Playing the Field: Volume 1 Box Set

Faceoff-2

Another player skates up behind Ronnie, coming in fast. Too fast. Christian’s gaze flickers over Ronnie’s shoulder and his former teammate notices. With a wink as if to thank him for the tip, Ronnie ducks low and hugs the boards as he skates out of the way. A second later, a member of the Blizzard hits the glass where Ronnie stood not a moment before.

“Almost had him,” the guy grouses. He flashes Christian a teeth-baring grin and returns to the game.

But Christian can’t focus on him. He can’t return to the timer, either, counting down the seconds until he’s out of the penalty box. His gaze follows Ronnie as he skates after the puck, and that wink sticks in his mind. He closes his eyes and sees it again. So quick, so surreptitious, so unexpected…

And so much like the Ronnie Christian used to know that maybe, just maybe, not everyone on the Rebels feels the same about his leaving.

* * * *

Christian’s first game with the Rebels had been against the Portsmouth Patriots, a low-ranking team they beat without trying. It was Christian’s first real hockey game, not counting those he’d played while in college or in amateur leagues. His first professional game. Hearing his name called out across the ice as he sank puck after puck stirred in him thoughts of greatness. This was where he needed to be, here. This was the game he was meant to play.

One clear thought rang through him as he had skated off the ice after scoring the final goal of the game. Gretzky, move over. It’s time for some Magic in the majors.

After practice games, the team usually went out to an early dinner at Mulligan’s, the nearby sports bar. During NHL season, one of the guys might invite the others over to watch the game—usually Eric, whose giant, flat-screen TV and decked-out home bar always made Christian think the guy was trying to compensate for inadequacies in other areas of his life.

There weren’t any plans to do anything after the first real game of the season, though. They ended late, and by the time everyone showered and changed into street clothes, it was almost eleven o’clock at night. Most of the guys said their good-byes and headed home, their victory cheers turning to sleepy hurrahs as they left the locker room.

Christian’s playing earned him a few claps on the back, that was it. The feeling among the teammates was that they had won, as a whole, and Christian’s individual goals were forgotten. Sure, he’d scored for his team, but would a little appreciation hurt?

As he stuffed the last of his uniform into his sports bag, he felt someone approach from behind. He didn’t turn, but he didn’t need to. He knew who it was. “Hey, Ron.”

“Hey, yourself.” Ronnie leaned against the locker beside his, so close that Christian felt his presence like a blanket draped over his backside. When he bent to retrieve his skates, his ass butted against Ronnie’s crotch, and for the briefest moment, an audacious hand curved over his hip before falling away.

They’d been skating around each other for weeks now. Always a tentative touch here, a hanging word there—nothing solid, nothing Christian could pin down and analyze. But he watched Ronnie with other members of the team and knew these small touches and lingering moments in the locker room were reserved for him alone.

Turning, Christian dropped to the bench in front of the lockers and pushed his wavy blond bangs out of his eyes. “Good game, eh?”

Ronnie grinned. “You were great out there. We’re lucky to have you.”

Christian ducked his head to hide his grin. Finally, someone who attested his skill. “Yeah, well, thanks. I was starting to think I was invisible or something. No one else bothered to say a word.” He tried to keep his voice light, but it was hard hiding the bitterness he felt toward the rest of his team. “They act like they won on their own without me.”

“We’re a team,” Ronnie reminded him. “The Rebels won tonight, not Mr. Magic.”

Christian frowned down into the bag at his feet and said nothing.

The silence between them stretched out, uncomfortable. Then Ronnie nudged Christian’s foot with his. When Christian looked up, he saw those cool eyes had warmed above a shy smile that looked so incongruous with the tough-guy persona Ronnie usually projected. “Hey,” he said softly. “What are you doing later?”

“Tonight?” Christian asked. At Ronnie’s shrug, he frowned. “I don’t know. Going home, going to sleep. You?”

Instead of answering, Ronnie asked, “Why don’t you come on over to my place? We can hang out a bit, grab a bite to eat. Maybe get to know each other a little better. What do you say?”

What could he say? He tamped down a silly grin that threatened to split his face, but his heart fluttered and, in the confines of his jeans, his d**k stretched itself awake at the prospect of scoring off the ice, as well. “Sure.”

* * * *

The first thing Christian does when he’s released from the penalty box is skate to where his coach stands on the sidelines, watching the game. He skids to a stop by the boards, breathless, his gaze watching the puck zoom across the ice. “Hey,” he says, “put me in. I can sink that shot.”

But when he turns to skate into play, the coach grabs the back of his jersey and holds him in place. “Easy there, Magic. Your shift just switched. Sit down and wait your turn.”

“I got this one,” Christian says, trying to shake free from the coach’s grip. Ronnie’s out on the ice, and he wants nothing more than to face off against that man. He tells himself it’s because they’re on opposing teams, but something in those eyes, that wink, has him bothered. Ramming the man into the boards a time or two might be just what Christian needs to get that out of his system.

But the coach is a no-go. He hauls Christian back into the player box, off the ice and out of play. “Ass on the bench,” he growls, steering Christian toward the end of the line with the rest of his shift. “This ain’t a personal vendetta, kid. Sit down and wait your turn or I’ll throw you from the game.”

With a scowl, Christian falls onto the bench, arms crossed awkwardly before him. He finds Ronnie on the ice without difficulty and glares out at his former teammate. Suddenly it’s hot in here, too hot, so he yanks off his helmet and throws it to his feet.

“Magic,” the coach warns. “Save it for the game.”

A mess of sweaty blond waves curl down into Christian’s face. Roughly he brushes them back, out of his vision, then fists his hand in their thick depths and pulls hard in frustration. He knew going into this game would be difficult, but he’d had no clue just what he’d be up against.

With both hands now, he cradles his forehead, the span between his palms dark and comforting. When he left Richmond, he thought he’d left everything behind, Ronnie included. Three months later, he’s surprised the guy can still tear him up inside.

Fuck it. Play the game. Go home. Get over it already, can you do that? Get over him. He’s just psyching you out and you know it.

But is he? Is he really? Because Christian saw something in that cool gaze when they stared at each other through the glass surrounding the penalty box, something that makes him think Ronnie might not hate him completely, the way the other Rebels seem to. Something that hints at so much left unsaid, and so much more between them.

Christian pushes his hair back and sets his chin on his hand to watch the game. The moment he looks up, Ronnie is passing in front of him, the puck fast against his stick, angling for the goal. Sticking out his lower lip, Christian blows the curls off his forehead. Ronnie glances over, sees him, and misses his shot.

The puck goes clear around the back of the goal and comes out the other side. Several of Christian’s teammates scramble for it, but the ref’s whistle stops them short. Above the hockey rink, the announcer’s voice rains down like judgment. “Niedermeyer’s called for icing. Would have been a great shot, too, if only he’d have kept his eyes on the puck. There is some tension in the air tonight, folks! Are you ready to r-r-r-r-r-r-r-rumble?”

Tension. Christian smirks as Ronnie skates for the penalty box. The air’s so thick around him, he thinks he’ll suffocate before the night is through.

* * * *

That first visit to Ronnie’s townhouse, Christian didn’t know what to expect. He followed behind Ronnie’s pick-up truck out to one of the newer communities being built in the West End. As Ronnie pulled into the garage, Christian coasted his sporty convertible to a stop in front of a brick townhouse that sat in the middle of a row of identical homes. He locked his car but left the top down, just to show off a bit. Then he trotted up the steps to the front door, which opened when he raised a hand to knock.

Inside, Ronnie gave him an enigmatic grin. The light behind him threw his face into shadow, but his eyes were bright and clear, and fixed on Christian. He wondered how pale they would look upon waking, or how dark Ronnie’s unkempt hair would be splashed across his pillow. The thoughts surprised him—though he’d been getting signals from Ronnie since he joined the team, Christian had never let himself actually think of his teammate in a s****l manner. He hadn’t wanted to get his hopes up only to be disappointed. What if Ronnie’s flirtatious banter was nothing more than tough talk? How would a relationship off the ice interfere with them working together on it? And what would happen if either of them were ever traded to another team?

But here, on Ronnie’s doorstep, Christian’s hesitation was short lived. Ronnie stood aside to let him into his home, and the moment the door was shut behind them, Christian found a warm hand easing into his, strong fingers curling around his palm. With a playful squeeze, Ronnie smiled at the faint shock that must’ve been evident on Christian’s face. “Thanks for coming over,” he said, as if his hand in Christian’s didn’t hint at anything more than a social visit. “Let me give you the tour.”

Downstairs was the garage and a utility room. Ronnie didn’t release Christian from his grip as he led him around. He pointed out the washer and dryer, but Christian saw most of the utility room was given over to Ronnie’s love of hockey. Clean uniforms hung on one wall, while others littered the floor, mingled with piles of clothing vaguely separated into whites and colors. A street hockey goal took up one corner—hockey sticks lay across the top, and goalie’s pads were tossed into the net itself.

“You play?” Christian asked.

Ronnie clicked off the overhead light and guided Christian to the stairs that led to the next floor. “Sometimes me and a few of the guys practice on rollerblades. You know, when the Coliseum is unavailable, or when it’s off-season. It’s a lot of fun.”

Bitter jealousy rose in Christian, the same sourness he’d tasted earlier that evening, when no one on his team had acknowledged his role in winning the game. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything, but his hand grew uncomfortably warm in Ronnie’s, and he wondered how many other players had been given this same tour in the past. The lower level, then upstairs to the second, and ending where? Ronnie’s bedroom?