Page 56 of Tough Call

But I’d also probably fall asleep and screw up my own body clock, so it was best for me to leave him to it. After I’d turned off all the lights, I slipped out of the room and went downstairs to the hotel bar. There was a football game on TV—Real Madrid versus Villareal, I thought—which held the attention of almost everyone, including the bartender. I did manage to flag him down long enough to get a glass of wine, though, and I settled at a table to scroll my phone and gather my thoughts.

Social media was dull today, and the game on TV wasn’t holding my attention. Big surprise—the only thing holding my focus was Connor.

I wasn’t restless, though. Even with him upstairs asleep, I was calm in a way I hadn’t been since Prague. Just being in the same place as him, knowing we had all this time stretched out in front of us, soothed something in me.

It was still weird to imagine I’d gone almost a decade without trying to reconnect with him. What was I thinking, letting him slip away like that?

Or maybe we’d needed that time to grow up and become the men who could navigate whatever it was we were doing. Connor had been my first kiss. My first a lot of things, though we hadn’t done everything together. More than once, I’d wanted to broach the subject of going further, but each time, I’d balked. I’d been too afraid of regretting something with him, or him regretting it with me, especially while we were living in the same house.

And then I’d moved away, and just like that, our time was over. I’d moved on, focusing mostly on hockey, though I did date and experiment along the way. My mind wandered back to my rookie season playing for the minor league affiliate of Miami, the team that had signed me. It was a little over a year after I’d moved out of the Ellis house, and Connor and I had mostly drifted apart.

I met a guy on a hookup app. Neil. He was cute, and he was fun to hang out with. He was also a little older and had more experience than me; most of the firsts I never had with Connor, I had with Neil.

I vividly recalled the first night we’d fucked. I’d topped him, and it was fun and everything, but afterward, there’d been this feeling of that’s it? When he’d topped me a few nights later, he’d been careful and kind, and it hadn’t been painful or anything. But I hadn’t really enjoyed it, either. I’d even thought that maybe bottoming wasn’t my thing because it just didn’t do anything for me. Then I’d felt guilty because while he’d been telling me how hot I was and how much he’d enjoyed it, I’d caught myself thinking, this would’ve been better with Connor.

It had confused me in the moment, and it had made me feel like a dick for comparing the guy I’d slept with to Connor. But everything I’d done with Neil had been… meh. It was all right—I got off and so did he—but there’d always been some mild disappointment I couldn’t shake off.

Other men had come and gone over time. The guy after Neil had made me realize that I absolutely loved bottoming if the top knew what he was doing. And I’d had some incredible sex with some very generous, talented men.

And nothing had ever stacked up to that one night in Prague.

I shivered just thinking about it. One impulsive kiss in the parking garage, and the next thing I knew, we’d been in his room having sex. And suddenly I’d been glad we hadn’t done everything back when we were younger. The first time we’d fucked, there’d been no shyness or inexperience. No awkwardness like the first few times we’d made out. A decade after those youthful explorations, I’d gotten the confident, self-assured adult version of Connor, and I’d been craving that for months. Especially after my knee injury had screwed us out of our last night together.

I shifted in my chair as my dick hardened beneath the table.

I couldn’t fucking wait until Connor had recovered from his travel.

CHAPTER 18

CONNOR

I awoke to pitch black, and for a moment, I was completely disoriented. Was it nighttime? How late had I slept?

But then I remembered the blackout curtains or whatever. Siesta shades? Was that what Madars had called them? And he’d… gone down to the bar, right? Christ, how many hours had he been down there while I lapsed into a coma up here?

I fumbled around for my phone and squinted at the blindingly bright screen: 15:36.

Well. That wasn’t too bad. I’d slept for a couple of hours, but I hadn’t slept the whole damn day. I could’ve easily passed out again, but that would screw up my body clock worse than I already had, so I turned on a light. After a moment of squinting, blinking, and cursing, my eyes adjusted. I hauled my tired carcass upright, went into the bathroom to take a leak, then splashed some cold water on my face. That helped. Some coffee would help even more.

I got dressed, made sure I had my room key and wallet, and then wandered out into the hallway. I genuinely had no memory of how far we’d walked from the elevator to our room, and I had a flicker of worry that this would be one of those maze-like hotels without clear signs.

Not to worry—the elevator was three doors down and very well marked. I was just stupid with jetlag.

In the elevator, I found the button for the mezzanine, which was apparently where the bar was. And when I walked into the bar…

Ah. There.

Madars was sitting back in a chair, an empty glass sitting beside his phone as he gazed up at one of the TVs. There was a soccer game on, so I wasn’t surprised it held his focus. Soccer had always bored me to tears, but he’d loved it.

“How can you stand soccer?” I’d asked once when we were teenagers. “It’s so slow and boring compared to hockey.”

“Says the guy who likes baseball.”

“Hey. Baseball is awesome.”

He’d rolled his eyes. “Maybe after the game is over and you can watch the recording on fast-forward. It’s so slow.”

“Pfft. Philistine.”