Chapter 1 #2
With that sentimental feeling blooming in my chest, I drop onto the seat of my stall and unlace my skates.
I keep my head down as I undress, a habit I’m grateful none of the others have picked up on.
It’s not that I’m uncomfortable around these guys, but there are a few things they don’t know about me.
Some things only my family and one other person know.
One of them being I’m not… out. I haven’t wanted to come out before I was drafted. Not until I had my skates well and truly cemented within the league and there wasn’t as much pressure on my shoulders.
It’s already stifling; then throw in being the first openly gay draft pick?
I know I wouldn’t be able to breathe with the media on my back.
Representation is important, I get that, but with how hungry everyone is for my rise, and possibly my fall, I don’t want to risk it getting eaten by the wolves before my career has even started.
I’m quick to hit the showers, and I’m in the middle of getting dressed when Tyler saunters over.
He’s freshly showered, wearing only a towel around his trim waist. I quickly avert my eyes again, focusing on anything but the way his biceps bulge when he ruffles his long, dark brown hair with another towel.
Or how there’s a stray drop of water running down between his pecs and disappearing behind the terry cloth.
Oh, I want to lick that off so bad…
“Are you coming to the party tonight, Colby?” he asks, moving to his stall located a few down from mine.
I flinch and snap my gaze to his.
Shit, did he see me gawking?
Heat travels up my neck to my ears, which I’m pretty sure are turning a noticeable shade of pink.
Then, because the universe loves to fuck with me, he turns, giving me his back, and drops his towel to the floor.
His glorious bare ass is right there. Right in front of me.
If I lean over, I could smooth my hand over the curve of his ass cheek.
But as I’m conjuring up the vision in my brain, he steps into his boxer briefs, the cotton stealing my view.
My mouth goes dry. I try to swallow to wet my throat but end up coughing instead. He glances over his shoulder as I struggle to find my breath, his eyes widening slightly, brows creasing in concern.
Fuck. Why do I always lose my cool when I’m around this guy?
Because you think he’s hot.
Well, yeah, there is that. Tyler Beckmann has the leading role in many of my late-night fantasies—not that I would ever tell him that.
There are rules, remember?
“No, I don’t think so,” I manage to croak out.
Parties don’t tend to be as fun for me as they are for the rest of my teammates. Every time I’ve gone, it’s like I can feel eyes on me. People watching, whispering amongst themselves, and I find it hard to fully relax and enjoy myself.
So, I simply stopped going.
Tyler frowns, and guilt immediately washes over me.
Dropping my gaze to my feet, I rub my hand over my jaw, my earlier thoughts coming storming back.
We’ve just won the conference title, and we’re heading to the regionals next week.
I should go out and celebrate with my teammates.
After all, I came to college for the experiences, and that includes going to parties and drinking cheap beer, right?
The plan was to head to whatever city selects me, knowing my awkward first times are out of the way.
But there are only three months left of the semester and only four months until the draft, and I’m nowhere close to completing my list. If I continue to avoid these social invites, my deep-rooted fear will more likely turn into a reality.
It doesn’t stop me from surprising myself when I say, “Actually… Yeah, okay. I’m in.”
“Yeah?” I love how his eyes light up with his grin. “Great! It’ll be fun.”
I’m not entirely convinced it’ll be fun, but I hum in response and slip on my coat before the voice of impending doom on my shoulder can change my mind.
Carrying my gear bag out of the locker room, I make my way outside, tensing at the chilly night air.
I head toward the waiting bus, trying to dig my headphones out of my pocket.
In my moment of temporary distraction, I don’t notice two people stepping out in front of me, stopping me in my tracks.
A man holds a phone inches away from my face, either recording a video or taking photos, and a woman thrusts a tiny microphone at me, and then their questions come at me in quick succession.
“Colby McKay, a great win tonight. How are you feeling as you head into the regionals next week? Do you have any thoughts on who you would prefer to select you in the draft? What is your secret to playing such a solid game?”
I’m like a deer in the headlights, frozen in place. I don’t know the answer to any of those questions, because I don’t have any secrets regarding my gameplay. I go out onto the ice and just… play. I can’t explain it. It’s like this is what I was born to do.
No, the only secrets I hold are solely related to my personal life, and there’s no chance in hell I’m telling them any of that.
My stomach churns with the weight of their stare, and warning bells flash in my brain. The need to run and hide intensifies as their questions continue.
And the worst thing of all? That little voice of impending doom whispers in my mind: this is only the start of it.