Spencer
five
The night before the pre-season opener
Fucking people. They were everywhere. I knew I needed to play nice and actually be present, but it was hard work.
In Boston, everyone knew I didn’t people.
Texas went to team events, and I stayed home.
There were no expectations of me attending—they preferred when I wasn’t there, probably because they’d have to face Brayden’s sexuality then—but it suited us, so we’d never pushed back.
The team all knew I’d just hold up the wall and glare.
My usual responses of “Suck my dick” and “Fuck off, mate” never went down well, either, so it was better for everyone if I didn’t show up.
I knew I needed to change. I just didn’t want to.
I was perfectly happy being completely unapproachable.
But my life had morphed into crazy over the past few months.
My agent’s words echoed in my brain like a gnat gnawing on my patience.
“You have the talent. You have the charisma on stage.
Fans love you. Your record label loves you. But no one likes you.
“You won’t get far in this industry on talent alone—megastars can be complete assholes.
“You can’t.
“You’re not at that level.
“Yet.
“I can get you there, but you need to work on your personality first. The media won’t stand for being told to fuck off, and you’ll very quickly find yourself in trouble if you tell a fan to suck your dick—you know one of them will, and it’ll be all over the internet in less time than it takes you to empty your balls. ”
I knew all that. I did. I just didn’t like people.
They exhausted me. I could be on stage all night—it might sound stupid, but up there, it was an act.
I was performing. It wasn’t me—the personal me that I was in front of a couple of people—but rather the artist, the entertainer.
The facelessness of the crowd was like a shield.
I didn’t need to let them in. All I had to do was give them what they wanted—my music, my onstage persona.
But put me in a room where I needed to be me, to have a real conversation with a person other than Bray or my immediate family for any longer than a few minutes, and I needed ten hours to recharge.
Meeting the team could be worse, though, I supposed.
A nighttime barbie at the coach’s house didn’t sound so bad.
From the winding road we were travelling up, I guessed that his place overlooked the city.
If it was outside, I was sure I could find a spot to melt into the darkness.
If not, well, I’d make my escape out there anyway. Maybe I could take up smoking.
Bray said that his new teammates—at least his linemates—seemed like good blokes. There were a few of them who were out, too, and in polyam relationships. That was a plus. I didn’t want to have to beat some fucking hockey players down if they were homophobic pricks to my husband.
I was a changed man already. Looking at the positives was new.
There was another big positive too. Bray being picked up by the Seals meant that I didn’t have to freeze my balls off during winter.
That was a definite plus. My Aussie-grown, subtropical body couldn’t handle anything under the low twenties—Celsius, that was.
Spending a winter in New York, then moving to Boston to be with Bray had been a rude wake-up call.
I didn’t even know the weather could get that fucking cold.
Bray jagging a spot on a team with decent people, based somewhere relatively warm, were both bonuses.
San Diego was close to LA too. I had everything I needed there to pursue my music, including my new agent.
My first album recorded back home was moderately successful—I’d started to build a small but loyal fanbase.
It was enough that my old agent had secured the offer for a second album to be recorded here in the States.
But it came with conditions. The record label demanded I change things up, wanting to mold me into a product for consumption.
I had the makings of a true popstar provided I ditch the black, cut my hair, and sing clean-cut, less genre-swapping pop songs rather than my grungier, country, pop, and metal inspired tracks.
It wouldn’t have worked. I couldn’t be anyone but me.
I didn’t want to change my sound for the sake of dollars.
I wanted authentic and real, building on what had made me popular back home.
I sounded indie, and I wanted to keep it that way.
So, I’d taken a leap of faith and found a new agent.
He’d paired me up with a smaller label, definitely a risky move, but they’d listened to what I wanted.
They agreed with me, suggested a producer who was exactly right for my sound, and we’d made magic.
Well, professionally, it was magic. Socially it was a disaster, but she always laughed my grumpiness off.
She loved to socialize—what a nightmare—and people flocked to her.
I’d been wrecked every day. But it wasn’t from the exhaustion of recording.
It was from talking to people. But when we’d finished laying down the tracks, I knew I had my breakout album.
The first song I’d released, “Midnight Hour,” had killed it, storming onto Spotify’s hot new release playlists.
It hit the top fifty streamed songs within days of release.
It was being played on every radio station, skyrocketing up the Hot 100 on the Billboard charts.
It was insane. I was being recognized everywhere I went.
I was being tagged on social media post after social media post. “Midnight Hour” had become a viral sensation.
My follower count had surged from a few hundred thousand to a few million in weeks.
All from one song.
My second track had been released, too, and it was following the same pattern. “Midnight Hour” still wasn’t dropping either.
“Don't look so down,” Bray teased, nudging me with his elbow as he shut off the engine of his clunker. “We're here, it’s warm, and it’s only for a few hours.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I grunted, and Bray chuckled.
“Sweet Baby Jesus, look at these cars.” He shook his head and grasped my hand as we walked along the makeshift parking lot. Every luxury vehicle imaginable was lined up, as well as a few tricked-out SUVs and classic trucks. Hockey players and their rides, man. They never ceased to amaze me.
Bray's piece of shit was out of place here, but he wouldn't ever give up that dented, rusted-up F150 for anything. He'd saved every penny to buy that truck as a sixteen-year-old, and he was as emotionally attached to it as I was to my guitars. Money didn’t matter to him. It didn’t even register as one of the top ten most important things to him. He wasn’t materialistic in any way; it was one of the things I loved most about him.
The side gate was open, and I could hear music and the chatter of a decent crowd of people out there. We walked around the back, and we'd barely stepped out from the side of the massive mansion when we were met by a big bloke and two smaller ones.
“Hey, Miller,” one of the smaller men greeted Bray with his hand extended. “Good to see you here.”
“Howdy,” Bray greeted and introduced me—Jacques Gauthier, the team captain, Alec Huxley, Bray’s other linemate, and Chris Minns, on defense. They were already talking my ear off.
“G’day.” I even managed a smile. Go, me.
“You’re Aussie,” Minns pointed out.
I nodded, not wanting to add more and he grinned. “My partner, Gauthier’s wife, both of Hux’s partners, and Rune’s best friend are all Aussies. Looks like you’ve already got a few things in common with the PAGS.”
“Pags?” I asked, unable to help myself.
“Yeah, partners and girlfriends. It can’t be WAGS anymore. Hux and I are both in poly relationships. My wife and I have a boyfriend, and Hux lives with his two partners.”
I’d known that—anyone who turned on a television knew that—but hearing them talk about their relationships so freely was refreshing.
Bray and I weren’t closeted by any means, but we didn’t exactly wave our relationship in the faces of the Blizzards or their fans.
Maybe his being on the Seals roster would change that.
Gauthier, Hux, and Minns led us toward the crowd, but I hung back, following a few steps behind. I heard Gauthier ask, “How long have you two been together?”
“Married for six months and together for just over two years.”
“Right when you joined Boston,” Hux mused. “It wasn’t the Bruins you were with, though, was it?”
“No, the Blizzards,” Bray acknowledged. “And y’all’d better believe it was right when I joined the team. I went to NYC to meet a buddy for drinks the first weekend I was in Boston, before I’d even met my teammates. I ended up going home with Spencer instead.”
They did the small-talk thing, and I followed along silently until Bray reached back for my hand, dragging me up next to him.
He knew I was reluctant to be in the limelight with him—standing next to him inevitably meant I’d need to speak to people...
urgh—but being alone here would probably be worse.
The group Gauthier led us to were spread out on picnic blankets. I concentrated on keeping my expression carefully blank rather than the scowl I normally wore and scanned the gathering. They were a mix of ages, from two toddlers right up to a bloke my dad’s age.
My gaze skidded to a halt.
The breath whooshed out of my lungs.
My heart slammed against my chest.
She was radiant. She was… lovely. Even sitting down, I could tell she was tall and her curves were out of this world.
Breasts that would overflow my hands and thick thighs that were…
mmm. I shivered thinking about how soft and pliable they’d be wrapped around mine or Bray’s waist. My hands clenched of their own accord, my mind’s eye conjuring up the feel of that luscious arse under my palms. I yearned for her.
Imagining us together was a sweet torture.