Playing the Field Volume 1 Box Set

Faceoff-4

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.”