Tough Call

Chapter 1

CONNOR

Holy shit, this city was gorgeous.

I’d been to Prague once before, back when my dad had played in a different international hockey tournament, but I’d been like nine at the time.

I didn’t remember much except for the cold, the hockey, and my dad’s gold medal.

Now that I had a chance to come here as an adult, I’d jumped on the first flight I could get.

That was partly to get ahead of the inevitable jetlag—I needed to be sharp for the Games—but it was also because I wanted to do some real sightseeing this time.

So, after I’d finished officiating the game in Boston last night, I’d gone straight to Logan International, and after eighty million hours, I’d finally touched down in Czechia.

Now, as I sipped my coffee in my room, I took in the view.

Dozens of dark metal spires pierced the morning mist above red roofs; the whole city looked like something out of a fairy tale.

Jetlag be damned—I was going to get in some serious sightseeing in the next few days before I had to be on the ice.

I wondered how crowded the touristy areas would be today.

Most of the players, coaches, and officials coming from North America had games tonight and wouldn’t be here until tomorrow at the earliest. Others would be here the day after that.

Competitors coming from other countries?

Not to mention organizers, fans, and the rest of the officials? I had no idea.

Well, either way, there’d be people. It was cold as balls and snow lined the streets and dotted the rooftops, but that didn’t seem to chase tourists away from places like this even when it wasn’t hosting a major international hockey tournament.

Shame it hadn’t been a couple of weeks earlier; I would’ve loved to visit the famous Christmas market.

Next time.

I shifted my attention to my phone, and there was a notification that the tournament’s app was now active.

I didn’t need to know my schedule or where I had to be yet, but I opened it anyway.

I’d been so busy the last few weeks, I hadn’t even had a chance to see who was competing.

I didn’t look at the women’s division—I’d be refereeing those games, so the less I knew ahead of time, the better—but perused the men’s teams. There were the usual suspects from North America, of course.

Collins, Maxwell, and Rodriguez had been shoo-ins for the U.S.

team. Canada would have rioted if Tremblay, Michaud, and Turner hadn’t made their roster.

Larsson, Suomela, and Fousek were obviously representing Sweden, Finland, and Czechia, respectively.

I wasn’t at all surprised to see Upatnieks on Team Latvia, but then I skimmed a little farther down that list and my brain record-scratched.

Madars Kulda.

I sat up in my chair. Holy shit. That was a name I hadn’t seen or heard in ages.

My heart thumped as memories flooded my mind. God, how long had it been? I must’ve been getting old because I actually had to do math to figure out it had been—wow—nine years. How the hell had all that time gone by?

As a teenager, Madars had billeted with my family while he’d played in major juniors.

Our bedrooms had been across the hall from each other for two years.

My parents had no idea how often one of us would sneak across that hall after lights out.

I didn’t get a lot of sleep during that period, but I sure learned a lot.

Then he’d been drafted by Miami, and not long after, he’d been called up to the team’s minor league affiliate.

Though we’d seen each other a few times after that, and though hockey was a relatively small sport, life had still managed to take us in wildly different directions.

I’d worked my way into an officiating job in the top men’s hockey league in North America.

I actually held the record now for the youngest referee to officiate an NAL playoff game, and I’d firmly established myself in the League.

I’d worried at times about officiating a game where Madars was playing, but that never ended up happening.

By the time I’d reached that level, he’d had a few great seasons before a knee injury had suddenly slowed him down.

Around the time I was signing on as a referee for my first season in the League, Madars had gone into free agency and hadn’t been able to get signed.

He’d been playing in Europe ever since. For Switzerland, I thought.

Or was it Sweden? God, it had been so long.

And this week…

This week, he’d be here. We’d be in the same city.

Our time would be limited, especially once the Games started, but it couldn’t hurt to reach out, could it?

And it wasn’t like there’d be a conflict of interest since I was here to officiate the women’s division.

I was always scrupulous about staying above-board with my job.

I never officiated games where my brother was playing.

Ditto with a few family friends and even a handful of acquaintances.

It was moderately inconvenient to the powers that be who scheduled games, but it prevented rumors of favoritism or suspicion of impropriety.

That was important to me anyway, but it was especially critical in recent seasons; the League’s officials were under serious (and well-deserved) scrutiny thanks to some of my colleagues.

If I’d been officiating the men’s division here at the Games, I wouldn’t even be looking at the list of players. In fact, I wouldn’t have taken the gig at all because I knew too many players from the NAL. Too much potential for “he’s favoring NAL teams.”

But that wasn’t the case here. Madars played on a completely different continent during the regular season, and he was playing in a division where I wouldn’t be officiating. Clear cut lines. No potential for raised eyebrows.

So… why not?

I mean, besides the fact that I was a bit of a coward. And I wasn’t sure he’d want to see me. And—

Oh, stop it. When are you going to have an opportunity like this again?

Fair enough. I was so over-cautious that I had a few regrets in my life about roads untaken.

Failing to reach out to an old friend while we were in the same city was not going to be one of them.

So what if he was also the friend I’d done my earliest adolescent experimenting with?

The first one I’d told I was gay? It wasn’t like we’d had any kind of horrible breakup.

We’d just gone our separate ways when life had hauled us off in different directions.

What was the harm in reaching out and seeing if he wanted to say hello and maybe grab a drink?

Despite my thumping heart, I switched to one of my social media apps. A lot of players were completely dark on social media, but to my great relief, Madars wasn’t one of them. He had a modest following, and most of his content was reposts of shots of him from his team’s page.

He was indeed playing in Switzerland during the regular season.

Genève had given him a warm sendoff and wished him good luck representing Latvia this week, and…

holy fuck. One photo showed him on the ice.

The other was him in a suit walking through the airport, coffee cup in hand and that gorgeous smile on his face.

And I just… stared.

Madars had always been good-looking, even in his gangly teenager days.

He’d always been cute. I’d crushed hard on him when we were kids, and I’d been stunned that it was mutual.

Those mischievous brown eyes, the dark hair that was always finger-combed to messiness, the lopsided smile—what wasn’t to love?

He’d been cute, but now? Uh, when precisely did Madars become that hot, and why had no one told me?

I stared slack-jawed at the photos. The cute boy I’d crushed on and made out with was a distant memory.

In his place was a lean man with razor sharp cheekbones and a dusting of stubble on his perfect jaw.

On the ice, he was laser-focused and serious.

In the suit, he was at ease and sexy, the sweet smile and sparkling eyes leaving no room to question if this really was Madars.

I scrolled a bit, taking in a few more photos of him. The shirtless one by a swimming pool would be burned into my brain until the end of time. Oh my God. I envied whoever had been lucky enough to put that ink on his arm and chest.

Then I scrolled on, and my heart sank. There was a shot of him with his arm around a pretty blonde and holding a toddler on his hip.

I was simultaneously happy for him and stupidly, irrationally, ridiculously, embarrassingly disappointed that he had a wife and kid.

Or a girlfriend? I hadn’t even realized he was bi. Whatever. He had a family.

Below the photo was a caption in Latvian, and because I was a masochist, I hit See Translation.

Happy birthday to the best sister ever.

I blinked. Best—wait, what?

I looked at the photo again, and I actually laughed aloud into the silence of my hotel room. I’d forgotten he even had a sister. And as I thumbed through the photos, I realized the baby was hers.

It wasn’t his wife and child. It was his sister and nephew.

Why was I relieved? That was just stupid.

It wasn’t like I had a shot in hell with him.

We’d been horny, curious kids the last time we’d touched.

I’d been close by, and I’d been gay, and we’d both been attracted to each other.

Now we were adults, and he was a hot professional hockey player, and I had no doubt he could have any man or woman he wanted these days.

But hey, a guy could dream, right?

And I hadn’t pulled up his profile so I could get all melancholy over how sexy he was and how single I was.

I shook myself and tapped the icon to send him a DM.

He’d probably ignore it, assuming he even saw it. He’d probably moved on from me a long, long time ago. He’d probably be so busy this weekend—and have so many hockey fans of any gender throwing themselves at him—that he’d forget about my message as soon as he closed it.

But I held my breath and sent the message anyway.