Chapter 3
THREE
Gavin
This is weird. No. This is infuriating.
Why does he have to be such a nice guy? He’d be so much easier to hate if he was an asshole like his father.
And he’d definitely be less attractive as well.
If we were strangers, in a place where no one knew who either of us was, I’d definitely make a move on him.
He’s exactly what gets my gears running.
Athletic, strong, and fit. Plus, there’s that competitive edge to him that would make him fun to conquer in the bedroom.
But there’s also something else about him.
Something below the surface, hiding behind that golden boy exterior.
A vulnerability that I rarely see in the men I share the ice with.
For some, they might see that as weakness.
But for a guy like me, it pulls at a more primal side.
The side that says, keep him from breaking.
Which is its own mind fuck. Because up until we arrived at camp, breaking Connor Kennedy was part of my job description.
That directive, however, no longer stands now that we’re teammates.
It’s officially my job to keep him safe on the ice so he can make plays and score goals while I run over anyone who tries to fuck with him.
Wait. Is he whistling?
He sure as shit is. Now that the water’s been shut off in our hotel room’s shower the unmistakable sound of him whistling a tune is no longer drowned out. There’s probably woodland creatures in there with him, knotting a towel around his waist.
I run my hands through my hair and tug. We’ve been in this room for fifteen minutes and it’s already bordering on torture.
Scratch that. It is actual torture. His whistling has stopped, and the bathroom door swings open, revealing a near naked Connor Kennedy emerging from the steam. Fuck me. He’s twice as hot wearing nothing but a towel.
I mean, I always knew he was good looking. Everyone knows he’s good looking with his classic all-American boy golden hair and bright blue eyes. But standing here in only a low-slung towel, it’s like one of those damn Abercrombie I’m certainly not going to let my cover be blown by Connor Kennedy and his stupid washboard abs.
I do smile, though.
“Like what you see?” Connor asks while blotting his hair with a towel.
“I like that I see I have two more abs than you do.” I smirk.
“Bullshit,” he says, and his eyes twinkle with challenge.
I rise from the edge of my bed and pull my shirt off, suddenly glad that like him, I chose to wait until we returned to the hotel and got settled into our rooms to shower.
His eyebrows lift when he sees I wasn’t kidding.
While his six-pack was impressive, mine is an eight and I have a much deeper V cut leading into my shorts.
Plus, while he does have chest and shoulder definition, it’s nothing compared to mine.
Clearly he didn’t spend his childhood and now his off season hauling and chopping wood for fuel for his fireplace.
I guess there probably isn’t much need for that in Chicago.
It’s not like he has a full forest of trees in his backyard.
I throw his words back at him. “Like what you see?”
He rolls his eyes at me. “Sorry to disappoint you, Gavin. I’m not some puck bunny who’s into that sort of thing.”
Interesting. I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.
It’s not like Connor, or anyone in the NHL for that matter is out, but my gaydar is generally pretty in tune and he’s always given me a station.
Not that it matters. Sure, as I’ve established, he’s absolutely my type.
Being smaller than me, he’s the perfect size for me to manhandle, and top the hell out of, without being a total twink.
He’s masculine, and clearly strong—not as strong as me, of course—and I have always wanted to know what skater thighs feel like squeezing my sides while I drive my dick into their owner.
But if he’s not gay, then there’s no point in continuing to dive down this particular fantasy rabbit hole.
Besides, even if he is gay, us hooking up would be a massive mistake.
For a league full of men, the NHL is worse about gossip than a women’s sewing circle.
I ball up my shirt, toss it into my duffle bag, then grab a clean pair of briefs.
“Are you planning on unpacking?” Connor asks.
“I doubt it.” I shrug. Why would I? We’re hockey players. We live out of our bags throughout the entire season while we travel around. Even when the season is over I never unpack as I go straight back to Alaska to spend the summer with my father.
Connor sighs and grabs my garment bag, which contains my league-mandated suits for showing up to games. The rule has been carried over to the Olympics as well. “You can at least hang these up,” he says and proceeds to, in fact, hang them up.
See. There’s my gaydar pinging again. I’d have hung them up eventually. Maybe. But there is something charming about him doing it for me.
He shakes his head at me and points to the bathroom. “Aren’t you going to take a shower?”
“Why?” I grin at him. “Are you taking me out to dinner?”
“No.” He laughs. “It’s just, can’t you smell yourself? You stink like a hockey bag.”
“You do know you didn’t smell like roses after practice either, right?”
“Yes. I’m aware. Why do you think I got in the shower?”
“To cool off from being around me.” I wink at him.
“That’s so not the case,” he says, blushing and clearly flustered.
Lord help me if he continues to be this fun to tease. Perhaps this roommate thing won’t be so bad. I can entertain myself for hours making him squirm. Have him regret initiating this arrangement by Tuesday. Get him to the point where he’s begging Coach Chris for a roommate change in Milan.
He starts unpacking his bag and putting things away, placing some pieces in the drawers and hanging others up. Occasionally he holds an article of clothing up as if inspecting it, then pairing it with something else until he has a full outfit laid out on his bed.
“Hot date?” I ask him as I pull my toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and two-in-one shampoo out of my duffle.
“I wish.” He sighs and checks the watch he’s putting on his wrist. It looks expensive and I notice he has a small case filled with a few different options. It’s something I’ve never gotten into, but I can see the appeal. It’s a nice adornment on his wrist.
“I’m running late, actually,” he says. “My father made reservations at the steakhouse overlooking the casino.”
I may not know Connor Kennedy Sr intimately, but the opinion I do have of him makes me think I’d prefer oral surgery after taking a puck to the face, to sharing a meal with the man.
Connor Jr looks like he feels the same way; his lips have pulled tight while he tucks his light-blue button-down shirt into his gray slacks that are hugging his muscular thighs and ass in a very enticing way.
Looking at his serious face while he finishes getting dressed makes me feel like I’m intruding, so I tuck my things under my arms. I give him one last look over from head to toe before I step into the bathroom. He looks sharp, despite the look of dread in his eyes.
“Don’t be offended if I’m not here when you get back,” I say. I have plans to grab a bite to eat with Bouchard, but Connor doesn’t need to know that.
He looks over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow at me, a playful glint emerging on his face replacing the sadness that was previously there. “Only if you promise to not be offended if I don’t wait up.”
Connor
By the time I make it from our room all the way down through the casino and into the restaurant, I’m ten minutes late.
This place is vast, and the dim lighting doesn’t hide the look of disappointment on my father’s face, or my mother’s indifference as she sips from her wineglass.
Funny, in my dread of meeting my father for dinner, I’d forgotten that my mother chose to join him on this trip.
She probably used it as an excuse to pack her schedule with spa treatments and a discreet nip and tuck or two.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say as I take a seat. “Practice ran long and then I had to get cleaned up. Plus, this hotel is massive. I must have walked two miles to get here.” Shit. I’m rambling. A bad habit of mine that I have when I’m nervous. To shut myself up, I take a sip of water.
“Tell me what I heard isn’t true,” my father says, and there’s so much that could be attached to that, I don’t know where to even start denying.
I just hope I haven’t been caught doing something I shouldn’t with someone I shouldn’t have been with again.
I’m not sure I can go through another payoff and series of NDAs being signed because some asshole I slept with decided to film it then blackmail me with it like what happened during my rookie season.
I try to shake off the thought, but the fear of it happening again doesn’t leave me.
My heart rate kicks up and my palms start to sweat.
Quickly, under the table, I rub them on my napkin.
I don’t know why panic is beginning to rise through me.
I haven’t been with another man since then, so I can’t imagine that’s what his assertion is about.
But after his reaction to that video being sent to his office with demands for a payout, followed by him immediately going into action shutting down all talk about me being gay, I can’t help but always be paranoid when he’s staring at me with his nostrils flaring.
I take another sip of water and swallow around the lump of dread in my throat. “What are you referring to?”
“Gavin Marshal,” he says through his teeth with the maximum level of disdain. “Why on earth did you volunteer to be his roommate? You know what I… what the league thinks about him.”