Chapter 4
LIAM
I was losing my mind.
Hot men were nothing new. I was surrounded by them every day of my life because, hello, hockey players? This sport was heaven for a gay man who appreciated eye candy.
So why was my brain shorting out from sitting beside Garrett Kane? I could barely follow the damn game, and just ask my parents and teachers—there was almost nothing that could distract me from hockey.
Nothing, apparently, except a gorgeous man with a smile that made my knees weak.
As we walked down to the locker room after the game, I wondered if it was because he was so different from the men I usually saw.
At thirty-seven, I was very firmly at the “holy shit, you’re old” end of the hockey player spectrum.
Most of the guys I saw on a daily basis were in their twenties or early thirties.
Aside from coaches and the odd retired superstar, I didn’t see too many silver foxes.
Garrett Kane?
Oh, Lord.
But as we stepped into the locker room, I shook those thoughts away. I needed to keep my media face firmly in place because there were cameras around, and I definitely didn’t need my teammates thinking I had a crush. They’d never shut the fuck up about it.
Mostly, though, the biggest reason I had no business wanting this man was on full display when he hugged his son to congratulate him on an incredible game: Garrett was my teammate’s father.
He was also most likely straight, but even if he’d walked in here wrapped in a Pride flag while his phone pinged with the Grindr alert, he was my teammate’s father.
Off-limits. No. Bad Liam. Bad.
I shook myself and refused to steal any more glances at him. I was going to start drooling or something if I did; wouldn’t the cameras love that?
The thought of the media catching wind of so much as a crush made me literally shudder. And my teammates? Oh, that would be bad.
There wasn’t technically a rule against hooking up with a teammate’s relative. Hell, L.A.’s starting goalie was married to his former head coach’s daughter.
But locker room dynamics were as crucial as they were delicate. If two players clashed, it could throw off the entire locker room in ways that were costly on the ice.
Also, Chris had looked to me as a mentor ever since he’d started coming to training camp. We didn’t need to make that weird by—well, “we” didn’t need to do shit. Garrett didn’t even know he was involved in this because he was oblivious to my stupid thoughts. I needed to not make it weird.
Just let it go. Move on. Maybe find someone else because apparently I’m overdue for a hookup.
At least I didn’t have to stick around the locker room long. I did a quick interview with a couple of reporters—not Jack Arlen, thank Christ—and then bailed. Time to get the hell out of here and clear my head.
Outside the arena garage, fans had lined up hoping for autographs. Sometimes I stopped, sometimes I didn’t; just depended on my mood. Tonight, I wasn’t really in the mood for it, but I had a feeling the post-win enthusiasm would be the boost I needed.
So, I stopped.
A lot of things had lost their novelty a long time ago, but the way a whole row of kids would light up like it was Christmas as soon as I pulled over? That was the good shit. I loved it.
After I’d signed for a few people, a dad who was probably around my age lifted his young son so the boy could hand me a puck.
I was driving my Mercedes tonight; it was an SUV, and it sat up high enough that it was tougher for the small kids to reach.
I’d have to bring the McLaren next time; the kids always loved the car, and even the smallest ones were almost eye level with me.
“You’re my favorite player!” the kid declared as he held out the puck.
I smiled and took the puck from him. “Thank you! That’s awesome.” I quickly scrawled my signature across the puck, then offered it back to him. “Careful of the ink—it might smudge.”
He took that to heart and gripped the puck around its edges instead of touching the top. As his dad lowered him to the ground, the kid stared at the puck like it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen.
“What do we say?” his dad prompted gently.
The kid’s head snapped up, and his grin was enormous as he said, “Thank you, Saints!”
I smiled. “Thanks for coming.”
I rolled forward to the next fans.
A boy who was probably fourteen or fifteen met me with wide eyes as he handed over an eight-by-ten photo. “Thanks, Saints!”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Are you going to be playing again soon?” His face was earnest with real concern.
I smiled, signed his photo, and handed it back. “It’s up to the medical staff right now, but I think I’ll be back soon.” I rolled my shoulder for emphasis. “It feels a lot better than it did, that’s for sure!”
The relief that broke out across the kid’s expression—along with everyone around him—was incredibly endearing. Reporters and commentators could sometimes talk about us like we were livestock when we were injured. The fans, though, always seemed genuinely happy to know we were on the mend.
“Glad to hear it!” the kid said. “Can’t wait to see you play again!”
“Can’t wait to play again,” I replied, and continued down the line.
There were more thrilled kids and more well wishes for my recovery, and then I reached the last person. After I’d signed a jersey for her, I gave the line a wave, then pulled back into the lane and headed away from the arena.
My house in Sewickley was about thirty minutes out of downtown Pittsburgh, and I spent the whole drive in this weird melancholy haze. Signing for fans usually lifted my spirits, and to some degree, it did that tonight.
But it also made a fresh ball of lead settle in the pit of my stomach. My mind kept drifting back to the little boy whose dad had picked him up to reach my window.
And to the man who’d been sitting beside me in the owner’s box tonight.
And to his son… my teammate.
Chris was twenty-three. I’d been drafted before he was in kindergarten, and he’d been a hockey fan his whole life. That meant there was a non-zero chance Garrett had once lifted Chris to hand me something to sign.
Fuck. That was a weird thought.
It was unlikely that it had ever happened, but it was strange to imagine the possibility.
Why? I couldn’t even say why. Because I was suddenly attracted to a man who was old enough to have brought his kids to one of my games when I was a rookie?
Because I was old enough that it made more sense to be into a man that age than the men I’d dated early in my career?
Was I getting old?
Well, I mean, I knew that. The word “retirement” was getting thrown around a lot more these days. I was aging and everybody knew it. God knew I felt it after every game.
Did Aleve or Advil need an endorsement? Because I could totally be the spokesperson for like four brands of over-the-counter pain relievers.
I chuckled at my own thought, and I amused myself for a couple of miles imagining those commercials. Commercials featuring hockey players were usually hilarious, and I doubted these would be any exception.
Strong enough for a hockey player who gets knocked around by bigger hockey players!
Check that pain into the boards!
What the fuck do you think keep us old guys playing? Witchcraft?
I laughed, shaking my head.
It didn’t take long, though, for my thoughts to again drift back to my teammate’s incredibly hot dad. And all the reasons I shouldn’t even think about getting involved with him even if he was queer—which, odds were, he was not.
Minutes later, I was home, that melancholy feeling having replaced my brief amusement over starring in ibuprofen commercials.
In my garage, I shut off the car but didn’t get out. For a long time, I stared at nothing, trying to pull my racing thoughts into order.
I let my gaze drift to my left, where two of the four bays were empty. One because my Porsche had met an unfortunate end and I’d never replaced it. The fourth…
That one had been empty for a long time for very different reasons. Sometimes I thought I was used to it. Other times, like now, I imagined someone’s car pulling into it.
I wonder what kind of car Garrett drives.
I didn’t really care that much about his car preferences—I just wished I knew what to mentally superimpose on that empty space.
You’re an idiot, Liam. What the hell.
I couldn’t have Garrett, but maybe this attraction was a sign that I needed someone. A hookup? A boyfriend? I didn’t know. Maybe I needed an outlet, even if I had no idea whether that looked like a one-night stand or a partner.
Sighing, I took my phone out of the cupholder and unlocked the screen.
I had a couple of hookup apps, and they may as well have been covered in dust for all I’d been using them.
Just the thought of metaphorically dusting them off made me tired.
Hookup apps were exhausting, and being this high-profile didn’t help.
I loved what I did and I loved what I’d accomplished as a hockey player, but the celebrity side of it wasn’t my favorite.
Nowhere was that more of a headache than on the dating scene.
Most guys didn’t recognize me, especially if I wasn’t in Pittsburgh.
Hockey players weren’t as instantly recognizable as A-listers, and that was fine by me.
But sooner or later, they would figure out who I was.
I’d learned that the hard way the first time a hookup had apparently seen me, found me on social media, and genuinely thought “sleep with me again or I out you publicly” worked as a pickup line.
He was the reason I no longer had social media.
My thoughts drifted back to Garrett.
The fact that his kid was a hockey player meant he understood a high-profile person’s need for discretion and privacy. And hell, I doubted he’d want his son knowing anything about his sex life; it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had an NDA for his hookups.
I exhaled into the silence of my car. God, wouldn’t that make life easier? If I met someone who also needed us to be discreet? I’d happily sign a phonebook-sized NDA because we could both be assured that no one would find out.
But Garrett Kane wasn’t going to hook up with me, NDA or not, and I needed to get these stupid thoughts out of my stupid head.
Which probably meant I should focus my energy on finding someone else who would be interested.
I pulled up my profile and looked it over. That was even more depressing. Everything I said was vague and non-committal. Nothing about my preferences because God forbid someone found out that Liam St. Clair was an exclusive top, religiously used PrEP, and would happily suck dick for ages.
My photos were equally vague. None of them were obviously me. They showed just enough to whet someone’s appetite without risking another DM of “hey, are you Liam St. Clair?”
Once someone got past my profile and we actually connected, then came the fun part.
No, not that fun part. First, there was the delicate dance of making sure they’d be discreet without creeping them out or making them think they’d stumbled across something scandalous.
Then we’d meet for coffee or a drink, and if the chemistry was there…
Well, at that point, there was still one speedbump left that could—and very often did—derail everything. As much as I hated asking people to sign NDAs, it was a necessary evil. It just didn’t really do much to set the mood.
The alternatives were risking my privacy or being alone.
There were no other options. For the last few years, ever since my breakup, I’d mostly chosen to be alone.
In my twenties, it hadn’t been a big deal.
People really didn’t give a shit if a young hockey player fucked everything that moved.
Then I’d had a boyfriend, so it was all a moot point.
And then suddenly I was twenty-nine, newly single, and way too high-profile to just casually hook up. Suddenly I was the captain of the Pittsburgh Phantoms. I was a role model for younger players and fans alike.
I’d also unwittingly become one of the faces of queer men in sports.
When people wrote hit pieces about how queer men didn’t belong, they’d cite Vincent King (who’d cheated on his wife with dozens of men) and Kyle Warner (who was hardly the first hockey player to battle addiction, but was somehow an example of gay men being reckless).
In response to those articles, there would invariably be others that pointed directly at me.
They’d talk about how guys like King and Warner made headlines for their wild behavior while I—the superstar and captain—lived a more sedate and wholesome life instead of working my way through every city’s hookup scene.
They’d point out that straight players were also prone to adultery, drugs, and every other sin that could be pinned on us.
At the same time, they’d paint me as if “Saint” wasn’t just my nickname, comparing me to Sven B?cklund (famously straitlaced to the point he didn’t drink alcohol) and Brigham Layton (a pious Christian, devoted husband, and amazing father to his six kids).
I was the one they held up as the gold standard of a queer player who was both a solid athlete and a well-behaved member of society.
I hated it. And I also hated the unspoken pressure to maintain that standard, since any deviation from it would prompt a scandal that could mess up Pittsburgh’s locker room.
So… I very, very rarely put myself out there.
On the even rarer occasion I wanted to hook up with someone, they had to sign ironclad NDAs.
No fucking wonder I was lonely as hell. And that, on top of all the shit Jack had stirred up in my mind earlier tonight, left me feeling like absolute crap.
I’m on the homestretch to retirement.
I’ll probably still be alone when I retire.
And I don’t know who I am without hockey.
No, that wasn’t a depressing train of thought. Jesus H. Christ.
I unlocked my screen again, opened the Settings tab on one of the apps, and stared at it for a long moment.
Then I swore under my breath as I switched my profile from inactive to active.
There. I’m making myself available.
Nothing to do now but wait.
Ugh. Can’t I just bang my teammate’s dad?