Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
TYLER
Slipping my beanie over my slightly damp hair, I grab my coat from the hook in my cubby and turn toward Liam. I manage to steel myself just in time for my captain and roommate to nudge my shoulder with his fist.
“You’re still coming tonight, right?” he asks. He’s still in his boxer briefs and socks because the dude takes so fucking long to get dressed after a game. He runs his mouth like it’s an Olympic sport and seems to be incapable of getting dressed at the same time.
“You bet.” I grin and shrug on my coat. “I’m not going to miss out on these last few weeks of being made to feel like a rock star.”
He snorts, rolling his eyes for the briefest moment. “You’ll always be a rock star, Becksy.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Somehow, I don’t think the staff at my dad’s place will see me as anything other than the boss’s kid with an easy in.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to hang up your skates after graduation,” he sighs with a shake of his head. “Such a waste, man.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard this, but truth be told, hockey has never been my endgame.
Unlike the majority of my teammates, I’m not heading to the pros after I graduate, in any capacity.
Instead, I’ll be heading back home to Arizona, where I’ll be wearing a suit more often than I do now.
Except I’ll be sitting in an office cubicle instead of some multimillion-dollar hockey complex, dealing with someone else’s multimillion-dollar finances.
Am I sad about it? Surprisingly, no. I guess I’ve always known this was going to be my path, so I’ve never allowed myself to give the thought an opportunity to grow legs.
Since I was a kid, there has been this unspoken rule that I would work for my father after graduation.
Same went for my older brother, Joey. Only Joey has always wanted to follow in our dad’s footsteps and take over the family business.
Me, on the other hand? I don’t care for the fancy titles or the chance to have my own four walls with my name on the door.
All I want is enough money to enjoy life, work between the hours of 9 to 5, and not get involved in any of the stuffy corporate bullshit.
And maybe not lose my abs. That’s an important point.
“Maybe I’ll join a beer league or something,” I suggest, hefting my gear bag onto my shoulder. “Now, shut up and get dressed already.” I give his ass a slap. “I’ll catch you on the bus.”
We exchange fist bumps, and I slip out of the locker room. There’s still a flurry of activity going on as I head down the hallway toward the exit. I make sure to speak to every member of staff, whether they’re with the arena or the team, thanking them for their help and wishing them a good night.
When I reach the exit, a shiver rattles through me the second I open the door.
“Holy shiiiit.” I grimace, tugging my beanie further over my ears. I’ve been living in Massachusetts for four years; you would think I’d be used to the cold by now.
With an urgency to make it to the bus before my nipples fall off and my balls join my belly button, I pick up speed.
Only, when I round the corner, I nearly slam into the back of Colby.
There’s a well-dressed man holding a phone in his face and a woman with one of those tiny-ass microphones, blocking his path.
Neither of them seems to have grasped the concept of personal space, and Colby’s rigid posture is a giant tell of how uncomfortable he is.
“You are outperforming every one of your teammates out on the ice, and those who are also projected to be top ten picks in the draft. Do you think you made a mistake skipping the draft last year?” the woman fires at him.
“How does it feel to know you’re a franchise-altering talent?” the man asks, causing Colby to pale.
“Uhhh…” he stammers.
Oh, hell no.
Anger bubbles in the pit of my stomach. Why don’t these people give him a break, for fuck’s sake?
I get it, he’s going to be selected first overall without a shadow of a doubt, but this is getting ridiculous.
Everyone wants a piece of him, and this isn’t the first time I’ve come out to reporters lurking after a game or practice, ready to pounce the second Colby appears like a pack of hungry hyenas.
I’ve interrupted other students too, who think they can sell a story to whatever media channel will listen.
It’s harassment, or certainly feels like it is.
Having had enough of their sense of entitlement, I step up beside him and sling my free arm over his shoulders. He flinches slightly, clearly not expecting me.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, McKay. You ready to get some chow? I’m starved.” I pat my stomach for emphasis.
The woman narrows her eyes, glaring in a way that probably makes a lot of people cry, but I don’t give a fuck. I’ll interrupt them every damn time if they don’t give Colby a break.
Without giving them a second glance, I steer Colby toward the waiting bus. When we’re a safe distance away, he lets out a heavy sigh.
“You didn’t need to do that,” he says quietly.
“Uh, yeah, I did,” I tell him. “Did they ambush you as soon as you stepped outside?”
He nods.
“Damn, that fucking sucks. I’m sorry.”
I reluctantly drop my arm so we can shove our gear bags into the baggage compartment, then climb onto the bus. I follow him down the narrow aisle to an empty row and take the seat next to him.
Defeat washes over his face as he slumps in his seat, and it’s like all the joy of winning tonight has been drained out of him. I get that the guy is something else, but can’t people give him one night to enjoy himself? To let him celebrate without the need to gain something from him?
He lets out another sigh and stares down at his lap.
“I know I don’t have to speak with them. Coach has tried to put a stop to it, but I feel like if I don’t speak with them, I’ll get a bad rep. Like I’m problematic or some shit.”
I open my mouth to argue that he doesn’t owe them anything, but I know he already knows that. He doesn’t need a cliché reminder from me.
So, I snap my jaw shut and stay quiet, and he tips his head back against the seat and gazes out the window, remaining silent for the forty-minute drive back to campus while the rest of the team is boisterous and loud.
Enjoying our success, like Colby should be doing.
There’s a possessive flame that ignites inside me every time I see that flicker of fear in his eyes.
A need to shield him from the vultures and let him just be Colby.
I know it’s not my job to look out for him.
It’s not something anyone’s asked me to do, and I know it’s only going to get worse when he’s drafted.
Who is going to step in and protect him then?
I don’t know why the thought unsettles me more than it should.
When we get back to campus, we help unload the bus and carry everything inside. We might have the luxury that comes with being a Division I school, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t pull our weight.
“I expect to see everyone show their faces at this party tonight,” Liam orders after we’ve finished unloading the bus. He waves his finger around the locker room until he lands on Colby. “That includes you, superstar. Don’t make me drag you out by your ankles.”
Colby snickers quietly, ducking his chin behind the collar of his coat.
“And I expect you to be fresh-faced and on my ice at 10:00 a.m. sharp tomorrow morning. If any of you are remotely hungover, I’ll make sure you’ll regret it,” Coach warns, though there’s a small smile on his face.
Liam salutes, and we disperse out of the facility. Colby is almost out of the door by the time I catch up to him.
“Want me to swing by your place and walk with you?” I ask, not wanting to look too deeply into why I’m hoping he’ll say yes.
You don’t need to look after him at a party.
I mentally swat the voice away.
Maybe I don’t, but there’s something in my gut telling me I need to. Especially tonight after those two reporters jumped him.
Colby turns, surprise flickering across his face. “Um. Yeah, okay.”
I flash him a grin and let him know I’ll text him when I’m outside, then make the ten-minute walk back to the house I share with five other guys.
I take the stairs two at a time, accepting hellos and congratulatory cheers from my housemates.
Inside my room, I quickly change into a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie, before finally swapping my beanie for a ball cap.
“Congrats, Becksy! Killer game tonight.” Batesy gives me a fist bump when I enter the kitchen.
“Thanks, it was a good game,” I say with a grin.
Peeking my head into the fridge, I scrunch up my nose at the almost empty shelves, my stomach grumbling in protest. Out of the five guys who live here, four of us are athletes, including Batesy, and yet we are shit at keeping track of food in the house because we mostly eat at our designated facilities or order takeout.
“Damn, we need to go food shopping,” I say to Batesy and turn around to wave the last protein yogurt. “This is the last one. Eric is gonna have us eating those weird zucchini chips again if we’re not careful.”
Batesy snorts and pulls out his phone. “I’ll make a list and head out after class in the morning.”
“You coming to the party tonight?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I’ve got an early class, so I’m trying to be sensible.”
I arch a brow. “You? Sensible? Is there such thing?”
Grinning, he flips me off. “Fuck off.”
After demolishing the yogurt and handing some cash over to Batesy to pay for groceries, I head back into the cold night air. The walk to Colby’s building takes me about fifteen minutes, and once I’m outside, I fire off a text, letting him know I’m here.
He appears moments later. My breath escapes me in a relieved exhale when I notice the tension has eased from his shoulders, and the smile he flashes my way causes the base of my spine to tingle.
He’s so fucking handsome it hurts. Like the baby-making gods put every beauty gene they had in their arsenal into Colby’s DNA.
Not that I’ve noticed. Of course not.