Chapter 8
MADARS
What a surreal day. I’d asked Connor to join us at the Bone Church because after meeting up with him last night, I’d needed to see him again. So I’d grabbed the first opportunity I could think of. Somehow, that had segued into lunch, which had led to…
To this.
To lying in his bed, cuddled together after the best sex I’d had in ages followed by a couple of lazy handjobs in the shower.
I could’ve stayed here all night if he asked me to.
Except…
My heart sank. Yeah, I wanted to spend the night in Connor’s bed, but that would be a bad idea. Tomorrow, I had practice very early. The rest of the day would be occupied with team obligations. Media things. Meetings. Workouts. Team dinner. The following day, more of the same.
After that, the Games would start, so we’d both be tied up. Then they’d be over, and we’d be on our way back to our respective lives in our respective countries.
I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
I trailed my fingertips down his arm. “When do you fly back to Canada?”
Connor thought about it. “Tuesday after the Games end.”
“So… you have one more night after the closing events.”
He nodded, and then he seemed to track where I was going. “You… want to spend it together?”
I shrugged. “We could? Would be fun.” I ran my fingers through his short, damp hair. “If I’m a little sore on the plane or my first game back in Switzerland? Eh.”
He laughed as he curled closer to me. “So, what you’re saying is, you want me to fuck you right before we both go home?”
“Are you saying you don’t?”
“Not at all. Just making sure I understand the situation.” He slid his hand along my back. “And it sounds like the situation is that we can hook up the last night before we leave.”
“Mmhmm. We can.”
Connor grinned. So did I. Then we were kissing again, and I couldn’t get enough of his mouth.
He’d been a good kisser back in the day, but the way he kissed now was intoxicating.
Every slide of his tongue, every brush of his lips—I’d had sex with men who did less for me than a long, decadent kiss with Connor did.
And if he kept kissing me like this, I was going to end up in him again before this night was over.
“Fuck, Connor,” I whispered between kisses. “We’re going to end up going three rounds. You know that, right?”
He squirmed in my embrace, rubbing his hardening dick against my thigh. “Promise?”
I just groaned and kissed him again.
Then a thought crossed my mess of a mind, and I broke the kiss with a quiet laugh. “You know, if Team Latvia wins, I might have to ask you to come to every international tournament.”
“Oh yeah?” He grinned. “So you can fuck me for good luck?”
“Well, I mean…” I half-shrugged. “If something works, why mess with it?”
His laughter was so beautiful, making my toes curl almost as much as my orgasms had. “You hockey players and your superstitions.”
I was chuckling too. “Hey, whatever it takes to win.”
He snorted. “So now I’m part of a player’s superstitious pre-tournament ritual. Achievement unlocked?”
“If we win, yes,” I clarified.
He eyed me, obviously trying to look serious even as the corner of his mouth twitched. “And if you don’t win? Then we can’t fuck before an event?”
I quirked my lips. “I mean, I guess we could sixty-nine or something instead?”
More laughter poured out of him. “But what if I’m the bad luck charm? My dad played with a guy who wouldn’t even kiss his wife on game day because it was bad luck.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I’m not that superstitious.”
“Yes, you are. You’re a hockey player.”
I wanted to argue, but… I mean, he had a point.
“Well, now I’m even more determined to win the gold this week.” I ran my hand down his back and pulled him in closer. “So I have an excuse to invite you to my tournaments.”
Connor laughed, and then we were kissing again.
Deep down, I wasn’t sure how much I was joking. This was hardly anything serious, but as soon as I’d been in the same room with him again, I’d realized how much I’d missed him over the years. How much I hated that I’d let so much time go by without reconnecting with him.
Maybe whatever had gone on between us back then had just been adolescent curiosity and innocent crushes, but whatever was happening now?
That was some real chemistry. Something that made me want to keep this connection going.
And sex aside, I’d enjoyed spending time with him.
I liked the man he’d become, and I wanted to be friends with him.
We lived an ocean apart, but that was what the internet was for. I had friends all over the world, including old teammates back in North America. I could have that with Connor, too, couldn’t I?
And would he want us to?
I didn’t actually believe we’d hook up before all of my tournaments out of superstition.
But was it too much to think this week might not be the end?
The next morning started far too early. I had breakfast with my teammates, some of whom I knew from previous international competition. There were a few newcomers this year, and introductions were made as we ate.
Then it was off to the rink. Sometimes for events like this, my coaches would have a team meeting first, introduce us to their systems, and establish projected lines before we ever put on our skates.
Not Coach Kepke. He wanted us in our gear and on the ice.
He didn’t give a fuck who we were on our professional teams; lines and pairs would be worked out based on how we performed, not on any superstar status we might’ve had elsewhere.
He wasn’t kidding, either. When he’d coached the women’s team at the Olympics, he’d put a rookie blue liner in the top pair over a superstar because she’d outperformed the star in practice.
It paid off, too—that defender had been spectacular during those games, and it turned out later the superstar had been trying to play through an injury.
So, the proof was on the ice in front of him, not across the backs of our jerseys.
I was always nervous, diving in with a new team right before an international competition.
It was par for the course, but it was a big unknown.
Would we gel? Would we get along off the ice?
Did we have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning?
Canada and Czechia were favored to be in the gold medal final, but this was hockey—anything could happen.
It didn’t help that I had a few muscles letting me know that yesterday’s, uh, cardio hadn’t been part of my usual routine.
Recent dry spell notwithstanding, I got laid as much as the next guy during the regular season, but something about last night—something about driving Connor into the mattress—had left a subtle twinge in my hips.
Not an unpleasant one, though. Not a sign of an injury. Just… maybe mildly distracting when I needed to be completely focused.
As I waited for my turn to run through a drill, I bit back a laugh at the absurdity of it all. And I was admittedly glad that, no matter how tempting it had been, I hadn’t bottomed last night. My ass wouldn’t have hurt, per se, but the feeling would’ve been distracting as all hell.
And a reminder of what it was like to take Connor’s dick.
Goddamn. Next time, I’m definitely bottoming.
Despite my pleasantly achy hips, our first practice as a team went smoothly. It was a long one, though, since the coaches needed to figure out lines and special teams. Tomorrow’s practice would probably be shorter but more intense.
By the end of this first practice, we were all pretty confident in our systems and in each other.
I was a little surprised to see that Coach Kepke wasn’t kidding about establishing lines based on performance, not how we played on our other teams. The projections had all had me on the third line, but after today, I was on the top line with Petrovs and ?agars.
Couldn’t complain about that. They’d also put me on the top power play unit, which was a pleasant switch.
I did like my team in Switzerland, but I’d been frustrated that I was constantly relegated to the penalty kill.
I was good at killing penalties, but I was sure I could be useful on the power play too.
And with as weak as our power play was—give me a fucking chance, Coach!
This week, I’d get that chance. Assuming the refs called penalties in our favor, anyway.
Shame the man I fucked into oblivion won’t be officiating our games.
I almost snorted at my own ridiculous thought. Wouldn’t that be a headline?
NAL Referee Under Investigation After Boning a Player and Then Favoring His Team.
Yeah, that would be the day. Connor would absolutely die, especially since he’d always endeavored to be the most scrupulous ref to ever touch the ice.
Still funny to imagine the headlines, though.
After practice, we showered and sat down to eat. Some irrational part of me expected to hear my teammates gossiping about a certain player hooking up with a ref, but they obviously weren’t.
There was definitely one topic of conversation buzzing through the room, though.
“I heard the North American League sent scouts,” ?agars said.
“They always send scouts.” Petrovs took a gulp of water. “They want to poach the best from our leagues into theirs.”
“I’d let them poach me,” ?agars muttered. “I like playing in Latvia, but if a team in Canada or the US wants me?” He waved a hand.
Some of the other guys grunted and nodded.
“You played over there, didn’t you?” Petrovs asked me. “How was it?”
I tried not to squirm under my teammates’ scrutiny. “It was great. Good money.” I laughed dryly. “Schedule was a killer, but it was worth it.”
“You think you’d ever go back?”
“If they offered me a contract, sure. In a heartbeat.”
Valters cocked his head. “How’d you end up in Switzerland, then?”
I shot him a pointed look. “Because they didn’t offer me a contract.”
“Ooh.” His cheeks colored. “Uh. Sorry, man…”
I shrugged and continued eating. It was admittedly a little bit of a sore spot, but I was mostly over it.
Yeah, it stung when I became a free agent and suddenly no one—not even the teams in the middle of rebuilds—were interested in me.
I couldn’t even get a professional tryout contract, and I knew guys who could barely skate who got PTOs. Such bullshit.
Okay, it was more than a little bit of a sore spot. I wanted a place in that League so bad I could taste it. And my agent was confident that if I shined here and in Genève, I had a shot at getting signed again.
“They’re always looking for international talent,” Kirils had told me a few months ago. “And you’re hitting that sweet spot soon—an unrestricted free agent who’s in his prime and still young enough to be worthwhile.”
So true. Sometimes guys who weren’t free agents still got signed, but they had to be superstars to be worth all the extra paperwork and money to essentially buy them from their European team.
One of my teammates had gone to North America last year on such a deal.
Another had ben signed as a free agent the summer before.
This year could be my chance. Quite possibly my last chance. And if I really, really played my ass off at the Games, that could be my ticket back to North America.
No pressure or anything.