Chapter 8 #2
I take a deep breath to steady myself before I exit the locker room.
I know who’s waiting for me on the other side of that door and I suddenly wish I’d opted to take a longer shower.
But Gavin was covertly staring at me in there and not in a sexy way.
In the way he’s been doing all week where he rakes his eyes up and down my body, looking for signs of injuries I’d like him to lick and make better.
Okay. Maybe it is a bit sexy. Which is also why I needed to get out of the showers as quickly as I could.
No one, especially not the gay one on the team, wants to be caught with a raging hard-on in front of all of his naked teammates.
I wonder how Gavin does it? My solution is to be first in, first out.
And when that’s not possible, opt to clean up back in my room.
But Gavin has perfected the art of luxuriating in the shower and laughing it up with everyone else while he’s soaping himself down like he’s not one erection away from having his secret revealed. It’s maddening.
It’s also why I’m so shocked when I feel him place his enormous hands on my shoulders from behind. I hadn’t noticed he was out of the showers and had gotten changed. That’s how good I am at keeping my eyes down in the locker room.
He gives my shoulders a squeeze and my knees get weak. I stop myself from collapsing into his hold, even though that is all I want to do. The idea of being held and supported by him is far too appealing.
“I’ll walk out with you,” he says, his deep voice washing over me like a warm blanket.
“You might want to rethink that,” I say, suppressing the sigh I desperately want to let out.
“Why? You’re afraid I’ll tell your father to kick rocks and go bug someone else for a change.”
“Actually.” I laugh. “That is surprisingly accurate.”
“Good.” He pats my shoulders, then places a firm hand across my lower back and pushes me forward. “Because that’s exactly what I intend to do.”
“No,” I say, but it’s too late. The door has been swung open, and we are met with the waiting gaze of my father and a crew of cameramen and reporters.
“Over here, Connor!” my father shouts over the fray.
“Sorry, Dad,” Gavin says with obnoxious emphasis. “But Connor’s busy tonight.”
“Gavin, please,” I say under my breath as I watch my father’s nostrils flare. One of Gavin’s hands squeezes my shoulder and the other one presses against my lower back again as he leads me away.
“Players-only dinner is on me!” he yells out as he guides me past my father and down the hall towards the players’ exit. The cameras start flashing and there’s rowdy whoops and hollers coming through the locker room door as the rest of the team follows us out.
Smiling, I look over my shoulder and watch Bouchard exit last. When he passes my father, he gives him a two-finger salute, after which he catches eyes with Gavin and nods his chin at him. What on earth do these two have up their sleeves?
Gavin
A casual dinner of pizza and beer was a great idea. It’s amazing how quickly you can get a restaurant in Las Vegas to accommodate thirty grown men and their appetites with very short notice.
As soon as we stepped off the ice and I was able to get to my phone, I called the famed pizzeria and warned them of our impending arrival. They didn’t even flinch. Said they’d set aside a large section for us and do what they could to keep it private.
Well, as private as they can. I won’t lie, I chose this place knowing it would fail to keep us hidden.
Most people take notice when a large group of men arrive in their proximity who look—at our best—like we’ve stepped off a Viking ship or—at our worst—from a Jiffy Lube.
This restaurant is world renowned for its celebrity chef, but it’s also packed with vacationing families.
Nothing brings a hockey team together faster than being surrounded by fans. Especially young fans.
I toss around a bunch of pucks I snagged from the practice rink for the guys to give out to kids and I ask the host for some spare pens. By the time we finally make it to the tables they’ve pushed together for us, everyone’s spirits are lifted. Even Connor looks like he can finally breathe.
“Thanks for this,” he says as he leans into my space.
I ruffle his hair, then slide my hands to his shoulders to playfully jostle him around a bit. “Don’t thank me yet.” I grin at him. “We’re in for a long night.”
He slowly shakes his head. “No, we’re not.”
Grinning, I nod mine back at him. “Yes, we are.” To emphasize my point, I pour him a glass full of beer out of one of the many pitchers that are strewn around the table in between trays of pizza.
“This is a terrible idea,” he says.
I clink his glass with my bottle of root beer. “It’s a great idea.” I rise from my seat and clear my throat, grabbing everyone’s attention around the table. “Alright, boys, we’ve been cooped up all week. Let’s blow off some much-needed steam!”
Connor
Blowing off steam looks and feels a lot like partying.
Which is exactly what we’ve been doing for hours now.
I check my watch as I take a seat next to Bouchard in one of the VIP booths we’ve taken over inside Vegas’s hottest new nightclub on the top floor of our hotel.
It’s officially past midnight, and after being locked down by the team’s curfew all week, it feels very late.
Apparently, I’m the only one who notices as everyone else is partying like they have the energy to go well into sunrise.
Bouchard throws his arm around me. He’s drunk as a skunk and yelling over the loud music as he tells a story to our teammates crammed in this booth.
“Then this guy…” He pulls me in closer to his side and leans the both of us forward, drawing me into the group.
“He goes and breaks my streak of shutzies within the first thirty seconds of the game!” He thumps me hard on the back.
“And now I get to play on the same team with him! Unreal! We are going to be the team to beat at the Olympics!”
Everyone in the booth starts banging their fists on the table, then takes a round of shots that Gavin has poured for them all.
Me included. I look for him when I put my shot glass down, but he’s slinked off again somewhere.
I’ve been having a hard time keeping track of him all night.
He keeps sliding in and out of view. He’ll appear, leave a round of shots, or drop off more bottles of beer, then leave without a trace. It’s maddening.
Max Franklin moves from the other side of the booth and plops down next to me. “It’s good to have you on the team, man,” he says. “I know some of the guys have been giving you a hard time.”
“Nah,” I deny, even though I’ve been favoring my right side all night when I sit down in order to keep the pressure off my left hip, which is bruised purple and angry from a slam I took early today in practice that dropped me hard. “It’s all in good fun.”
Max laughs and gestures at the surrounding club.
The lights are flashing. The music is thrumming.
And the sea of people before us are all moving together like a rolling ocean.
“This,” he says, “is fun!” He rises to his feet and grabs his drink.
“What happens on the ice is work!” With those parting words he disappears into the crowd finding his way to the dance floor.
I try to find Gavin again and I think I glimpse him by the bar, leaning over it and talking to the bartender. I’m about to get up and go to him when Bradley Warren steps into my space.
“Looking for your daddy?” he asks, his voice dripping with contempt.
“And what if I was?” I say back. I’m not, obviously, but what difference is it to this guy? My father is not his problem. He’s mine to sort out and keep at bay.
“I just never see you without him as your shadow.”
I take a sip of my drink. “It’s not like it’s by my choice.”
He laughs at that. “This is why we can’t follow you. How are you going to captain this team if you can’t captain your own life?”
Honestly, I’ve been wondering the same thing.
“Hey,” Bouchard says, passing Bradley a shot. “Lighten up, would you? We’re celebrating.” I smile at him, and he gives me a fist bump, then passes me another shot as well. “Bottoms up!”
The three of us each slam our drink, and Gavin finally comes close enough to me that I can reach for him. He catches me around the waist. “Steady there, Captain,” he says. His long fingers curl around my side and linger for a second longer than necessary before he pulls them away.
“Where have you been?” I ask. “I can’t keep track of you.”
“Mingling around,” he says casually, then takes a long pull from the bottle of water in his hand.
I can’t take my eyes off his Adam’s apple as it bobs up and down with each swallow.
It doesn’t help that he’s wearing a tight-fitting V neck tee shirt that frames his movements perfectly.
If we weren’t surrounded by our teammates I’d be tempted to lick it.
I lean up to talk into his ear. “Mingling? Does that mean you’re hoping to meet someone?”
He looks at me and reads me like a book, before he leans in close and says, “No. I do not need to meet anyone.”
The directness of his tone makes my cheeks flush. He grins at me and mouths the word “adorable” in my direction as he presses his finger to my cheek. It only makes my skin heat more.
We’re interrupted by Bouchard and one of our right wingers, Calhoun. “How is it that the sober one is the best at throwing a rager?” Bouchard asks Gavin.
“Because the sober one keeps all your shit in check!” Gavin yells over the music.
“Just like on the ice!” Bouchard lifts his glass to Gavin and Gavin hits it with his water bottle.
“Can I have a sip of that?” I ask Gavin.
He removes the cap, then hands it to me and I take a long sip. After a night of mostly beer and shots of whiskey, the water tastes refreshing. I could have used one of these an hour ago.