My body thrums with anticipation as I slide the key card into the slot on the hotel room’s door after our loss against Fall River earlier tonight. It’s not unlike any other night for an away game, but I’m on edge. And the reason is clear as day, seeing as Quinton is the one standing behind me, patiently waiting for me to let him into our room.
An unfortunate circumstance I have no control over.
When Coach called out our rooming assignments at the beginning of the season, sticking me with Quinton instead of Braxton like it’d been all last year, I was beyond pissed. Not only for the obvious reasons of de Haas and I not getting along, but because being an openly gay player sleeping in a room with another dude can cause discomfort for some guys. Every year since freshman, I’ve been paired up with either Braxton or Camden. So why the fuck he changed shit up on me this season is beyond me.
Maybe it was another tactic of trying to get us to bond and get past our rivalry on the ice, as misguided as it would be.
Since he’s my uncle, it should’ve been easy enough to ask for a reassignment, get Brax back—or even Cam—and call it a day. But the last thing I want is for all those nepotism murmurings to become true. So I just suck it up and deal with rooming with my mortal enemy.
The door slams closed behind us once we’re both inside, and I toss the key onto the dresser next to the television. The room is standard for our away games, two queen beds, a bathroom, and an adjoining door to one of our other teammates. Camden and Rossi, if I remember right.
Maybe I’ll just pop over there and hang out for a while if things get a little too stifling in here to survive.
Dropping my bag onto one of the beds, I strip out of my suit in favor of something a little more comfortable. Movement in my peripheral snags my attention, and I find Quinton silently rifling through his bag to do the same. He pulls out a pair of gray sweats a second later, tossing them on the bed before working his belt out of the loops on his pants.
The back of my neck grows warmer, and I quickly turn away to give him some privacy.
Again, no straight guy wants their gay teammate checking them out while they change. Especially when it’s just the two of them. Only, after what happened at the frat house, I’m not so sure straight is the right label for Quinton. Just like he said himself.
Still, I grab my own pair of black sweats and my toiletry bag before heading into the bathroom to give him a little extra privacy. And to hopefully get my stray thoughts under control before I have to sleep five feet away from the object of all my hate…and unfortunately, my desire.
A few minutes later, I exit the bathroom to the distinct sound of Sleeping With Sirens playing from his phone speaker, and when I round the corner, I find him repacking his bag after changing.
His posture is rigid, the way it’s been since we left the ice after the game, along with the solemn expression painted across his features. Two things I’m not used to seeing on him. And call it the leader in me, but I hate seeing my teammates down in the dumps after a loss. Especially a rough one.
All of us could feel how close we were to victory, or at least to a tie, only to have Fall River’s right wing, Johnson, slip past Quinton and slap the puck beneath Camden for a goal during the last minute of play. The only thing they needed to secure a win.
It was nothing we did wrong, really. Just a lucky shot and great timing on Johnson’s part. Something we all know, Cam and Quinton included.
At least, Quinton should know.
“You…” I start, then clear my throat. “You played well tonight.”
I don’t miss how the phrase takes me all the way back to high school. To the night he pinned me to the wall and I decked him in the face.
Here’s to hoping it doesn’t happen again, though, considering the way he freezes where he stands. And I wait to see if I’ve only pissed him off more.
I don’t know why I broke the silence with that statement. It’s not like he needs my approval or praise. Hell, he’s gone three freaking years without it, and he’s been just fine, so what’s the point of giving it to him now?
But when the tension lining his shoulders melts away rather than getting worse, I take a silent sigh of relief.
“Thanks,” he says softly. “You did too.”
“Thanks,” I mutter back, just as quietly.
He leaves the conversation at that, and I crawl into my bed while he finishes what he’s doing. Before long, he’s strewn across his own bed with his phone in hand, enraptured in whatever he’s doing. And more importantly, oblivious to me staring at him.
A pair of black, square frames now sit on the bridge of his nose—the kind Henry Cavill looks ridiculously hot in as Clark Kent—and I realize I never knew Quinton wore glasses when he’s not on the ice. Probably because he and I are never around each other unless we’re at the rink, and he must wear contacts when he plays.
Part of me hates myself for realizing how much more attractive it makes him.
My eyes leave his face and track down the length of his body, noting the way his tee rides up slightly on his stomach; a bare strip of smooth, tan skin peeking out between the hem and waistline of his gray sweats. And damn, those sweats. They cling to his muscular thighs like they were tailor-made for him.
Hell, knowing the kind of money he comes from? I wouldn’t doubt they were.
The tattoos on his arms peek out from beneath the sleeves of his shirt, the dark ink swirling around his biceps and down the tops of his forearms. It’s ink I’ve seen before countless times, having shared a locker room with the guy for the past three years. But again, I’ve never taken the time to look or notice them.
The fact that he’s a complete and total dickhead made it very, very easy to ignore all the things I’m now realizing make him hot as fucking hell. Truly the sexy, bad boy of hockey he makes himself out to be.
Coming to this realization makes it a lot harder to not think about the ridiculous idea he threw into my lap about us hooking up to win games.
Which is what it is. Fucking ridiculous.
Right?
Not to mention, bringing it up again would only make things more weird between us. Heighten the strange mixture of animosity and sexual tension floating between us whenever we’re in the same room. But as I keep staring at him, I realize this might be the perfect solution to work out some of the tension we have toward each other and hopefully help the team.
It would be a win-win situation, especially if it works, like he said.
Am I really about to reconsider this ridiculous idea of his?
Yes. Yes, I am.
I can’t keep going down this damn road of loss after loss. We’re only a quarter of the way through the season, and if this shit keeps up, I’d rather slit my wrist with my skates than lace them up on my feet to play.
And I sure as hell don’t want to continue feeling like I’m walking on eggshells around him, either. Which is exactly what’s been happening since the night in the bathroom. There’s nothing to lose, and that’s what I keep telling myself as I open my big, fat mouth to repeat a conversation I never would’ve thought of having a couple weeks ago.
“I think we should…” I trail off, scrubbing my hand over my face.
Fuck, this is so much harder than I thought.
Quinton’s eyebrow raises as he drops his phone to his lap. “You think we should what, Reed?”
My eyes meet his as I sit on the edge of my bed across from him. The nerves I was feeling before have only multiplied in the passing minutes, and I can’t see them going away anytime soon.
I hate it.
This lack of control is new, and I’m not at all comfortable with the way he ties my stomach in knots for no reason at all lately.
“We should do it.”
His lips twitch, clearly amused. “Do what, exactly?”
Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.
I aim a glare his way. “Don’t play coy with me, de Haas. You know exactly what I’m trying to say.”
“No, I don’t think I do. Because it sounds an awful lot like you’re wanting to put some stock in this superstition after all. Which would be crazy, considering you said it would…” He trails off, tapping his hand on his leg. “Oh, that’s right. Never happen in this lifetime, I think you said?”
“Quinton.”
“Oakley.”
The shit-eating grin on his face is more than pissing me off. Then again, I can’t blame him for tossing this back in my face when I literally told him it would never happen. Now, here I am, crawling back to him and asking to revisit his offer.
My eyes sink closed, and I sigh. “I think we should do it, meaning I think at least trying out your theory wouldn’t hurt any more than we’re already hurting.”
When he doesn’t respond right away, I blink open to find him staring, a hint of amusement in his eyes while he waits for me to spell it out for him. Which I do.
If only for the good of the team.
“Us hooking up, being your theory,” I grind out through clenched teeth. “So if you’re still in, we can try it.”
One corner of his lips curls into a sinful smirk, popping a dimple out on one side of his mouth I never knew he had. It seems so out of place on him. So innocent and cute for a person who’s as short-fused as he is.
He lifts his body into a sitting position before scooting over to the edge of his bed until he’s directly in front of me too.
“Be real for a second. Are you fucking with me right now?”
I shake my head. “No. I might’ve lost my damn mind, but I’m not fucking with you.”
His smirk turns into a full-blown grin then. “What made you change your mind?”
My brow lifts. “It’s not obvious?”
“We’ve lost two games since we hooked-up at the frat house.” He shrugs. “I just figured you didn’t care enough to do anything about it.”
“You know that’s not true. I’m the captain. Of course I care if we win or lose. It’s why…” I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “It’s why I think we need to try this. I feel like I owe it to the team to do whatever it takes to turn our season around, like you’d said.”
“Even if it means sleeping with me?” he notes, a slight lilt of amusement in his tone. “A teammate and a baby bi? Doesn’t that break these rules you’re so fond of?”
I pin him with a glare. “Don’t make me fucking regret this, de Haas. Call this an exception to the rule. They still stand in general, and the second this doesn’t work out and we lose, there won’t be an exception anymore. I’m not looking to get you into bed; only to win some games this season.”
A low chuckle, smooth like whiskey, comes from him, and he grins. “Everyone always comes back for more, even when they say they won’t. So, fair warning.”
“Highly unlikely.”
The smile on his face grows. “Anything else you’d like to add?”
“What?”
“What other rules do you have for us?” he prompts, motioning with his hand. “You know, since you’re so hell-bent on making this a business transaction rather than a good time.”
“Oh, fuck off. Despite what you might think, I know how to have fun. I just think it’s better for us to have some…guidelines.”
“Like I said. Fun-sucker.”
I swear, every time I glare at the asshole, it only gives him more joy.
“Next rule,” I grind out, rather than letting him bait me into retaliation. “No one can know about this. Especially not Coach or the team.”
He nods, his grin erased in a heartbeat with a more serious topic on the table. “Yeah, I’m fine with that. I don’t know if this attraction I have for you is just a phase—like my big gay college experiment—or if I’m actually into dudes.” There’s a quick pause and he runs his hand through his hair before adding, “And until I know for sure, I’m not exactly jumping to do the whole coming out thing.”
Understanding washes through me. I get it, all too well, not wanting to say it out loud or let anyone know until you know it to be true yourself.
As much as I hate admitting it, it took me a few years to be comfortable enough to admit it out loud, even just to myself in the mirror. And even longer to tell anyone else, like my family or closest friends. Especially not knowing how their reactions would be. After all, I never gave off any vibes that I’m into guys. It took everyone by complete surprise, though they were supportive in the end.
I can only imagine it would be the same kinda thing for Quinton, even if he’s not the type to be worried by much. But seeing him with his parents after his first game back…I can’t imagine it would be an easy conversation for him to have on top of everything else he’s dealing with when it comes to them.
“Is that it?” he asks, and it’s then I realize I’ve been staring at him like an idiot without saying anything.
Well, shit.
“Um,” I start, wracking my brain for anything else I might’ve missed. “I think, since we’re going at this like a superstition, we only do it on the nights before a game. Just like it was the night at the frat house. Keep it as true to the first time as we can.”
He snorts, and I hear a flare of annoyance in his tone. “So let me guess, me sucking your dick is the only thing allowed?”
“No, no.” If I’m doing this, I wanna enjoy it too. And I like giving as much as I like receiving, at least when it comes to foreplay. “I was just thinking about what worked before. Besides, I have to put my money where my mouth is and outperform you with my superior oral skills.”
His mood lightens again almost on an instant.
“Superior oral skills?” He laughs, shaking his head. “Again, you can just call it a blow job. There’s no need to make it sound so…clinical. And two, like you’ve so aptly put it…” He leans forward, resting both elbows on his knees. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
I give him a shove, sending him to his back on the mattress. “I’ve been sucking dick a lot longer than you have, de Haas. You’ll see soon enough that I’m not lying about my skill set.”
A playful smirk rests on his lips, and there’s fire flicking in his eyes when he sits back up, both of which get my cock stirring behind my sweats. But a heated look alone has nothing on the lust dripping in his words. “Believe me, Reed. I’m looking forward to it.”
Just like that, I feel like I’m drowning in the sexual tension clouding the room. The hairs on my arms are standing on end, and suddenly, it feels like the temperature’s spiked to somewhere between Hell and the surface of the sun.
And from the look on his face, I can tell I’m not the only one being scorched alive.
“Good, okay.” I clear my throat awkwardly. “What else?”
He’s silent for a second before asking, “Think hand jobs would be okay too?”
“I think we’d be safe with anything that isn’t anal.” I roll my teeth over my lip and glance up at him. “Plus, I don’t even know if it’d be on the table for you as it is.”
A thoughtful look crosses his expression before he nods. “Okay, anything but anal goes for the hook-ups.”
His quick agreement with me doesn’t settle right. Which is insane, because this whole fucking plan is about as cockamamie as putting a pig in a tutu and teaching it ballet. I shouldn’t be upset when a guy I don’t even like on my best day won’t let me fuck him.
Yet…I kind of am.
Make it make sense.
Rather than voicing my disappointment, I just nod. “That’s everything I can think of, unless you have anything else you wanna add?”
“I think you covered it all, Reed.” He laughs again, icy eyes filled with humor. “Just make sure you don’t go falling in love with me.”
I scoff. “A little hard when I’m already in hate with you.”
“Wouldn’t want it any other way.”
I hold my hand out for him to shake. The warmth of his fingers wrapped firmly around my hand immediately reminds me of the way it felt to have them around my cock instead, and another bout of lust surges through me.
But then the idiot goes and opens his damn mouth.
“Shouldn’t we seal the deal with a kiss instead?”
His words heat my blood with both irritation and desire, and the latter only annoys me more. I shouldn’t want him when I can’t stand him. And I definitely shouldn’t be as excited as I am to get down and dirty with him since it’s a fucking recipe for disaster.
Yet here we are.
“I’d rather lick the shower tiles in the locker room.”
His laughter rings out as he leans in, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispers, “Really? Cause I’d love to get a taste of your animosity.”
I push him away on instinct, now more annoyed than turned on at the cavalier way he carries himself. Cocky bastard.
Pulling at the sheets on my bed, I slide in without looking at him and mutter, “Just shut up and go to bed.”
I hear his deep chuckle from behind my back when I roll over, setting another round of irritating lust through me before he clicks off the light.
“Aye, aye, Cappy.”
