Goalie Oriented (Minnesota Fury #1)

Chapter 1

Beau

Darlene creaks and groans as I pull into my designated parking space at the arena. I can’t help but commiserate with her antics. I glare up at the multimillion-dollar hunk of metal that pulled me away from the only home I’ve ever known.

But I’m here now. New town, same old me, and a hockey team just on the brink of missing out on the playoffs year after year.

The Minnesota Fury.

Minnesota’s PHL (Professional Hockey League) team, ranked number seventeen in the league and my new home away from home.

Traded.

I really can’t believe Dallas traded me for a left winger with half my skill and a draft pick. Is that all I was worth to them? I pause as the thought consumes me, my body wracking with an ache from being forgotten.

I let loose a sigh and stare up at the arena, the glaring midday sun reflecting off the metal structure and making the view excruciating, my glare turning into a pained squint. If that doesn’t say exactly how this year is going to go, I don’t know what will.

I’ve only been in town a few days, less than a week, rotting away at the hotel my new team has me set up in. I’m tired of working out in that tiny gym, and the nerves surrounding meeting my team aren’t really going away. So I’m bucking up and braving meeting my team.

I hop out of Darlene, and she creaks as my weight lifts from the front seat. I can’t help but be a little offended. I stuck to my diet plan over the summer, a lot more than I usually do.

Okay, okay, that’s not saying much because I usually don’t stick to it in the summer at all, but I definitely didn’t put on that much weight. Besides, I’ll need the extra layer up here to stay warm once winter hits.

Sub-zero temperatures? Sleet and snow and ice, oh my.

I grew up in Texas, in a town just west of Dallas, actually.

I grew up in that heat where a twenty-degree winter is wild and snow is a temporary thing even in the dead of February.

Where cowboys are real and not just movie stars in hats and boots.

Where there are honest-to-god tumbleweeds rolling across the highways.

Here in Minnesota, the only thing rolling across highways is some wild potholes. I had to swerve to avoid them.

I run my hand down my chest, nervous energy rolling off me in waves. It’s no fun going through a breakup at the same time as a major move in my career, even if the split was amicable. It does something to your self-esteem when someone says they don’t want you anymore.

It sucks.

But does it really have to suck so much?

I’m two hundred and twenty-five pounds of muscle, and I’m not humble enough to pretend I don’t know how good I look.

This doesn’t have to be so bad. I’m in a new city, surrounded by tons of new people.

I no longer have the weight of my dead-end relationship holding me back.

And most importantly, I can finally act on the side of me I had to keep so under wraps in Dallas.

I smile to myself at the thought, my skin blooming with goosebumps as a gust of wind blows over my exposed arms.

Being bisexual in the PHL hasn’t been the easiest, especially when my agent always has some wild, albeit valid, excuse for me to stay in the closet.

First, he kept piling on that, because I was in a relationship with Bianca, there was really no reason for me to come out.

Why should I be the first out queer guy in hockey when I’m in a hetero-facing relationship?

Now that we’ve broken up, I thought he’d loosen the reins a little, but he’s now worried that if I come out so soon after the breakup, Bianca will face backlash for “turning me gay.” Insert biggest eyeroll ever right here.

Nine years of hiding such a huge part of myself, and for what?

So my agent could sleep better at night?

A shiver runs up my spine, and I sigh. The air is crisp and sharp.

I’m really not ashamed of my sexuality, of being bisexual.

It doesn’t change anything about me. It doesn’t change how skilled I am on the ice.

It doesn’t change the plays I’ve perfected and honed into my own personal arsenal.

It doesn’t change that I’m an all-star player who has won several gold and silver medals in both the Winter Olympics and the World Cup.

So why should it matter to the rest of the world?

I am still one of the best wingers in the entire league, if the stats are to be believed, and the only thing that might affect that is being on this absolute stinker of a team.

I sigh, reach into Darlene’s bed, and pull out my hockey bag.

The air is crisp, already cold. Yeah, Dallas can get a little chilly, but it’s barely September and already in the high sixties.

I was obviously well aware when I moved here that Minnesota would be a major change for me in many ways, weather being a big one, but I guess I didn’t realize how quickly that drop would happen.

I wrap my arms around my middle, trying to rub some warmth back into myself.

Training camp is still a week away, so nothing is formal yet, but I figure it’s as good a time as any to start getting back into my routine.

The team that bought me needs to see that their purchase was a good one.

And maybe I’m a little curious about my teammates. Maybe I’m a little nervous to see what they’ll think of me.

Obviously, I know them. I’ve been playing against them for years now.

But I also know we’ve got to start bonding if we’re going to make it to the playoffs this year.

I’ve spent the last nine years coming so close to the Cup, last year being the absolute closest, getting knocked out before the finals.

I want that Cup, and I’m not going to let this trade take that away from me.

I walk across the parking lot with my bag slung over my shoulders and think about what I’m walking into.

The gym is packed. Clearly, the other team members had a similar idea to my own. Maybe this will be an easy click after all. Maybe I can make this work.

“There he is.” Paxton “Matty” Matthews walks up to me as I push open the training room doors. He has this confident swagger in his step as he makes his way through the room. His voice is loud and commanding. When he speaks, everyone stops what they’re doing to watch him approach me.

I can tell why he’s the captain. There’s this air about him that exudes “respect me”, and you kind of just do.

He extends his hand to me, and I grasp it, taking the opportunity to check out my linemate.

So to speak.

He’s drenched in sweat, wearing a cutout T-shirt and showing off his body in the kind of gray sweats that cling to every salacious curve.

His black hair is short on the sides but a little longer on top, sticking to his head in a weird way because of the sweat. He’s a good-looking guy.

Paxton’s grip is firm and warm, sweaty from his vigorous workout.

He pulls me into a kind of side hug, swinging his arm around me and giving a little squeeze.

I’m not opposed to the touch, but I am surprised by the immediate closeness.

Most hockey guys are worried about too much touchy-feeliness and coming off as gay.

Maybe the rampant homophobia doesn’t reach this far north.

He begins pointing out everyone else in the gym, introducing me to a ton of people all at once, and obviously sharing their hockey nicknames.

We then happen upon a super familiar face.

Brennan Von and I were on rival teams in juniors.

Our history isn’t one of sunshine and friendship.

We had a pretty intense rivalry as kids, which is reflected in how he greets me.

I hold out my hand to him, but all he gives me is a stiff nod, not even removing his headphones.

Paxton gives him a quirk of his head and a raised brow.

I wave it off, not wanting to air the bad history in front of everyone.

We’re not going to be besties right away, so it’s nothing to worry about right now, right?

But the thing is, I guess we’re going to be linemates. He’s right wing, and I’m left. We have to build a better relationship if we’re going to work together. We have to be able to communicate well on the ice, and that’s just not going to happen if he’s closed off to me off the ice.

I’ll invite him out for drinks or something.

We move over to the more open area of the gym, and my eyes zone in on the player box jumping off in the corner, away from the rest of the team.

He’s got to be clearing thirty-six inches with each jump.

His light blond hair is drenched in sweat, and his skin is glistening.

The shorts he’s wearing are riding up his thighs, and that delicious hockey butt is threatening to make an appearance.

My eyes widen, following the flex and stretch of his muscles as he gets into position to jump again. My curiosity is piqued.

I give my head a little shake, pulling myself out of the horny head fog. A hand claps my shoulder.

“Hey, Haller!” Paxton calls, reaching out to tap his muscled shoulder.

He turns from his workout, pulling out an earbud, and I almost gasp.

He’s so beautiful.

His eyes are a vibrant seafoam green, with so much depth I could drown. I want to lose myself staring into those eyes, want to swim in them.

His skin is flushed from the exercise, and I salivate, wanting to lick every drop of sweat.

Those lips.

I want to write a damn song about those lips. Plump and smooth and a delicious pink. I bet they taste incredible.

I have to get this reaction under control. I can’t be attracted to him. I have my rule.

I don’t hook up with teammates. That’s a rule I set for myself when I was drafted. It wasn’t always a rule, but there’s a good reason behind it.

I used to hook up with one of my teammates in juniors. Let’s just say it did not end well.

Sometimes I wonder what happened to him, why he never actually outed me if he was so angry at me for ending things. I’ve thought about looking him up but have always decided against it.

The rule has never come up before now because I always had Bianca.

We were together for almost ten years. I knew the trade would potentially put a strain on our relationship, but she was the smart one and rightfully called it quits.

She was just promoted at her job, and neither of us is built mentally for long distance.

So now I’m single for the first time in a long time, and the rule is set firmly in place.

The real problem is that hockey guys are exactly my type.

I school my features and let my focus fall back to just meeting my teammates.

He holds out his hand like a proper gentleman, and it makes me feel a little giddy.

“Milo,” he says, looking me right in the eyes with intention. But then those eyes drop, and I swear he’s looking at my lips.

Interesting…

Nope, no, not interesting. I’m not thinking about him like that.

“Beau Bennett,” I respond, reaching out to grab his hand and giving it a little squeeze.

“Uh-oh!” a heavily accented voice calls out. Someone, Jagger maybe, plops a sweaty hand down on my shoulder. He has a wide, toothy grin, simply beaming at me. “Beau Bennett, yes?” There’s a glint of gleeful mischief in his eyes.

“Yeah.” I smile back at him. “My old teammates called me…”

“No, no, no!” His head shake is animated, and he still has the biggest smile plastered on his face. “That will not do!” His accent makes his speech come out a tiny bit slower as he finds the correct words. He’s utterly charming.

“Jagger…” Paxton warns, but the Swedish giant waves him off confidently.

“BB,” he says with an affirming nod, his arms crossing as if he’s daring me to defy him. This guy is built like a tank, so I’m not going to argue with him.

“Baby?” I ask, a brow raised. I’m not entirely opposed, but I’m not sure I heard him right.

“Nej.” He shakes his head, blond locks flinging sweat. “BB. Two B.” I nod, understanding him a little better. It’s a silly nickname, but I have no opposition.

I look around the gym and see other heads nodding in affirmation. I guess I’m BB now.

Whatever, I didn’t like "Benny" anyway.

Pretty Milo is watching the interaction with a slightly cocked head, taking in everything with what looks like careful consideration.

He catches me watching him and gives me a little nod.

I return the nod with a lopsided smile. It seems to startle him, and he takes a small step back.

His eyes widen, and he’s definitely staring at my mouth now.

Very interesting.

“So”—Paxton pulls me back from my little eye exchange with Milo— “have you found an apartment yet?”

I give my head a shake. “No, I’m still at the hotel.”

The hotel that the team puts new players in is pretty nice. I just feel so cramped in the small space. I’ve been looking at apartments and houses, but nothing really feels like home to me.

“I’m tired of the hotel life,” I complain, getting some nods of agreement. Most of the guys would have stayed somewhere similar when they started up here. “It’s quite the drive from the rink too. Why couldn’t they have picked something closer?”

“You can come stay with me.”

I turn to see who spoke, surprised to see it’s Milo. His voice is quiet, a little shy. It suits him.

I’m surprised by his offer. Something about him strikes me as a loner.

Working out in the back corner by himself, not interacting with the other guys.

Matty is clearly surprised as well, only affirming my observation.

Milo is obviously not the kind of guy to just offer up his space.

But he shakes off the shock, turning to give a friendly pat on Milo’s back.

“I live close to the rink,” he says, pretty eyes wide, as if he doesn’t believe what he’s offering. “I have a few extra rooms.”

“Team player, Haller, team player. Way to step up.”

I can’t tell if that’s a blush creeping up Milo’s cheeks or if he’s still flushed from his workout. I take a step toward him, and I can smell the deep notes of citrus mixed with his sweat. He’s watching me just as closely as I’m watching him.

There’s something about this guy that I just want to understand. Something in those steady breaths and nervous eyes. Those eyes that keep getting caught on my lips. I desperately want to explore that, even though I know I shouldn’t.

I can’t.

My smile is genuine as I cross my arms over my chest. “Alright, roomie,” I say with all the ease I don’t feel, fully aware I’m about to walk into a fire with my eyes wide open. walk into a fire with my eyes wide open