Page 2 of Tough Call

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.

CHAPTER 2

MADARS

“Move over, Mads.” Michel Giubellini, one of my teammates in Genève, tapped my shoulder and gestured at the empty window seat beside me.

I didn’t move. “Fuck off. There’s plenty of seats left.”

Mish rolled his eyes. “Move over.”

I sighed theatrically, got up, and dropped my ass into the other seat. “There. Happy?”

He smiled and flipped me off, then put his bag in the overhead bin before taking the seat I’d vacated. As he fastened his seat belt, he glanced at me. “Some of the boys and I are going to check out the Bone Church tomorrow. You want to come with us?”

I cocked a brow. “That’s why you needed this seat? To ask me if I want to come to church?” I snorted haughtily. “This meeting could’ve been a text.”

“Shut up.” He elbowed me. “Do you want to go or not?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Once we land, hanging out with you guys kind of means consorting with the enemy, doesn’t it?”

Another eyeroll. “Collberg and Carstensen are coming.”

“Well, then I’ll be sure to report them to Sweden and Denmark for treason.”

Mish mumbled at me in Italian. My Italian wasn’t great, but I was pretty sure he’d said something colorful.

I elbowed him. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

That earned me a punch to the arm, and I laughed. He chuckled too.

Truth was, we always sat together on flights, and whoever sat down first always gave the other one grief before moving over. Though he wasn’t quite as stubborn about it as I was, mostly because he knew I was not even a little bit above climbing over him to get to the window seat if he didn’t move. I’d even sit in his lap, which would have him howling with mock fury before he tossed me into the other seat and we both collapsed into laughter.