Kent shook him off, then shoved him, “Don’t fucking touch me, Hunter.” He made a disgusted face, as if Scott were a pile of rotting meat, and tried to knock Scott’s hand away. Scott held tight and pulled him closer. Kent looked horrified, as if Scott was going to kiss him or something.
“Let go of me, you—” Kent cut himself off just in time.
“You what?” Scott yelled in his face. “Youwhat? Finish your fucking sentence.”
“All right, that’s enough.” One of the refs arrived to separate them. “Go to your benches now or you both get penalties.”
“Finish your sentence!” Scott yelled again, over the ref’s shoulder at Kent’s retreating back.
“Hey.” Eric shook his glove off and put a hand on Scott’s arm. “Forget about him.”
Scott was a sweetheart most of the time, but he could turn violent on the ice if someone got to him enough. He was a big guy—over six feet tall and made of muscle—so he could do a lot of damage when wanted to.
“I hate that fucking guy,” Scott said. His voice was calmer now, so the ref released him.
“We all hate him,” Eric said.
“No comment,” the ref muttered, then skated away.
Eric noticed, then, that Troy Barrett was standing a couple of meters away, watching them. He didn’t look menacing at all. In fact he looked...embarrassed? Certainly uncomfortable.
Eric flipped his mask up and shot him a questioning glance. Troy opened his mouth, closed it, then skated away.
Toronto was a team of weirdos.
Eric drank some water and got ready for the face-off that would be happening right in front of him. “And that,” he told his goal posts, “is why we don’t let Kent score on us.”
It was too bad that Kent was such a shithead homophobe, because Toronto had a large and vibrant queer community. It would be nice if their star hockey player was a better role model.
Kyle had suggested that Eric go out while he was in Toronto. Check out one of the many gay bars and find, in Kyle’s words, some sexy Canadian sweetheart to keep him warm. Eric was definitely not going to do that, and he tried not to think about the possibility that Kyle was looking for his own bed warmer tonight back in New York. Eric would much rather replay their kiss in his head. And fantasize about Kyle’s offer to do more.
More. There was no way that was a good idea.
Also not a good idea: daydreaming about sex with Kyle while in the middle of a hockey game.
The play had been at the other end, but Toronto was charging back toward Eric with the puck now.
“Here we go, fellas,” Eric told his posts. “I’ll do my job, you do yours.”
The shot came from an unexpected angle. Eric had positioned himself to block a low shot from his right-hand side, but the puck was passed at the last second. Eric tried to slide over to stop it, but the shot was high and sailed over his blocker.
Ping!
That sound, that glorious sound, was Eric’s favorite in the whole universe. The crisp chime of a puck hitting the post and deflecting away from the net was a chorus of angels to a goaltender. If Eric made it to old age, he wanted that sound playing on a loop next to his deathbed as he passed.
The disappointed groan of the Toronto crowd that followed the ping was also a pretty excellent sound.
“Thanks, pal,” Eric said, once the play had moved out of his end of the ice. He gave the post a loving pat.
Okay. Focus, Eric. He couldn’t count on the posts to save his ass a second time, so he needed to clear his head.
Win this game, he told himself, and you can think about Kyle all you like when you’re back in your hotel room.
He didn’t feel good about using something that pathetic as motivation, but it worked. Toronto didn’t score again, and New York won the game.
Kyle:I found someone for you.
Eric squinted at the message on his phone screen. Normally he’d be asleep at this hour, especially after a game, but he’d been restless tonight. He wondered if Kyle was at work right now. He wondered what made him text.