Unrivaled, page 13
“You’re spoiling him,” Grady commented.
“Buddy, that ship sailed a while back.”
With breakfast and coffee taken care of, Grady’s blood sugar went up and a hint of surreality slipped in. He couldn’t actually be sitting in Max Lockhart’s kitchen, eating food he made. Casually noting that they had the same taste in expensive cookware. Rubbing the belly fur of his very cute dog.
Had he slipped into another dimension?
He was about to pinch himself to check when a godawful noise set his teeth on edge. “Oh Jesus, what the fuck?”
“Dishwasher.” Max patted the countertop above the offending appliance, which wailed like an injured pterodactyl. “We’ve been through a lot together.”
“Like a car accident?” Grady had to raise his voice to be heard. Now that he was looking at it, the dishwasher did look kind of dinged up. “Did you go to the draft together?” It was probably old enough.
“All right, so most of what we’ve been through is the dishwasher running twice to get the dishes clean.”
The offending machine hit a new decibel level.
Good Christ. “It sounds like that and it doesn’t even work?”
Max shrugged sheepishly. “I mostly set it to run and then leave for practice.”
Grady looked at the dog. “Your dad’s been tormenting you.”
“Hey!”
But Grady ignored him and took out his cell phone.
“What are you doing?”
Grady looked up from the screen. “Your dishwasher sounds like a dying vibrator, Max. It’s sad. And it doesn’t even work. Where’s your wallet?”
Max pulled it out of his pocket and handed it over.
Grady took out his credit card and put it on the table.
“First of all, I have no idea what a dying vibrator sounds like. I’m a responsible adult and my toys are always charged—”
“It sounds like your dishwasher,” Grady interrupted. He navigated to the dishwasher reviews section of the Consumer Reports website. “Which doesn’t work and also might explode at any moment, Mr. Responsible Adult.” He screenshotted the three top-rated models and opened a browser window to find the nearest appliance store that did installation.
“Second of all….” Max sat down at the table again. “Are you researching dishwashers for me?”
“No.” Grady scrolled down the site and started entering Max’s credit card information.
“No?”
“I am researching dishwashers for me, because if I ever have to hear this noise again, I’m going to kill someone, and they don’t have hockey in jail.” He looked up from his phone. “What’s your game schedule? I need to give them a delivery window.”
Max got up again and pulled a schedule off the fridge. Grady glanced at it and then finished the transaction and handed Max his credit card back. “Congratulations. Your new appliance will arrive next Tuesday.”
“I’ll make sure to send out an announcement,” Max said faintly. He was looking at his wallet like it might bite him.
“I expect to be named godparent.” Grady glanced at the time and grimaced. He still had to pack for the trip. “I gotta get going. Thanks for breakfast.”
Max waved it off without looking at him. “Thanks for the ride.”
Right. Grady cleared his throat. “Well… see you later.”
Second Period
SOMEHOW MAX got through practice without skating into the boards, missing too many passes, or maiming anyone with a high stick.
He got home without incident too, which was great because El would kill him if he caused any injury to the daddy of her unborn child.
But Max’s good fortune ended there.
How had he let this happen? This thing with Grady had gotten out of hand. Max had signed up for hot mutual orgasms as a much-needed pressure release valve on the stress of a hockey season. He wasn’t prepared for Grady Armstrong sitting at his kitchen table, researching which dishwasher to get and then taking care of the chore in minutes, like Max hadn’t been putting it off for months. Like it was nothing.
Like Max hadn’t gone and fallen completely in love with him, after sliding into it by reluctant degrees over the past month and a half.
“Hello? Max?” Hedgie poked his shoulder, and Max jolted back to the present—his car, in his driveway, with his best friend. “Are we gonna talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
Hedgie turned to face him. “You didn’t take the bus home last night, which means you hooked up in Philly. There was a car in your driveway this morning with Pennsylvania plates. Oh, and there’s a handprint-shaped bruise on your ass. Or did you miss all the chirping in the locker room earlier?”
Fuuuuuuck. Max slumped in the driver’s seat and put a hand over his face. The panic he’d sublimated all morning surfaced with a vengeance. “I did something really dumb.”
Hedgie exhaled audibly. “Physical dumb or emotional dumb?”
When Max laughed, it came out tinged with hysteria. “Oh, definitely both, but we had safe sex if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Fuck.” There was a thump and the SUV jolted as Hedgie’s head went back against the seat rest. “Tell me you’re not hooking up with one of the Firebirds’ girlfriends.”
Max had never been a homewrecker, but he couldn’t find the energy to be offended at the question. “Not a WAG, no.”
The interior of the SUV filled with a gradual, oppressive silence.
Then the penny dropped and Hedgie said, “Jesus fuck, Max.”
“I didn’t mean to!” He should’ve seen this coming, but he had tried to keep a lid on things. Everything would have been fine if Grady had kept treating Max like a very irritating itch he had to scratch. Max wouldn’t have gotten in his feelings about that.
Probably.
“Grady Armstrong, though?” Hedgie paused. “I’m assuming it’s Armstrong. Unless it’s another Firebird who’s not out or whatever.”
At this point Max might as well own up. “It’s Grady.”
“First-name basis,” Hedgie wailed.
“This isn’t helping.”
Finally Hedgie unclenched. “Yeah, okay, sorry. It’s been an interesting few days for surprise revelations, between you and El.”
“Oh thank fuck she finally told you.” At least Max could stop worrying he’d spill the beans.
“We’re gonna come back to why you knew before I did, but let’s focus on the crisis at hand.”
“It’s because your wife’s tits got bigger and I noticed.”
Now Hedgie was the one with his hand over his eyes. “You’re the worst gay best friend ever.”
“I’m bi,” Max said. “And my eyes work fine.”
“Max. Focus.” His tone went sober. Max slouched further. “You and Grady Armstrong. Is it serious?”
“Define ‘serious.’” Max wasn’t having this conversation in the car. “Can we go in? Gru’s probably losing his mind.”
Unfortunately Hedgie didn’t let it go once they were in Max’s kitchen, with Gru thumping his tail on the floor as Hedgie rubbed his chest. “So,” he prompted. “You and Armstrong. You were about to tell me how that happened.”
Max sighed and opened the dishwasher. “I thought he was catfishing on Grindr. We made a bet. Imagine my surprise when I showed up and it was actually him.” Ugh. There was still a ring of coffee in his favorite mug. He took it to the sink.
Hedgie’s judgmental gaze bored into his back. “And he just… went along with it.”
Max scrubbed out the mug. “I promised an orgasm.”
“Of course you did.” Hedgie paused. “You really need to get a new dishwasher.”
Not anymore, Max thought. His shoulders sagged. “Yeah,” he said. Once he explained about his appliance-related insanity, there was no going back. Hedgie would read between all the lines and judge him, because Max did something stupid and he should know better.
But at least he’d have someone to whine to. Max sighed. “You wanna call El over so I only have to go through this once? Because it’s funny you should mention the dishwasher….”
THE ROAD trip started fine.
The Firebirds downed the Ts 4–2 in regulation, and the team risked going out to the bars even though they were in Toronto, where someone always had something to say about it. Grady stuck with Coop and Zipper in a booth in the back corner and tried not to feel hunted every time one of the other guys glanced his way.
“We’re celebrating,” Coop reminded him. “Stop looking over there.”
Grimacing, Grady reached for his beer. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one whose Gatorade they want to piss in.”
“Okay, that was weirdly specific. Something we need to go to management with?”
It wouldn’t make anything better. “No.” They hadn’t done anything. He just had residual paranoia from his teenage years. He never should’ve told Jess what he overheard his teammate say. Furious, she’d told the coach, and the other player had gotten traded. Unfortunately the other guy was well-liked, so Grady got branded a traitor and a tattletale. It wasn’t the greatest year of his life. “It’s nothing new, anyway. I’m used to it.”
“You’re pissed at them when they let in more goals than you score, they’re pissed at you when you don’t score more goals than they let in. But we won, so relax.” Zipper was a pacifist when he was drunk.
Coop took the opportunity to change the subject. “Speaking of scoring. How’s that internet dating thing going?”
Zipper hooted. “Seriously, bro?”
With a poisonous look at Coop, Grady admitted, “It’s a moral support thing for Jess, okay?” That was at least sort of true, or true enough that Zipper wouldn’t care about the difference. “The ladies from her team are doing a Christmas ski trip this year and Amanda is going. I want her to get some closure. But she won’t go if she thinks I’m spending the holiday alone.”
Amanda had been Jess’s goalie.
“I always thought they’d end up together,” Zipper commented. “Teenage fantasy destroyed.”
“Dude.” Grady shuddered. “Gross.”
Zipper made a face. “Yeah, my bad. Sorry. Anyway.” He propped his chin on his hand, and for a second, he reminded Grady of Max. “Internet dating. You were about to tell us how it’s going.”
“It’s brutal,” Grady said, which led to a breakdown of the dates and much laughter on Zipper’s part.
By the end of the story, he felt lighter, distracted from team drama—until Coop swigged back the last of his bottle of beer and shook his head. “I was so sure you were finally getting laid.”
A small, very annoying part of Grady—the tattletale left over from childhood—sulked when Grady didn’t cop that he was. “Your comment on my attitude is noted. Also, fuck you.”
When Zipper had finished laughing, he leaned back in the booth, loose-limbed and smiley. “We’re gonna miss you around here, bro.”
Nights like tonight, Grady could admit he’d miss them too.
Their game in Ottawa the following night was another story.
This time Barny was starting, and he was shaky. Fletch and Taylor didn’t help; Taylor’d clearly drunk too much the night before, and he hung Barny out to dry a couple times. Only luck saved the Firebirds from going up in smoke—the Tartans hit the crossbar three times, and two shots missed by chance.
In contrast, Grady’d gotten to bed at a decent time, after just enough beer to put the situation with Max out of his mind. He felt rested. He and Coop and Zipper clicked.
They were tied at 2 going into the third period. Grady had both goals, so despite the fact that they were getting outshot two to one and their defense was as effective as wet tissue paper, spirits were high.
Coach clapped his hands as they prepared to go back to the ice. “All right, boys, let’s tighten up in our own end and help Aces here finish it off, eh?”
Half the team might not like Grady very much right now, but a potential hat trick fired them up all the same. They hit the ice for the third period with energy and confidence.
That lasted for a minute and a half. Then the Birds got caught flat-footed on a line change. On the bench, Grady barely contained a grimace as the game suddenly went from five-on-five to five-on-two.
And the two were Fletch and Taylor, who were tired from their shift and supposed to be coming off.
“Fuck’s sake,” Grady groaned as the puck hit the back of the net, a snipe from the top of the circle. A cheer went up in the arena.
Coop gave him a bracing smile. “Looks like you’re on tap for the equalizer.”
But twenty-seven seconds later, before Grady even got on the ice, the Tartans scored again, a dirty goal from inside the paint.
The Firebirds’ energy and positivity evaporated. Barny visibly tried to shake off the second goal, but he was rattled, too reactive.
It was a bloodbath.
The Tartans must’ve smelled fear, because they put another six shots on goal in the next two minutes. One of them went in, leaving the Birds trailing 5–2. At the play stoppage, Grady glanced over to the bench and saw Coach conferring with their backup goalie and their goaltending coach, but they didn’t pull Barny out.
Tough on the team, and tough on the kid, but it was the right call. Barny’d either get used to playing after he made a mistake or he’d wash out. The only way to get used to it was to do it.
It didn’t make Grady feel better when he finally caught that pass from Zipper with two minutes left and finished the hat trick. It was a beautiful pass—tape to tape, with Coop acting as a screen until suddenly he wasn’t and Grady had a clear shot. Half-clapper, top shelf, where Mama keeps the peanut butter.
But it was a meaningless goal, because the Tartans put two more in the net, one after the other.
The buzzer went seconds after Grady put the fourth goal past the goalie’s pads. Final score Tartans 7, Grady 4.
It was a team game. But wasting a four-goal night on a loss sickened him. Disgusted, he snapped his stick over his thigh and got slapped with an unsportsmanlike fine and a game suspension, even though it was after the buzzer.
He didn’t care. He tossed his stick in the trash on his way to the locker room and didn’t talk to anyone through the process of cooldown, showering, and dressing. Even Coop gave him a wide berth.
On the bus, Grady shoved his earbuds in and pressed his shoulder against the window.
Then he stared down at his phone, willing it to buzz. Max always texted him after games, usually to chirp him. At some point it had stopped being annoying and become part of how Grady unwound. Maybe Max was losing his touch.
Maybe Grady had Stockholm Syndrome.
Tonight, Max didn’t text him. That was weird. Grady didn’t think Max was constitutionally capable of ignoring a dick trick—scoring four goals in a game.
Had Max played tonight? Was he injured? Grady pulled up the NHL app and found the Monsters’ news and schedule. Max’s game had ended half an hour before his. He’d played until the end of the third period, and there was no mention of him going down the tunnel to treat an injury. Grady watched the highlights to check, but no—Max had had an assist and a hooking penalty in his team’s victory over Carolina and drew a penalty on Gorges for roughing, but it didn’t look like he’d been hurt.
Probably he was out celebrating. The Monsters were at home, and they had a day off tomorrow.
But just in case he’d gotten hurt and checking up on Grady had slipped his mind, Grady sent, Nice assist. What did you say to Gorges? Whatever it was, the guy took a hell of a swing at Max.
Grady only watched that clip once. Thinking about what could’ve happened if that hit connected differently did unpleasant things to his stomach. But Max could handle himself. He was a big boy. He knew the risks of playing a contact sport. He didn’t need Grady coddling him.
Grady didn’t even want to coddle him, and just because he didn’t want Max to get hurt didn’t mean he liked him. Hockey was just better when everyone was at their best. That was it.
When the bus pulled into the hotel parking lot and Max hadn’t texted him back, Grady huffed and turned his phone off. Whatever. He didn’t want to talk to anyone anyway.
The next day was a travel day with nothing else scheduled. Grady turned his phone on in the morning and found a text from Max from the early hours of the morning. Asked him what perfume he was wearing cuz i wanted to get some 4 my sister. Guys a douche.
Gorges was the hypermasculine type, so Grady could see that.
A few minutes after the first message, Max had sent, nice dick trick [eggplant eggplant eggplant eggplant]. Too bad the rest of ur team sux. Also wtf was that temper tantrum????
In the light of day, Grady felt childish for breaking his stick. It had seemed like a better idea than lashing out at his teammates, but it made him look like a sore loser with an anger management problem. And sure, he didn’t like losing, but dealing with losses maturely was part of the game.
Breaking his stick was not mature. Sulking alone in his hotel room and not speaking to anyone probably wasn’t a great look either.
He sighed.
It really sucks to score 4 goals for nothing. But I should’ve handled it better.
He didn’t expect a response right away, but a moment later, his phone buzzed. Fuck it id have done the same. Cant even celebrate a dick trick. Fuckin travesty.
The Grady from a few months ago would have recoiled in horror that today’s Grady found comfort in that.
Today’s Grady opted not to think too much about it and went down to breakfast.
After they checked into their hotel in Quebec City, he called his sister.
Jess didn’t bother answering with hello. “You want to talk about the four goals or the suspension?”
“Neither. Fuck.” Grady slumped against the headboard. “Talk about something else, please.”
“Oh God, you must be feeling pretty dumb. You know the rules, Grades.”
He groaned. “You’re not even going to take pity on me after I got suspended?”
