The Hockey Stud (Boston Bay Vikings YoungBlood #7)

1. Dover

A dull, persistent ache throbs in my neck, radiating up into my jaw and across my cheekbones, making my entire face feel sore and tender.

I can’t help but regret my decision to challenge Vegas’ defenseman, Igor Lenten—a formidable player with the intimidating combination of a Russian mother and an American father.

His reputation for toughness is well-earned.

The man is as unyielding and solid as a slab of granite.

In hindsight, I realize just how reckless I was to go up against someone of his caliber.

Honestly, I suppose I should count myself lucky that he didn’t manage to get a proper grip on me during the scuffle.

If he had, there’s little doubt I’d be spending tonight in a hospital bed instead of nursing my bruises in the locker room.

As I gingerly reach up, intent on rubbing the sore spot at the base of my neck, an ice pack suddenly lands on the tender area, sending a fresh jolt of pain through me and making me wince involuntarily.

From across the room, Nikoli lets out a short, amused laugh, clearly finding my discomfort entertaining.

I shoot him a glare, but he only grins wider.

It figures—he’d warned me before the game not to pick a fight with Lenten, but I ignored his advice, as usual.

I’ve never been known for my common sense, and tonight is just another example of my tendency to act first and think later.

The past eight-game road trip has been incredibly challenging, both physically and mentally, and I find myself more than ready to finally return to Boston.

It’s not just me—everyone on the team is feeling the same way, each of us longing for the comfort and familiarity of home after so many days on the road.

For most of the guys, there’s someone waiting for them—family, partners, or friends—which makes the anticipation of going home even sweeter for them.

In my case, though, things are a bit different.

I share an apartment with Nash, who seems to have no concept of peace and quiet.

The constant blaring music has been my reality for months now, and it’s worn me down more than I care to admit.

What Nash doesn’t know yet is that I’ve decided to move out.

I haven’t found the right moment to break the news to him, and the thought of telling him fills me with guilt.

He’s more than capable of covering the rent on his own, but that doesn’t make it any easier for me to leave.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m abandoning a friend, even though I know I need a quieter space for myself.

With a heavy sigh, I peel the ice pack off my sore neck, feeling the lingering ache from tonight’s game.

I slowly finish getting dressed, pulling on my clothes with tired, stiff movements, and then drop onto the bench, settling in to wait for the rest of the team.

We always leave together, sticking to our routine of heading out as a group to catch the bus that will take us to the airport.

The plan, which everyone agreed on earlier, is to fly home immediately after the game rather than stay another night in the hotel.

The thought of being back in Boston, even if it’s just to crash in my own bed, is enough to keep me going.

During the five-hour flight, I’m hoping to get at least a little bit of sleep.

At this point in the season, we’ve all learned to adapt to the constant travel, the late nights, and the early mornings.

Still, the exhaustion is catching up with us, and it showed tonight in our performance.

We lost 3-6 here in Vegas, a tough blow after the string of wins we had been enjoying.

It’s clear that our lucky streak has come to an end, at least for now, and the fatigue is starting to take its toll on everyone.

All we can do is regroup, get some rest, and hope that being back home will help us recharge for the next stretch of games.

Being on the road has provided me with a much-needed distraction from my persistent and often overwhelming thoughts about Levi Dodge.

Levi is a man who works for Ellison Security Specialists, the company that has been contracted to handle team security for us.

Ever since our first encounter, he has occupied a significant place in my mind, his presence lingering even when he is not physically around.

Although I still find myself thinking about him, the frequency and intensity of these thoughts tend to diminish when I am traveling and know I won’t be seeing him anytime soon.

In fact, it has been a couple of months since our paths last crossed, and during this time, I have had to restrain myself from asking Rhodes about Levi.

It’s been a challenge not to let my curiosity get the better of me, especially since Rhodes’s wife happens to work closely with Levi, making it all too tempting to inquire about him under the guise of casual conversation.

Regarding my personal life, not everyone is aware that I am gay.

I do not make a point of hiding it, but at the same time, I do not feel compelled to announce it to the world.

In my opinion, my sexuality is a private matter and not something that concerns anyone else unless it becomes relevant.

If someone brings up the topic, I am honest and open about it, but if it doesn’t come up, I see no reason to volunteer the information.

When it comes to attraction, I have always found myself drawn to tall, blonde men, and Levi fits this preference perfectly.

However, what truly captivates me about him are his eyes.

His eyes are incredibly expressive, revealing so much about his mood and state of mind.

When Levi is focused on his work or deeply engrossed in a mission, his vivid emerald green eyes darken noticeably, reflecting his intensity and determination.

On the rare occasions when he is amused or relaxed, the color of his eyes lightens, giving him a softer and more approachable appearance.

Unfortunately, these moments of levity are infrequent, making them all the more memorable when they do occur.

Grabbing the ice pack, I hold it against my neck as I stand and follow my teammates out of the locker room and along the corridor we walked to get here.

The bus awaits us, and Nash grabs my bags and tosses them into the luggage hold.

I'm relieved because the aches and pains are getting worse.

I need an ice bath to soak the lot of them.

I won't be in such a rush to go head-to-head with the Vegas defenseman again.

Once I finally settle into my seat on the bus, feeling the familiar rumble beneath me as the engine starts up, Nash slides into the seat beside me, his shoulder nudging mine with a bit more force than usual. He leans in, lowering his voice, and asks, “Have you heard about Dodge?”

Instantly, my heart plummets, a cold weight settling in my stomach. My pulse races as I force myself to swallow, trying to keep my composure and not let the panic show on my face. My voice comes out tighter than I intend when I ask, “What about him?”

Nash’s expression darkens with concern as he glances over at me, his brow furrowing. I can tell from the look in his eyes that I haven’t managed to sound as casual as I’d hoped. He hesitates for a moment, as if weighing his words, and then I urge him, “Just spit it out.”

Taking a deep breath, Nash finally explains, “He’s okay, but apparently, he got shot.

He was on assignment in Rhodes’ hometown, and an escaped convict shot him.

” Nash gives a small, frustrated shrug, clearly agitated.

“I asked Rhodes where Dodge had gone, since it’s been a couple of months since we’ve seen him.

Honestly, I’m kind of pissed that he didn’t tell us anything about it. ”

I just grunt in response, a noncommittal “Hmm,” not willing to admit out loud that I’m angry too.

I rub at my chest, trying to soothe the tightness there as I debate what to do next.

Should I reach out to Dodge and ask how he’s doing, or should I pretend I haven’t heard anything and just carry on as if nothing has happened?

The uncertainty gnaws at me, making it hard to think straight.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull out my phone, wincing as the motion sends a jolt of discomfort through my neck.

I shift in my seat, making sure the ice pack is wedged securely against the sore spot on my neck, and open the messaging app on my phone, my fingers hesitating over the keyboard as I try to figure out what to say.

What the fuck, Dodge?

A reply is swift.

***

“Asshole,” I mutter.

You got shot and didn't tell me?

You didn't need to know!

Fuck you, asshole!

Frustrated and filled with anger, I press the button to lock my phone screen, determined not to look at it any longer.

As I try to focus on something else, I hear the familiar sound of another message notification, signaling that someone is still trying to reach me.

Despite the urge to check, I resist and continue to ignore my phone, letting the message go unanswered.

Five minutes pass, and yet another notification appears, the screen lighting up briefly before fading back to black.

I make a conscious decision to ignore every single message, refusing to engage or respond.

All the while, I silently hope that no one else decides to contact me.

The following morning, as sunlight filters softly through my window, I reach for my phone, still groggy from sleep.

My notifications are waiting for me, and I notice several unread messages from Dodge.

With a deep breath, I tap on the message app, my curiosity piqued but my resolve firm.

I deliberately avoid opening Dodge’s messages, forcing myself to ignore whatever he might have written.

Instead, I quickly exit the app, not allowing myself even a glimpse of the unread texts.

Almost immediately, another notification pops up—this one from Nash, letting me know he’s made it home safely.

I can’t help but roll my eyes at his message.

Sometimes I wonder if he thinks I’m his mother, always needing to check in and update me on his whereabouts.

After dragging myself out of bed, I head to the bathroom for a long, hot shower, letting the water wake me up and clear my head.

Once I’m clean, I throw on a pair of comfortable joggers and a soft, worn-in tee, my go-to outfit for lazy mornings.

With my hair still damp, I make my way to the kitchen, expecting to be the first one there.

To my surprise, Nash is already up and about, bustling around the kitchen.

He greets me with a mug of freshly brewed coffee, knowing it’s the only cup I’ll have all day.

I have a strict rule for myself: one regular coffee in the morning.

Nash is well aware of my little routines and habits, which is probably why he doesn’t hesitate to hand me my coffee just the way I like it.

As I take my first sip, Nash fixes me with a knowing look and asks, “What did he say?” His tone is casual, but I can sense the underlying curiosity.

I feign ignorance, replying simply, “Who?”

He immediately rolls his eyes, clearly not buying my act.

“Don’t give me that shit. I saw you on your phone as soon as I told you he’d been shot.

” His words hang in the air, and I realize there’s no point in pretending.

Nash knows me too well, and he’s not going to let this go until he gets some answers.

“He said,” I sigh, my voice heavy with frustration, “that I didn't need to know, so he didn't tell me.” The words hang in the air, weighted with disappointment.

“That’s cold,” Nash replies, his tone sympathetic but matter-of-fact.

He pushes a steaming plate of eggs and crispy bacon across the table toward me, the aroma tempting enough to momentarily distract me from my irritation.

My eyes meet his, searching for comfort or understanding.

He just shrugs, as if to say he’s doing what he can.

“I heard you in the shower earlier, so I figured I’d make double. Thought you might want some breakfast.”

“I’m not complaining,” I assure him, grateful for the gesture as I slide into my seat.

I roll my stiff neck and rub at my aching shoulder, wincing at the persistent pain.

“My neck and shoulder hurt bad today,” I admit, pushing back from the table to cross the kitchen and open the fridge.

I grab the carton of orange juice, pouring myself a glass.

“I’ll take some painkillers and talk to the team physio later, just to be safe. ”

Nash nods, checking his phone for the time. “Okay, we have practice at eleven,” he reminds me, his voice shifting into a more businesslike tone. “I told Dario that we’d drop him off later since we’re going to the golf store after practice to check out the new clubs.”

I grimace, realizing I’d forgotten about the golf plans. “I forgot about that,” I admit, feeling a pang of guilt. “I might have to pass on the golf this time. I’ll see what the physio says later. I don’t think anything is torn, probably just a pulled muscle, but it hurts like a bitch.”

Nash stands, stretching his arms overhead.

“Well, I’m going to hit the gym before practice, so I’ll see you there,” he says, gathering his empty dishes and stacking them into the dishwasher.

With a quick nod, he grabs his bag and heads for the door, leaving me alone in the kitchen with my thoughts, my breakfast, and the dull ache in my shoulder.