Grind (Gymbos #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

DIEGO

“Speculation over whether defenseman Diego Ferguson will be returning to the Chicago Huskies next season continues, with the GM, Rick Mannis, reportedly meeting with several other teams during this off season.”

“I can’t imagine they’ll manage to get much in a trade deal for a player whose status is still unknown.”

“Oh, fuck off,” I growl, reaching for the nearest pillow and whipping it across the room towards my TV instead of just turning the damn thing off. I know I should stop watching this shit, but it’s like when you have a sore tooth and you can’t fucking stop tonguing it.

You’d think they’d have found something more interesting to talk about after six damn months than my injury and whether or not Mannis is desperately trying to unload my thirty-year-old ass.

But apparently, it’s still the only hockey news anyone is interested in this summer.

If a rookie with a bright future could go ahead and get arrested for a DIU or some shit, that would be fucking fantastic.

A judgmental snort pulls my attention away from the screen and wipes the scowl off my face for half a second.

“What?” I ask, picking up a different pillow and throwing it above my head, then catching it on the way back down just for something to do with all this pent-up energy.

“You think I should be out, getting some fresh air and getting my cookie dough ass back into shape instead of sitting here, letting a couple of condescending assholes with a hockey podcast get in my head?”

He sneezes this time, and then his little pink tongue darts out to lick his nose. It might not seem like a clear answer to some people, but I’ve been cooped up in this apartment alone with this dog long enough that we basically have our own language by now.

“Yeah, fine.” I sigh, tossing the pillow aside and standing up.

It’s been six months since I had surgery for my torn hip labrum, and the pain is mostly nonexistent except when I overdo it, but I still catch myself mentally bracing to feel the sharp twinge in my hip socket.

It’s stiff, that’s for damn sure, which is a major sign that I need to get serious about my physical therapy and training if I want to be game ready in three months.

Slapshot wags his curled tail and hops down off the couch with a little humph, then stretches and looks up at me hopefully.

“Sorry, little man.” I bend down and scratch his ears. “But it’s too hot out and there’s no way you’ll be able to keep up, even at a light jog.”

The farty little pug was a present from my sister, Val, “to keep me company” she said with a look of pity written all over her damn face.

I almost told her to take him back until she laid on the guilt trip about how she got him from a kill shelter and then promised to take him if I really didn’t like him after a couple of months.

He ended up being good company for the first few weeks I spent barely able to move off the couch post-surgery, and even if he can’t be a workout buddy for me, at least he has his own subtle way of getting me motivated.

He doesn’t seem too discouraged by being told that he can’t tag along with me today, settling for following me into the bedroom while I get dressed and stretching out on my king-sized bed, where I’m sure he’ll spend the next few hours napping.

It’s a bit of a double standard if you ask me.

He guilts me into going for a workout and then sleeps the afternoon away.

I change out of the shorts and t-shirt I slept in and have spent the better part of the day lounging around in, trading them for a fresh pair of briefs, a tank top, and sweat-wicking shorts.

I haven’t so much as cracked a window open today, but it’s July in Chicago, which means it’s gotta be hot as balls outside.

A scowl re-forms on my face as my gaze passes quickly over the boxes stacked in the corner of my bedroom, waiting for me to decide whether I want to be nice and text her to come pick her shit up or just toss it all into the trash the way she did with our relationship.

If she hasn’t asked about it herself in the last six months, I doubt she’s missing any of it.

She probably got Brody to buy her all new designer shit anyway.

I grind my teeth together hard enough to start a headache brewing right behind my eyes.

You’d think a decade together would have bought me at least a few months to recover, but as soon as rumors started swirling that the injury might be career ending, she was on Brody’s dick like it was a game of musical chairs and his was the last one left.

I roll my shoulders and puff out a few harsh breaths, just like Val taught me to “clear the bad energy.” I don’t buy into a lot of the woo-woo shit she swears by, but the breathing thing actually does work. Not that I’ll ever admit that to her.

“No wild parties while I’m gone,” I tell Slaps as I tug on my running shoes, careful not to put too much weight on my left hip in the process. He snorts again and rolls onto his back, pink belly facing the sky, and lets out an audible fart. Eh, I’ve had worse smelling roommates.

On my way out the door, I grab my keys and slide a pair of sunglasses on.

The reverse Superman effect—fewer people recognize me on the street when I’m wearing them, and I’m really fucking sick of strangers asking me how my hip is feeling.

I can only growl the words, “fucking peachy” so many times before they start to sound sarcastic.

Finally, I pop my earbuds in and step out of my apartment.

Just as I expected, a wall of heat and humidity hits me the second I open the outside door.

Fuck me, anyone who prefers heat to cold is a goddamn psychopath.

I turn the volume on my music up another few notches to drown out the sounds of traffic and my own thoughts, then I pick a direction and start to run.

CALLAN

With a cold beer in front of me and a baseball game playing on the big screen TV behind the bar, I’m as happy as a pig in shit. Even better, my team is winning and everybody else in the bar is salty as fuck about it.

Rodriguez slams a home run out of Miller Park, and I cup my hands around my mouth to amplify the “Whoop!” I shout before picking up my beer for a victory sip. I don’t know what it is, but beer just tastes better when you’re winning.

The bartender stops by to refill the basket of pretzels on the bar top and shakes his head at me with a little tsk. “The price of those beers is about to double if you keep cheering for the other team.”

“Worth it.” I grin and take another sip, then return my attention to the game while he moves on to another customer.

I barely register someone sliding onto the open stool on my other side as I lean forward and hold my breath, watching Jimenez make a run for first base. He dives for it and slides in right as the first baseman catches the ball and makes a move to tag him out.

“Hell yeah,” I cheer loudly as the rest of the bar collectively groans.

“You lost, dude?” the guy who just sat down next to me asks with a chuckle.

I grab a pretzel and crunch it between my teeth, then glance over at him with a grin.

I ventured out of Boystown this afternoon and picked a bar that, as far as I can tell, is for the heteros.

But that doesn’t stop me from giving the guy a quick once-over.

He looks like he just finished a run, his skin flushed and sweaty as hell.

He’s got the kind of definition that suggests he hits the gym plenty, but the way he’s breathing a little heavy makes me wonder if he’s taken a break and is trying to build his stamina back up now.

There’s nothing wrong with the way his sweat-drenched tank top molds itself to his pecs though.

When my gaze reaches his face, I frown. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him. Maybe it’s the sunglasses? Who wears sunglasses inside a bar?

He rakes his fingers through his dark, damp curls and up-nods the bartender who comes over to greet him and ask what he wants.

“A water and whatever’s light on tap,” he orders.

Once the bartender leaves, he slides his sunglasses off and sets them down on the bar, then he glances over at me again, and the pieces click into place.

Of course he fucking looks familiar, he’s been dominating every one of my hockey algos since December, when he slammed Morozov into the boards and ended up tearing his own hip labrum in the process.

Diego Ferguson.

I can’t believe it took me even thirty seconds to recognize him, sunglasses or not, considering how many times his face has filled my phone or television screen in the last seven months.

And, fine, maybe it’s half my fault for spending a little too much time stalking his Instagram for updates.

That grumpy, brooding face of his is hot, fucking sue me.

“No decent bars in Milwaukee playing the game, or do you have a pain kink and you’re hoping to get your ass beat cheering for the Brewers in Chicago?” He smirks, and surprisingly, it’s just as attractive as the scowl I’ve gotten used to seeing in all the pictures they like to show of him.

I shake off my momentary stunned silence and laugh as I reach for my beer again. “I live a few blocks away. And no pain kink, but you can’t seriously tell me that winning isn’t more fun when you get to revel in someone else losing.”

It can’t be just me, right? Then again, I’ve lost count of the number of times in my life I’ve been called a “bad winner” just because I like to gloat a little and enjoy a victory.

The bartender sets two glasses down in front of Diego, and he gives a nod of thanks, then looks back over at me with a shrug that I read as “fair enough.”

“Alright, but maybe we shouldn’t talk anymore. I wouldn’t want anyone in here to think I’m with you or anything,” he jokes before picking up his glass of water and gulping it down. His Adam’s apple bobs as he chugs, and a drop of water dribbles out of the corner of his mouth.

My cock twitches with interest and I shift in my seat to make sure he doesn’t see any sign of my growing bulge.

“Aw, come on,” I tease back. “I bet the two of us could take them if we had to.” I flex my hard-earned biceps and shoot him a wink.

He barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “Nah, man, that’s all on you. Good luck though. I’m sure you’ll manage to land a few good punches before the mob of pissed off Cubs’ fans stomp you into oblivion.”

“That’s cold.” I laugh.

“Oh, here we go.” Diego rubs his hands together and jerks his chin towards the TV. The inning has ended and the Cubs are up to bat now. “Your gloating is about to end. Bertram has been on a hot streak. Watch him hit a homer.”

He slaps my arm and nods at the screen again as if I’m not already watching.

“No way. Didn’t you see the way he was rolling his shoulder after his at-bat last night? He tweaked something. Mark my words, he’s about to strike out.”

“Bet on it?” He waggles his eyebrows, sitting farther forward on the edge of his stool. “If you’re right and he strikes out, I’ll cover your tab.”

“You’re on. I should warn you though, I’m pretty sure the bartender is adding a ‘rooting for the Brewers’ tax to every beer I order.”

“As he should. Now, shut up and watch my man make a fool out of you.”

“Bertram is your man now?” I ask lightly.

Fine, maybe I’m trying to gauge whether Diego is totally, for sure straight or not.

I don’t have any reason to think otherwise.

It’s not just his injury and recovery that’s been trending all over the Chicago sports sites.

Everyone seems to have an opinion about whether getting dumped by his longtime girlfriend is going to affect his game if and when he gets back on the ice.

Of course, it’s possible he’s bi. Please be bi.

He snorts. “If I swung that way, I think I could do better than Bertram. If he wins me this bet though, I’ll consider it.”

Damn, what a shame. I expected as much, but you always hate to see it when a perfectly good man turns out to be hetero. We all have our crosses to bear, I suppose.

It feels like everyone in the bar is holding their breath to find out if Diego’s personal assessment is right. Will Bertram turn the tides of this game and change the momentum? He gets up to the plate, winds up, and… yup, that is a stilted swing if I’ve ever seen one.

I let out a loud, mocking groan. “Oooh, what a shame, what a shame.”

“Shh. His at-bat isn’t over yet.” He smacks my bicep without taking his eyes off the screen.

One more pitch, then another, and Bertram whips his bat like a toddler who missed his nap before stomping back to the dugout.

I raise my hand to wave the bartender back over while enjoying a nice, long, gloating smirk in Diego’s direction.

“Why don’t you bring me another round and go ahead and transfer my tab to my good friend here.”

“You got it,” the bartender says. “That Brewers’ tax still applies.”

“As it should.” I echo Diego’s earlier taunting as sagely as I can manage.

The bartender goes to pour me another beer while my new friend pouts into his own.

“Cheer up, man.” I pat him on the shoulder. “At least you don’t have to go gay for him now.”

He snorts a laugh. “Small mercies. How’d you clock his shoulder though?”

“If the Brewers manage a no-hitter, maybe I’ll tell you.”

“You’re on.”

Did I just get him to agree to hang here with me for the next six innings? Damn right I did. The guys aren’t going to believe this when I tell them I spent the afternoon bro-ing out with Diego fucking Ferguson.

“Oh, I’m Diego, by the way.” He introduces himself like he actually assumes I don’t know who he is.

Funny, I never pegged him for humble. Then again, it’s not like I know him.

All I have to go on is his occasional social media posts and the shit other people say about him.

That and the way he plays, which has never suggested he has a fucking ounce of humility.

“Callan.” I give him a firm handshake, both of our gazes still on the screen as another player makes his way up to the plate.

Even if he is tragically straight, this is almost as much fun as getting to watch my team trounce the Cubs in an enemy bar. I’m always happy to take a win where I can get it.