Page 22 of Tough Call

He eyed me, obviously trying to look serious even as the corner of his mouth twitched. “And if you don’t win? Then we can’t fuck before an event?”

I quirked my lips. “I mean, I guess we could sixty-nine or something instead?”

More laughter poured out of him. “But what if I’m the bad luck charm? My dad played with a guy who wouldn’t even kiss his wife on game day because it was bad luck.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I’m not that superstitious.”

“Yes, you are. You’re a hockey player.”

I wanted to argue, but… I mean, he had a point.

“Well, now I’m even more determined to win the gold this week.” I ran my hand down his back and pulled him in closer. “So I have an excuse to invite you to my tournaments.”

Connor laughed, and then we were kissing again.

Deep down, I wasn’t sure how much I was joking. This was hardly anything serious, but as soon as I’d been in the same room with him again, I’d realized how much I’d missed him over the years. How much I hated that I’d let so much time go by without reconnecting with him.

Maybe whatever had gone on between us back then had just been adolescent curiosity and innocent crushes, but whatever was happening now? That was some real chemistry. Something that made me want to keep this connection going. And sex aside, I’d enjoyed spending time with him. I liked the man he’d become, and I wanted to be friends with him.

We lived an ocean apart, but that was what the internet was for. I had friends all over the world, including old teammates back in North America. I could have that with Connor, too, couldn’t I?

And would he want us to?

I didn’t actually believe we’d hook up before all of my tournaments out of superstition.

But was it too much to think this week might not be the end?

The next morning started far too early. I had breakfast with my teammates, some of whom I knew from previous international competition. There were a few newcomers this year, and introductions were made as we ate.

Then it was off to the rink. Sometimes for events like this, my coaches would have a team meeting first, introduce us to their systems, and establish projected lines before we ever put on our skates. Not Coach Kepke. He wanted us in our gear and on the ice. He didn’t give a fuck who we were on our professional teams; lines and pairs would be worked out based on how we performed, not on any superstar status we might’ve had elsewhere.

He wasn’t kidding, either. When he’d coached the women’s team at the Olympics, he’d put a rookie blue liner in the top pair over a superstar because she’d outperformed the star in practice. It paid off, too—that defender had been spectacular during those games, and it turned out later the superstar had been trying to play through an injury.

So, the proof was on the ice in front of him, not across the backs of our jerseys.

I was always nervous, diving in with a new team right before an international competition. It was par for the course, but it was a big unknown. Would we gel? Would we get along off the ice? Did we have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning? Canada and Czechia were favored to be in the gold medal final, but this was hockey—anything could happen.

It didn’t help that I had a few muscles letting me know that yesterday’s, uh, cardio hadn’t been part of my usual routine. Recent dry spell notwithstanding, I got laid as much as the next guy during the regular season, but something about last night—something about driving Connor into the mattress—had left a subtle twinge in my hips.

Not an unpleasant one, though. Not a sign of an injury. Just… maybe mildly distracting when I needed to be completely focused.

As I waited for my turn to run through a drill, I bit back a laugh at the absurdity of it all. And I was admittedly glad that, no matter how tempting it had been, I hadn’t bottomed last night. My ass wouldn’t have hurt, per se, but the feeling would’ve been distracting as all hell.

And a reminder of what it was like to take Connor’s dick.

Goddamn. Next time, I’m definitely bottoming.

Despite my pleasantly achy hips, our first practice as a team went smoothly. It was a long one, though, since the coaches needed to figure out lines and special teams. Tomorrow’s practice would probably be shorter but more intense.

By the end of this first practice, we were all pretty confident in our systems and in each other.

I was a little surprised to see that Coach Kepke wasn’t kidding about establishing lines based on performance, not how we played on our other teams. The projections had all had me on the third line, but after today, I was on the top line with Petrovs and Žagars. Couldn’t complain about that. They’d also put me on the top power play unit, which was a pleasant switch. I did like my team in Switzerland, but I’d been frustrated that I was constantly relegated to the penalty kill. I was good at killing penalties, but I was sure I could be useful on the power play too. And with as weak as our power play was—give me a fucking chance, Coach!

This week, I’d get that chance. Assuming the refs called penalties in our favor, anyway.

Shame the man I fucked into oblivion won’t be officiating our games.

I almost snorted at my own ridiculous thought. Wouldn’t that be a headline?