Chapter One #2
Would Luca ever hook up with Kilian? Kilian let himself picture it, all of Luca’s focused attention.
Luca was so mean. Would he be mean in bed too?
Kilian would be into that. But he’d already proven to himself conclusively that he couldn’t be normal about sex with other hockey players.
So on balance, it was better to never find out.
No way Luca would ever stoop so low anyway.
Kilian clicked over to the next reel decisively, trying to forget Luca and Breezy and the sense of betrayal over their keeping this secret from him.
It was a mistake.
The next reel showed Tom and Phil deep in conversation on the big, comfy sectional in the den.
Phil’s arm was thrown over the back of the cushions, Ben comfortable within the circle it formed.
As they talked, Jax came in with a drink, which he pushed into Tom’s hands.
He fell into place beside Tom, their whole bodies pressed together from knee to hip to shoulders.
How had Kilian not seen? He was supposed to know better now.
He had learned better. He had immersed himself in queer culture for months on end, and he’d still missed what was right in front of his face.
It figured he wasn’t even good at being gay.
He wasn’t good at much of anything except hockey, and based on his first year in the pros, his skills in the rink were also debatable.
The comments on the next reel, featuring him and Cheryl Vanderbilt, agreed with his assessment. One guy with fifty-seven likes called for his trade. Another one with thirty-one likes and twenty responses wanted him sent down to the AHL.
Kilian had made thirty-seven points his rookie year, and this year, he was on pace for thirty-two.
People saying he ought to have been sent to the minors were absolutely right.
Kilian had no business being in the big leagues with legends such as Tom Crowler and Jax Grant.
Even guys his own age like Luca or Breezy easily outclassed him.
Maybe that was why no one let him in on the secret gay Sea Lions club. He just wasn’t good enough at hockey, or at being gay.
As if on cue, Kilian’s phone buzzed with an incoming call from his dad.
“Not today, Satan,” Kilian muttered, throwing the phone face down into the cushions. He might not be a paragon of…well, anything, but he knew better than to talk to his dad during a self-pity spiral.
He ordered Chinese food and watched the WikiHow video on how to use chopsticks with the sound off for the seventh time.
He made it through most of his chicken and green beans but gave up when it came to the rice and grabbed the emergency fork from the bedside table.
On TV, the Bachelorette chose between Jett, who had embarrassing tattoos but nice biceps, and Gavin, who wore button-up shirts and slicked his hair back.
She’d eliminated Kilian’s choice—Seth, with the muscles and the cheeky grin—in episode two, so Kilian had been booing her all day.
It was good to know someone out there made worse decisions than him.
Around eight, Kilian got a text from a guy he’d tried to hook up with three weeks ago before they realized neither of them wanted to top.
Liam: heyyyyyyyy
Kilian: wat up?
Liam: u wanna hit up xcite 2nite
Kilian considered. He hadn’t been to that club yet, and while he had practice tomorrow, he had no games.
Being hungover for practice was no big. And clubbing made him feel better about himself and his own attractiveness; in the dark, with enough alcohol flowing, he could usually manage to find a hookup.
Kilian: yah when?
Liam: like 11
Kilian: k
He considered briefly, then added another text.
Kilian: u kno I still won’t fuck u rite?
Liam responded with the eyes rolling emoji, which Kilian took as a “yes, you idiot.”
In the remaining two hours before leaving, Kilian did a bunch of ab exercises to combat the post-Chinese-food bloat (and hey, then he could claim he hadn’t skipped out on his weight routine entirely).
He showered again, thoroughly, and wandered back into his bedroom and grabbed the cream his middle sister gave him last Christmas.
He was running low; he’d have to pick up more.
After coating his curls, he scrunched them with the special towel he used for his hair.
When he finished, he pulled on the skinniest jeans he owned.
It hadn’t been easy to find pants that fit snug on his calves and thighs but also accommodated hockey ass.
He liked them enough not to give a shit that skinny jeans were out.
Kilian hoped the baggy pants trend would end soon.
It did nothing for his best assets, and he refused to succumb to it.
With his hair sufficiently dry and not looking too awful, Kilian pulled open the bottom drawer of his dresser and inspected his options.
He’d been decently successful in the mesh shirt last time.
But he’d nearly chickened out, standing in front of the club waiting to be let in with his jacket zipped up tight so no one would spot it and wonder what a guy with his build was doing in an outfit so obviously not straight.
It hadn’t been so bad once he got inside.
As soon as he’d unzipped, the view of his chest and abs garnered a few appreciative glances.
The confidence boost and the three vodka shooters, done in quick succession at the bar, made him ready to dance.
Sure, he might look ridiculous in the delicate nylon shirt by the standards of the world he lived in 90 percent of the time, but in a gay club, Kilian was hot enough to get groped by a dozen strangers.
It was bad luck that he’d gone home with Liam, ending the night in disappointment.
He wouldn’t repeat the mistake.
Rifling through the drawer, Kilian discarded the mesh shirt. Too soon to wear it again. Otherwise, he had a few crop tops, a cheap set of three elastic chokers still on the original cardboard form, and, at the very bottom, lace.
He ran his fingers across the fabric reverently.
It was so fine. He hadn’t worn any of it yet, convinced the panties would stretch obscenely over his hips and cock.
No one wanted to see that. But the shirt…
He’d bought it when he was a few drinks in, triggered by a TikTok ad.
He couldn’t resist the floral pattern, the sheer fabric, the idea of how it would look and feel on his skin.
The package, addressed to an “H. Koward,” had arrived when he was stone-cold sober.
He’d shoved it in the bottom drawer and hadn’t tried it on, continuing his stellar track record of being chickenshit about everything important.
Now, he realized it was for the best. The shirt would suit a guy like Jax, who was flamboyant in the way he talked and acted, or on Luca, who was just plain gorgeous.
Heck, it would look good on tall and skinny Tom too.
On Kilian, it would be ridiculous.
He shoved the shirt back into the drawer decisively. The guys who checked him out wouldn’t think “delicate pillow princess,” not with his muscles on muscles and thick hockey thighs. A lace shirt couldn’t change that.
He grabbed the light blue crop top. It was his favorite since he’d gotten laid in it most often, and it made his abs look great.
He pulled it on and considered the chokers.
The idea of something beautiful wrapped around his neck compelled him for more reasons than one.
Kilian wished that casually wearing jewelry would go unnoticed in the hockey world.
But hockey guys only got away with it if they were European.
He’d actually considered getting his ears pierced this summer, but then the player magazine held a vote on who was the most fashionable in the league.
The top two guys had earrings. Kilian couldn’t start getting that kind of attention.
With a sigh, he returned the chokers to the drawer.
He shrugged on his suede bomber, zipped it up tight so no one would see what he had on underneath, and headed for the door.
Liam met him in the line outside the club.
He was dressed similarly, although on his slim build, the outfit looked all lithe and sexy instead of oafish.
He had no jacket, and his crop top wasn’t cut from a T-shirt.
It actually was meant to stop at his ribs.
Liam took one look at Kilian and rolled his eyes.
“Oh my God, you are a tragedy. No wonder I thought you might be a top.” He dragged Kilian forward by the elbow, simpered at the bouncer until they were let through, giving him a wink, and corralled Kilian into the bathroom as soon as Kilian checked his coat.
“I can’t believe you wore a coat,” Liam said, pushing Kilian toward the sink. “It’s, like, twelve million degrees in here.”
“I can’t believe you walk around outside dressed that way.
” Kilian crossed his arms over his bare midriff.
In the too-bright lights of the club bathroom, when all he’d had to drink were the last two gulps from the bottle of cheap vodka he’d found under the kitchen sink, he couldn’t quite look at himself in the mirror.
Liam snorted, unimpressed, and dug an eyeliner pencil out of the pocket of his painted-on jeans. He inspected his own reflection, nodded in satisfaction, and turned to Kilian, brandishing the pencil as if it were a weapon. “What are you, closeted?”
“Yeah.” Kilian eyed the pencil warily.
Liam frowned. “Why?”
“My job is super homophobic.”
“Yeah, you and the rest of the world.” Liam came closer.
“Whoa.” Kilian jerked away. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you a little pizzazz. Duh.”
Kilian imagined himself dancing under the strobe lights with black lining his eyes. He pictured someone behind him, hands running up across his bare belly and up under his shirt across his chest, his own lined eyes closed as he threw his head back.