19. Nolan
NOLAN
Winning in Miami feels better than it should.
The home crowd spends the last minute booing every time we touch the puck, which only makes our bench louder. When the horn goes, Bobby throws both arms around me and nearly knocks my helmet off. I grab Pope on the way to the goalie, pulling him into the pile before he can hang back.
He gives me one hard squeeze around the ribs, then somebody crashes into us from the other side and we’re swallowed by gloves and helmets.
The win follows us into the visitors’ room.
Music goes on before everyone gets his skates off, and somebody knocks a roll of tape across the wet floor trying to dance in half his gear.
Bobby is shouting over the speaker about the third-period penalty he absolutely deserved.
Sindre throws a towel at him from two stalls away.
He’s played every game on this trip, his first since Nara and the team doctor cleared him, and he hasn’t stopped grinning.
I feel fucking great.
Pope should too. He spent most of the night getting booed by people who used to cheer for him, then helped us beat them anyway. He sits at his stall with his shoulder pads still on and his phone in one hand, quieter than he’s been after any win on this trip.
The screen lights. He reads whatever came in, types something, then locks it and sets it facedown on the bench.
Less than a minute later, he checks it again.
I look away and catch the roll of tape with my skate before it reaches the showers. Whatever Pope is doing is none of my business.
Maybe one of his old teammates is making plans, or some woman he used to see knows he’s back in town and wants to pick up where they left off.
My good mood drops hard enough that Bobby stops arguing with Sindre and looks at me.
Shut the fuck up, brain. Pope can hook up with somebody else if he wants. That’s his business.
I kick the tape back too hard, and it hits Bobby in the ankle.
“What was that for?” he asks.
“It was in the way.”
Bobby bends to pick it up, watching me as he straightens. “You’re still coming out, right?”
“Yeah.” I bend over my skate laces.
“You sure?”
“I said yeah.”
Bobby keeps watching me while Sindre calls over that the club is supposed to be the next big thing in Miami and they’ll never get in if he keeps talking instead of showering. Two of the younger guys are going with them. Anton says the place will close before any of them get there.
“I’m coming,” I tell Bobby. A loud club and a few hours away from Pope will be good for me.
Probably.
Bobby looks across the room. “Yo, Pope. You coming with us?”
I’m looking at Pope before Bobby finishes the question.
Bobby has spent enough time looking between us lately. He knows Pope texts me from across the locker room and that I fell asleep on Pope’s couch. Maybe this is another question he thinks he’s asking casually.
Pope looks up from his phone. “Some of the Hammerheads invited me for drinks. I told them I’d go.”
Of course they did. He was here from the expansion draft until the trade, won a Cup with them, and has his name all over this building. It would be strange if nobody asked him out.
“Okay,” Bobby says. “Maybe we’ll see you.”
Pope’s gaze catches mine. I pull my jersey over my head before my face can show how disappointed I am.
The club is already packed when we get there.
Bobby was right about it being new; the line curls past the entrance under a shifting neon sign while people take pictures and argue with the door staff about whose list they’re on.
One of the door staff recognizes us and waves our group through, which Sindre pretends not to enjoy.
Inside, the music is loud enough to flatten conversation into mouths moving near ears. Light slides over the crowd in blue and white bands, catching bare shoulders and raised drinks. Bobby points toward the dance floor. I point toward the bar.
I need a beer before I let him drag me anywhere.
The bartender has just put it in front of me when a woman beside me says, “You were at the game tonight.”
She’s wearing a green top that leaves her shoulders bare, with a long dark braid hanging down her back. Gold hoops flash when the light catches them. She is close enough that I can smell her perfume over the alcohol and sweat around us.
“I played in it,” I say.
“I know.” Her smile widens. “I was trying not to lead with that.”
“You lasted almost five seconds.”
She laughs and tells me her name is Nadia.
Her friend brought her here, then disappeared onto the dance floor before they finished their first drink.
By the time I give her my name, Bobby and Sindre have done the same thing to me.
One of the younger guys is at the other end of the bar talking to somebody, and the last one went after Bobby.
What the hell.
Nadia rests her forearm on the bar and leans closer to hear me. She’s hot, clearly interested, and I’m still very fucking bi. Pope made his own plans tonight. I can buy a woman a drink.
“What are you having?” I ask.
She points at a pink drink in somebody else’s hand. “Whatever that is.”
I get the bartender’s attention and order it. Nadia takes the first sip, makes a face, then drinks again.
“Bad?”
“Terrible.” She hooks one finger into my sleeve. “Come dance with me.”
I let her pull me away from the bar.
She can dance, and after a minute she stops leaving any space between us.
Her hands settle on my shoulders while mine find her waist, where the curve of her hip fits easily under my palm.
Her perfume smells good. I move with her through the next song, waiting for any of it to push Pope out of my head.
Pope ditched us for a night with his old team, and I’m wasting mine thinking about him. I draw Nadia closer and try again.
Someone is watching me.
I look past her shoulder and find Pope across the room.
He’s standing between Matty and Diaz near the far end of the bar, with one of them talking on either side of him. Pope holds his glass near his mouth without drinking or reacting to either man. His eyes stay on me.
His gaze drops to my hand at Nadia’s waist. I spread my fingers over her hip without meaning to, and Pope lowers the glass.
Nadia turns against me, sliding one hand from my shoulder to the back of my neck. Pope’s eyes follow it. When he looks at me again, I stop moving.
People cross between us, breaking the view for a second. When the lights sweep back, he’s still there, and neither of us looks away.
Nadia says something I don’t hear. When I bend closer, she tips her face toward mine and gives me every opportunity to kiss her.
For one ugly second, I almost do it because Pope is watching and I want to see what happens to his face. I’m losing my fucking mind.
I straighten before our mouths touch. Nadia studies me, then follows my stare across the room. Matty has leaned in to say something to Pope, but Pope’s eyes are still on us.
“You know him?” she asks.
“We play together.”
Her eyes move between us again. “Right.”
I can’t tell whether she’s amused or annoyed, and asking would make this worse.
The crowd shifts as another group pushes toward the bar. Diaz steps out of the way, Matty turns with him, and I lose sight of Pope.
Nadia tries for another song. I manage half of it before she touches my jaw and makes me look at her.
“Your head’s somewhere else,” she says.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Thanks for the awful drink.”
She smiles when she says it, taps two fingers against my chest, and disappears toward a group of women dancing near the wall.
I stand there feeling like an asshole.
Bobby and Sindre are nowhere I can see. I finish what’s left of my beer and start toward the edge of the dance floor.
Fingers brush the small of my back.
“Want to get out of here?” Pope’s voice is low against my ear, rough enough that I feel it down my spine.
I keep facing the crowd. “I thought you had plans.”
“I did.”
“Then go back to them.”
His fingers touch me again, this time settling at my waist. In the dark, we could pass for two teammates leaning close because the music is loud, even with his thumb slipping under the hem of my shirt.
“Come with me,” he says.
I turn enough to look at him. “Maybe I want to stay.”
Pope glances toward the place where Nadia disappeared. His jaw tightens, then his hand slides around my side and pulls me half an inch closer.
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
My cock takes that seriously even if I don’t want to.
I order the Uber while Pope watches the crowd behind me. Neither of us goes back to tell anyone we’re leaving.
The car is waiting at the curb when we get outside. Pope puts a hand at my back to steer me toward it, then drops it as soon as we reach the line of people by the door.
We get into the back seat without touching.
The driver’s music is low, and the rearview mirror is tilted high enough to catch our faces. Everything below our waists is hidden by the front seats. The back seat is dark enough that Pope is mostly a warm shape beside me, and as soon as we pull away, his hand lands on my knee.
I could close my legs or move toward the door. I let my knee fall toward him.
His palm drags up the inside of my thigh, slow enough that every inch of denim catches. When he reaches my crotch, he covers the shape of my cock with his whole hand and squeezes.
My breath sticks. I turn toward the window and fix my eyes on the traffic, trying to get my expression under control.
Pope rubs the heel of his hand from the base to the head, then back again, working me through my jeans as if we aren’t sitting three feet behind a stranger. The fabric is rough and too tight now. Each pass pulls it harder across the head of my cock.
At the next light, the driver’s eyes lift to the mirror. I manage a bored half smile while Pope’s fingers curl around me through the denim. He squeezes hard enough that my thigh jumps under his wrist.
Pope leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “Keep still.”
Fuck him.
I plant both feet and grip the edge of the seat. Pope’s thumb finds the ridge of the head through my zipper and circles it until my hips try to follow. He presses down harder, making the seam drag over exactly the right place, and I swallow the sound climbing my throat.
“I didn’t want to watch you draped all over some woman,” he says.
The words go straight to my cock. His hand closes around me again, pumping slowly through my jeans, and I clench my teeth because I’m furious with him.
I spent half the locker room imagining him with whoever kept texting. He doesn’t get to be pissed because Nadia was real enough for him to see.
Pope keeps his eyes on me as he strokes me. I can feel him doing it even when I refuse to look at him. Another streetlight washes over us, bright enough that I make myself unclench my jaw. The driver can see that much.
It’s none of my business. I’ve been telling myself that all night.
His hand speeds up. I curl my fingers harder under the seat, trying to keep my breathing even while he works me against the stiff denim. The car takes a corner and his shoulder knocks mine, but his grip doesn’t slip. He uses the turn to lean closer and drag his thumb over the head again.
My balls draw tight. I stare at the taillights ahead of us and try to look like a man who isn’t one good stroke from coming in his jeans.
The hotel’s awning appears at the end of the block.
Pope slows as soon as my thighs tense, holding me there with his palm cupped firmly over my cock.
The turn signal ticks through the car. I want to grab his wrist and force him to finish it; instead, I stare through the windshield and breathe slowly through my nose while the driver follows the hotel signs.
He gives me one last squeeze as the car pulls to the curb, then takes his hand away before the dome light comes on.
I’m breathing too hard and angry enough that I don’t trust myself to speak.
We cross the lobby with space between us. He walks half a step ahead to the elevators, looking like the same controlled asshole who sat three stalls away checking his phone while I invented somebody else touching him.
The elevator is empty. There is a camera above the doors, so Pope stands beside me without letting our shoulders meet. The numbers change one at a time while my cock throbs against my zipper.
He doesn’t touch me in the hallway either.
I unlock my room and step inside, already turning. Pope follows me, and the latch has barely caught before he comes at me.
My back hits the door. Pope plants one hand beside my head and catches my hip with the other, filling all the space in front of me. His thigh pushes between mine, his body hard against me, and for a second I forget every reason I’m angry.
Then he lowers his mouth to mine.
If I let him kiss me, we’ll be naked before I remember any of them.
I put my palm against his chest and push him back. “We need to talk.”