at some point, Caleb Sorensen and Ollie Stromberg are far from rookies.

Soren is in his thirties and has kept quiet his whole career until now, and Stromberg is newer but still has three seasons under his belt.

I have to be smart about who knows and who doesn’t, even if it’s tempting to throw myself at my teammate. Maybe if he wasn’t assigned as my roommate on the road and I got a few drinks in me, I’d try it. But being rejected and then having to share a room with the guy? Not going to happen.

Besides, he’s never given any hint of swinging that way.

Plus, with his Russian background, even if he did, I doubt he’d risk his life for a quick orgasm from me.

If hockey doesn’t work out for him, he has to go back to Russia, and everyone knows the political mess LGBTQ rights are there. Mainly, they have no rights.

I grew up in Massachusetts with a loving and open family, so for me, it’s not a matter of hiding myself forever, but it’s smarter to do it for now.

And no matter how cute I find Novicov, I’m not going to put my future at risk. At least, not when it comes to my sexuality. On the ice is another story. I’m screwing up royally, and the more I try to bring myself out of my funk, the more I choke.

Novicov, who’s still standing in front of me, touches my shoulder.

I’m sure it’s supposed to be comforting, but it sends a jolt of lust right to my groin, and considering I’ve already stripped down to my base layers, I can’t hide my reaction.

I hold my breath and hope he doesn’t look down, or if he does, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“I’m joking with you. Don’t cry.”

I shove his hand away. “I’m not crying.” I might want to, but I also know I’m being dramatic. Slumps happen.

“Slumps happen,” Novicov says as if reading my mind.

“Even for top ten draft picks.” This last part is heavily laced with condescension, and it’s true, I probably shouldn’t have been so gloaty about it because I’m paying for it now.

But I also think Novicov doesn’t know he’s being condescending.

His English is basic, so he doesn’t always understand inflection.

“You’re right. It’s a slump.” An entire season-long slump. We’re inching closer to the end of the regular season, and I can’t say I’ve lived up to any expectations set for me.

“Come drink with us.”

“I can’t.”

He just turned twenty-one, so he can go out with the team. I’m still nineteen and look sixteen. There’s no way I’m not getting carded, even if I am with a bunch of grown-ass adults.

“You did last week.”

I snort. “Yeah, because we were in Canada. The legal drinking age is different.”

He makes a “pfft” noise. “In Russia, it’s ten.”

“Is it really?”

“Nyet. Joking with you again.”

I stand because if I sit for any longer, I’m going to be too tempted to stare at his crotch. I’m still trying to ignore my semi, pretend it doesn’t exist, and hope he does too.

“You’re messing with me.”

Those dark brows furrow. “I make mess on you?”

I almost choke on my spit while I try not to picture what that would look like because fucking hell … that’s not what I meant at all, but now I can’t stop thinking about it. “Joking is the proper word, but you can also say you’re messing with me.”

“English does not make sense.”

“Truth. But anyway, you go out. I’m going to shower and head back to our hotel room to wallow with the help of the minibar.”

“Sounds fun. I’m in.”

That annoying, delusional voice in the back of my head has me questioning, “You’d rather drink with me in a hotel room than go out?”

“One thing though. What is wallow?”

It doesn’t matter what wallowing is because if Novicov is there, I won’t be doing it.

“You cheat!” Novicov yells, and I laugh so hard I almost fall backward onto the dirty hotel room carpet.

We’ve been playing quarters, and I’m really good at quarters.

We don’t have cups, so we’re using a cap instead, so even though playing on the carpet makes it difficult, the wider goal evens the playing field.

At least for me. Novicov is delightfully wasted and entertaining.

“There’s no way to cheat in quarters. It’s all talent.”

“Give me your coin.”

I swap out our quarters like that will make a difference.

Novicov takes his turn, and again, he bounces it way too hard, and it misses spectacularly. He throws up his hands. “I give up. Is this what it feels like to be you on the ice?”

This time, I really do fall backward, but not from laughing. “You’re so mean. Hitting me where it really hurts.”

“Wait, where hurt?” Without warning, Radimir Novicov is hovering above me, and I’m so lost in my fuzzy, tipsy brain that I take his lack of English comprehension and his genuine concern as something completely different.

He’s not even touching me. Just kneeling above me, looking soft and relaxed, and it’s instinct to reach for him. Our eyes lock, and his gaze sharpens from concern to hunger.

But that’s when it happens. Before my fingertips even get the chance to brush against his chest, he grabs my wrist tight, and reality sets in.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

My heart races wildly as I try to come up with an excuse. He has lint on his shirt. My arm is what hurts, and I was showing him.

But we both know what I was really doing. I was making a move and screwing everything up. The only way I’m getting out of this without getting my ass kicked is if I make out like he’s overreacting.

“Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to …” To what?

Make him uncomfortable? I didn’t even touch him.

He didn’t let it get to that. In a way, he is overreacting, and there’s that stupid voice again saying his rejection is maybe too emphatic, but I finally tell that bitch to shut up because I know how dangerous this kind of situation can be.

Do I think Novicov would seriously assault me? I’d like to think we’ve become friends over the last six months and he wouldn’t, but that’s not a guarantee.

“I thought …” Another unfinished sentence where I don’t have the words, so I go for the good ol’ cop-out of “I was messing with you. Joking. Like you were in the locker room.” I don’t think he believes me, but he does release my arm.

“Joking?”

“Yep.” Just ignore the hard-on in my pants. Thankfully, I’m no longer wearing my tight base layers.

“Okay.” He stands. Then nods. His motions are jerky, his shoulders stiff.

“We good?” I ask, but my voice cracks.

“Yes, yes. All jokes. All fun. We’re good.”

And as much as I would love to believe him, I know it’s not true. Especially when he asks for a new roommate on our next road trip, and he barely says two words to me for the rest of the season.

Then, as our regular season ends, Novicov gets the call. He’s going to the big show, and my sorry ass will be ECHL-bound if I don’t turn my game around.

If I keep playing the way I’m playing, I’m going to have to find a new career because there’s no way I’m going to make it in professional hockey.

I could become a coach. Isn’t there that old saying, “Those who can’t do, teach”? That could be me.

I really hope it’s not me.