2. Hux
two
Hux
Mid-April
“ H uuuxly,” Mironov yelled. Even though the locker room was rowdy, his deep voice boomed off the walls, reverberating like a foghorn.
I high-fived him as I waddled past, my skates sinking into the thick rubber matting.
We were at home for our final game of the season. We weren’t in the running for the Stanley Cup. Yet. For our second season in the NHL we hadn’t done too badly.
We’d come close.
We’d sent a message.
The Seals were not bottom dwellers. We were making our way to the top of the food chain, and we’d have our Cinderella moment soon. We were destined for greatness, and I couldn’t fucking wait to hoist that cup high.
I’d been a starry-eyed rookie last year, and I’d worked hard to earn my place. This season I’d cemented my stats and focussed on getting as much ice time as I could. I wanted to create magic from every first touch.
It had worked too. I was now a starting forward for the San Diego Seals, and I was an up-and-coming player to watch. My stats were some of the best on the team, but I tried not to let it get to my head. Careers changed on a dime and mine was no exception.
But hockey was my destiny. It was in my blood. I’d worked every day for nearly two decades, studying every game, watching every move in awestruck wonder. I’d wanted to be just like them.
But it was more than that too. It was a need that I couldn’t describe. I had to focus on scoring. I had to be the best. Nothing in hockey was guaranteed. But it was all I had.
I’d cut myself off from virtually everyone and everything to get to the top of my profession, and yet I still wanted more in life. I wanted to be out. I wanted the people I shared a bed with to be proud enough to stand next to me and acknowledge me.
But that wasn’t how life worked, was it?
Most pro-hockey players didn’t make it past their second year. I had another year on my contract to go. My stats were good enough that I knew I’d be playing next season. At least I had what I wanted in hockey even if my personal life wasn’t perfect.
My next goal was to be picked for the All-Stars. I wanted the Seals to retire my number when I finally set down my skates in a decade or, hell, two. When people got a trading card with my face on it, I didn’t want it to go in the bottom of a shoe box. I wanted them to treasure it.
No one was going to be embarrassed by me like my parents had been.
Maybe then, Chris and Kamirah would be open to me using their front door, or fuck, not even leaving.
Who knew?
Until then, I planned on focussing on my game and keeping their secrets. It wasn’t ideal; secrets didn’t make for good team dynamics. But the decision to come out wasn’t just mine to make. Until Minns and his wife were prepared to do the same, I was back in the closet.
It wasn’t all bad. I was an NHL player. It was my job, but there were few others like it. The perks were incredible, and it was, quite literally, the best sport in the world. I wasn’t afraid of hard work either—it had gotten me this far, and it’d take me all the way to the top.
Being on the ice came naturally to me. Everything slotted into place and all distractions fell away. My mind and body worked in sync, decisions made and executed in milliseconds. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just me and my teammates and the puck.
This season was done and dusted.
Next season, we’d do it. We’d make a play for the Stanley Cup.
Steam rose out of my gloves as I yanked them off. My helmet was next. My hair was dripping wet. Sweat poured off me. My muscles were heavy, but I was buzzing. I was floating on air, basking in the two goals I’d sunk and two assists I’d made. Our last win of the season was sweet.
Everything had come together beautifully. Every touch, every play had been flawless. Our D-men were impenetrable, and Rune, our goalie, was lightning on ice, shattering every attempt by Dallas’s offensive line to sink the puck into our net. We’d won in a shutout, 4–to–1.
The mood in the locker room was jubilant.
I wanted to stand there and soak it in, but at the same time, I wanted to celebrate privately too.
Those fucking secrets again.
I pushed the disappointment and shame away. This was a time for celebrating.
I took off my skates and slid them into my cubbyhole before I turned to my teammates. They were gathered around, shooting the shit in the open area.
Above them, our team flag hung from the ceiling right next to the Stars and Stripes.
Twenty-eight cubicles lined three sides of the room. Each one of us had a space to hang our uniform and pads and store our skates, as well as a cupboard above it where we kept our phones and keys. A nameplate was velcroed to each door, and our name and number were written on it. The lack of permanence in this career was never more pronounced than here in our own changerooms.
A U-shaped row of benches painted the team’s signature purple were between me and my teammates.
Gauthier, our captain, always spoke to us before Coach did. He was young—a year younger than me—but even at twenty-three, he deserved the C on his jersey. We acted like testosterone-charged children most of the time, hooting and hollering and trash-talking each other until our parents—Coach, Gauthier, and Rune, our AC—stepped in. But once they did, we showed them the respect and admiration they deserved.
Everyone gathered in a circle as I reached for my Gatorade and chugged half of it.
The room quietened momentarily, and Gauthier raised his own bottle. “Huxley!” he shouted.
Cheers rang out and that floating on air feeling intensified until I was in the fucking clouds.
“Those goals and assists were magic. And Minns, you beautiful thing, you. Your breakaway was the stuff of legend, and that wrister”—he mimicked the move perfectly—“was pure gold.”
“We’re here, Seals. We’ve arrived.”
We shouted, crowding in on both Gauthier and Minns. I was tugged into the middle, and my teammates slapped my back, whooping as we jumped around.
Gauthier waited us out until we’d settled before he spoke again. “We’ve announced to the world that we’re the team to beat next season.”
Someone started chanting, “Seals,” and the cheers and whoops grew along with Gauthier’s grin.
He stood on his bench and pointed at us. “You—each and every one of you—turned that W from a lucky goal or two into absolute domination tonight.”
The room erupted, whistles and wads of stick tape flying every which way. Half-full bottles of Gatorade were tossed up into the air, splashing all of us as we celebrated together. The end to our second season had been fuckin’ sweet.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Coach enter the room and lean against the doorframe. I tapped the guys closest to me—Rossi and Kuznetsov—on their shoulders and shushed a few others. The team gradually grew quiet. It took a whole lot longer than normal, but Coach let it slide with a smirk.
When it was finally quiet enough that he could talk in that Texan twang of his, he flashed us all a smile. “You boys did good tonight. Keep going like that, and we’ll be adding a Stanley Cup pennant to that roof right there.” He pointed up, and we erupted again.
My heart thrummed in my chest, the blood zipping through my veins like it was effervescent. It was like an out-of-body experience, the renewed backslaps and shoulder squeezes alongside the accidental elbows to the head as the guys jumped around celebrating, reminding me I was actually here for real.
When I felt his hand low on my back, then possessively squeeze my ass, I barely held back the moan. That private celebration was calling my name even louder.
“We were only one win away from making it through to the post-season this year, Seals,” Coach reminded us. That knowledge was a fucking trip. “You have that championship in you. In all of you.”
He wasn’t wrong—we had the potential. We could actually pull it off. There was no doubt in my mind that this team would get there.
“Fuck yeah,” I yelled, my arms up in the air Rocky-style, and the ruckus ratcheted up again.
Coach held his hands up in his cue for silence, and then he continued. “We’re not yet done for the season, boys. It doesn’t count toward rank, but it’s a question of pride. Five games to show the Kings that we’re the new royalty in town.”
If Coach wanted to keep talking, he was shit out of luck. The whoops, whistles, and “fuck yeahs” drowned out everything. My ears were ringing, and my throat was hoarse from shouting. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face if I tried.
I looked sideways at Minns, and we stared at each other a beat longer than we’d ever dared to before. Heat flared low in my belly as I eye-fucked my travel roomie. I was looking forward to this trip—two weeks of touring around the East Coast of Australia. Five games, four cities, three arenas, and a couple of days in each city to look around and do fan meet-and-greets. The best part was fourteen uninterrupted nights. Kamirah wouldn’t be in the room with us, but there were ways we could include her.
I wanted our relationship to go to the next level. This was my chance to make it happen. Kamirah would agree if Minns did—he was the one who had the strict rules about how we handled things. I had two weeks to work on him. Persuading him that we could make a real go of something more serious than fuck buddies was never going to be easy, but I wanted to. They were worth it. So was I.
I wanted to be happy and feel a part of something bigger than me. I had that with the Seals—these boys were my brothers—but I wanted more. I wanted to wake up with my partners and know they’d have my back when I was having a shitty day. I wanted to do the same for them. It was time. Minns hadn’t wanted any of us to catch feelings when we’d started this arrangement, but how could I not? We’d been together for well over a year. Chris and Kamirah knew how they felt about me. All I needed to do was get them to open up and tell me.
I just hoped it matched what was going on in my head.