Page 27 of Rookie Moves

“Definitely. We can do it all night if you want,” I offer, and judging by the heated look Colby gives me, we’ll be doing exactly that.

We’re given an hour to practice the following morning, and it doesn’t come as a surprise that Colby is on fire. Every second he’s on the ice, he’s flawless. He sinks the puck into the net shot after shot. His passes are silky smooth, and he’s proving exactly why he deserves all the hype and attention he’s getting.

Coach Vaughn blows the whistle, signaling the end of our allocated ice time, and addresses Colby as he makes his way off the ice.

“Jesus, McKay, I don’t know what you had for breakfast this morning or whether you did some kind of meditation before you went to sleep last night.” He claps a hand on Colby’s shoulder and points at him with his whiteboard. “But whatever it is, keep doing it. I want to see more of that tomorrow when we face Western Michigan.”

Colby mumbles his thanks, flushing behind his cage.

I can’t help but grin from where I’m waiting near the bench.

Did we spend the rest of the night making out on the bed? Yes.

Am I taking some credit for Colby’s epic performance this morning? Also, yes.

When we returned to our room after dinner, whatever worries had been plaguing his mind were replaced with a confidence that continued to build with each hour that passed. His roaming hands became more adventurous, and he initiated picking up the heat while making out. Both of us ended up hard as a rock in our underwear, but we didn’t take it further than some light humping.

Doesn’t mean I didn’t jerk off in the shower this morning to the thought of him though.

It’s too risky to do anything else this weekend. Our teammates aren’t the best at respecting personal space, and anything more than kissing, or maybe even a shared hand job, might be asking for trouble.

I’d never put Colby in a position that could potentially bite us on the ass, but I am determined to make the most of this time with Colby, whatever he feels comfortable doing.

We head back to the locker room and hit the showers, then spend the afternoon in one of the conference rooms Coach has hired out for the weekend. By the time we’ve had dinner and curfew rolls around, I’m ready to head back to our room and unwind.

Preferably lip-locked with a certain star forward.

Luckily for me, Colby follows close behind. We’re quiet on the way up to our room, saying goodnight to our teammates who are staying a few doors down.

Once we’re inside the room, I pick up my phone from where I left it on the bedside table, and my stomach drops. There’s a text from my dad waiting for me.

Before I’ve clicked to open it, there’s a bitter taste sneaking up my throat.

My dad has never really been supportive of my hockey career. Sure, he paid for the summer camps and all the gear, but he’s always made it clear that my future is at his business, not in a rink. Or anywhere else for that matter. He never fails to let me know how my time is being wasted on things that I won’t have time for once I’m on his payroll.

I tap on the message, and my jaw clenches. There are no words, only a photo of the office cubicle I’ll be sitting in. A Post-it note that reads “Good luck, Tyler! Can’t wait for you to join the Beckmann Capital Trust Group team” has been stuck to the blank computer screen.

With a heavy sigh, I toss my phone onto the bed and fall back against the pillows.

Colby must hear the gale force wind leaving my lungs because he peeks his head out of the bathroom, concern creasing his beautiful face.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Just my dad being… well, my dad.”

Frowning, he makes his way over to my bed. I nudge my phone with my foot, and he holds it in front of my face to unlock it.

He silently reads the message, the crease between his brows deepening further. “I don’t understand.”

Heaving out another sigh, I scrub my hands over my face. “My dad’s life has always revolved around work. For as long as I can remember, it’s always been his business, my mom, then my brother and me,” I say, using my hand to list the order in the air, me and my brother being at the bottom of the imaginary pile. “Instead of saying good luck for the weekend, he has to include the desk he’s already told me will be mine in a few months. Like a subtle reminder to have fun while I still can, because that desk is what I was destined to do.” I huff out a humorless laugh. “I’m pretty sure that’s his secretary’s handwriting too. He couldn’t even write it himself.”

Colby locks my phone and places it on the bedside table, screen side down, then takes a seat next to me. He shuffles down until our heads are only inches apart.

“I’m sorry you have a shitty dad. He should at least be supportive of you.”

I shift onto my side, matching his position.

“He’s always been like this. I remember when I was a kid, my brother, Joey, mentioned how he wanted to work in the movie theater so he could have unlimited access to the popcorn machine. He was only eight, but my dad flipped his shit. Went on and on about how ungrateful we were because the Beckmann name was our legacy, and we would be insulting the family name if we didn’t follow in his footsteps.”