Unrivaled, page 14
“Your own dumb temper got you suspended. Pay the piper and prove you’re holding up your end of the deal.”
Grady could’ve made up dating horror stories, but he wasn’t that creative, and it had been a while since he filled her in. He’d been doing all his venting to Max instead.
He had just finished regaling her with the story of Byron—his actual wallet name; Grady made him prove it—whose most fervent ambition was to be a sugar baby, when Jess asked an apparently burning question.
“So, okay, wait, did you sleep with any of these guys? Have you been shelling out money to hang with losers without even getting laid for your trouble? You didn’t meet even one guy worth testing the mattress springs with?”
That made him sound pathetic. “There was one guy,” he said before he could think better of it.
“Uh-huh, all right, I’ll bite. And what did you do on your date?”
Fuck. Grady closed his eyes. “American Ninja Warrior gym.”
“What?” She sounded aghast. “Grady Armstrong! How could you keep this from me? That sounds amazing!”
“It wasn’t that great.”
“Why?” Jess asked astutely. “Did he beat you?”
Fuck. Technically, he kind of had. “Uh—”
“Oh my God!”
“He cheated.”
Jess laughed so hard Grady thought she might choke. Finally her chuckles tapered off and she gasped, “This is incredible. Oh man. Okay. What did you say this guy’s name was?”
“Shithead.”
She howled. “All right, we’re coming back to that. But this is the guy you slept with?” She paused. “I guess that makes sense.”
Grady was pretty sure he was going to regret asking, but he did anyway. “How do you figure?”
“I know you. He outperformed you in an athletic setting? You wanted to put him in his place. Uh.” Now she sounded like she wanted to eat her words. “Not in, like, an abusive creepy way, just in a maladaptive competitive man way.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thanks.”
“So anyway, you slept with Shithead. It was hot, right?”
Well, it wasn’t like he was going to tell her Shithead’s real name. “Jess. It was insane.”
“Knew it!” She laughed. “So what’s the problem?”
Grady blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Why’d you bother with those other guys? Is he ugly or something?”
“No.” Actually, with the nice shampoo Grady had so selflessly provided, Max was alarmingly… presentable. He always looked kind of smug, but Grady had been conditioned into finding that attractive. “He’s just an asshole.”
“Sounds perfect for you.”
“Oh, fuck off. Come on, I told you mine. Distract me, for the love of God and hockey.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Jess relented. “Fine. First things first, though—you’re so lucky gay guys don’t bring up IVF on the first date.”
Grady whistled. “Wow. And I thought the U-Haul joke was an exaggeration.”
“It is—sometimes. Okay, let’s see. I’ve had three dates since I gave you the rundown. The first one lied about her age and it was so obvious. Like, child. There’s no universe in which I believe you’re a day older than twenty-three.”
“Jess, you dog.”
“That’s too young. I am literally old enough to be her mother. Gross.”
He smiled and let her voice wash over him. At least for a few minutes, the shitshow with his team took a back seat to someone else’s dating drama.
And then she got to the part where she said, “But, like, I don’t know. Maybe I should cancel the whole trip.”
“No!” Grady blurted. He hadn’t realized she’d been getting so down about it. “Jess, come on. You’ve needed this closure for actual years.” He’d always felt partially responsible for her breakup with Amanda, which had happened a few months after their parents died. Twenty-five-year-old Jess should have been living her own life, not driving Grady to practice, making sure he went to therapy, and helping him with his homework.
She groaned. “I know. I know. But, like, part of me doesn’t want it.”
And here he thought she’d been making progress—she’d at least agreed to date, to make an effort, to try. She wanted something to insulate her from her past with Amanda. “Hey, come on. You’re not going to go back on your promise, are you? I suffered fake ice cream for this.”
“No, you’re right,” she relented. “Personal growth is supposed to suck. I’m just venting.”
It didn’t sound that way to Grady. A suspicion formed in his mind. “Don’t tell me you’re still…?”
Jess blew out a breath. “I don’t know, Grades. I feel pathetic about the whole thing. Like, it was fifteen years ago.”
“Did you ever think about telling her you still, you know…?”
“Of course I thought about it. But every time I started to get up the nerve to say something, she’d have another girlfriend. I’m not gonna be that girl, you know?”
He knew. “The heart wants what it wants, I guess.”
Jess sighed feelingly. “Ugh.”
There wasn’t much left to say after that.
GRADY HAD spent his share of games watching from the press box. Usually he was injured, though.
This time he felt the weight of every set of eyes on him as he took his seat next to the glass to watch the game. He couldn’t decide what would hurt worse—watching his team lose and knowing they might’ve had a shot with him on the ice, or watching them win without him despite their piss-poor performance the other night.
Okay, that wasn’t true. He still wanted them to win without him, but he felt dramatic about it.
He didn’t think much about the other occupants of the Nordiques’ press box until someone sat down next to him and he recognized Baller—the Nordiques’ captain.
Grady blinked. “Did you get suspended too?”
“No.” Baller grimaced and looked over his shoulder. Right—they were literally sitting with people who got paid to write stories about them. Grady should remember that too. “Think they wanted to give a couple of the rookies another look before they send one of them back down.”
And Baller was the guy they chose to sit out instead? Grady didn’t buy it. It was only fall, but no team was going to sacrifice points like that by sidelining such an important player. They could’ve picked one of their bottom-six guys.
But if he was actually nursing an injury, he wasn’t going to tell Grady, and if something else had landed him here, it was none of Grady’s business. So he accepted the explanation at face value. “Makes sense.” It didn’t. “Whoever’s team gets scored on first buys the first round?”
Smiling, Baller held out his hand to shake. “Deal.”
Baller lost, but he was cheerful about it. “C’mon, let’s go for a walk. Better drinks in the exec lounge.”
“Oh, we’re fancy?”
“Tonight we are.”
Someone would probably comment that they weren’t at their post watching the game, but Grady decided to care about that later. He’d given his agent the go-ahead to request a trade. People were talking about him anyway.
Grady should’ve remembered Baller’s drink of choice was fancy tequila, though.
“This is the good stuff,” he promised as he handed Grady a rocks glass with a slice of orange. “Cheers.”
What the hell, right? “Cheers.”
They didn’t head back to the press box right away. Grady figured Baller didn’t want an audience, and he couldn’t blame him. They sat across from each other at a high-top in an otherwise deserted lounge. Grady raised the glass to his lips. At some point Baller had acquired good taste in tequila, at least.
Grady rolled the bottom of his glass against the tabletop, considering. “Can I ask you something?”
Baller spread his hands. “I’m an open book.”
Grady snorted. “I’ve heard that.” He sipped his tequila. “You ever sleep with someone from another team? Before you and Gabe, I mean.”
Baller gave him a wry look. “Bro, I didn’t even realize I was bi before Gabe.” Then he raised an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
No point being cagey about it. There was only one reason Grady would need to know. “I was hoping you had advice on how to keep it from getting weird.”
“Not unless you’re looking to put a ring on it.”
Grady imagined it for a second and then immediately washed the thought down with tequila. “Uh, no.”
Baller grinned at him. “Hey, don’t knock it ’til you try it.” He leaned forward in his seat. “So, another team, you say? Is it actually weird, or is it just super competitive and hot? Anyone I know?”
“I plead the Fifth.” There weren’t that many out guys in the league. Baller didn’t need any more information, even if Grady trusted him not to blab.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes to all.’” He finished his drink and set the empty glass on the table. “How’s it getting weird?”
Now that, Grady actually wanted to answer, but he struggled to put his thoughts into words. He could barely put his finger on it, even in his head. “I don’t know. It’s…. We’re not dating, and we’re not friends. But we’re sleeping together, and sometimes we talk.” He paused. “We went out for dinner once.” I slept over at his house. I’ve met his dog.
Baller’s brow creased. For a moment he didn’t say anything. That was strange—when they first met at the US men’s team development camp, holding his tongue had not been his strong point.
Finally he shook his head and said, “Hate to tell you, bud, but you’re friends.” He looked like he was going to laugh.
“Shit.”
Grady was right—he did laugh. The sound echoed in the strangely empty lounge. “You didn’t answer my question, though. Why’s it weird? Like… I don’t know, you start sleeping with somebody and your relationship changes. That’s normal. By definition, the opposite of weird.” Then he paused again and considered. “Well. Unless the relationship changes before you start sleeping together, but we can’t all do things backwards.”
Grady grimaced. “I don’t want things to change.”
“I think you picked the wrong Dekes captain for this conversation.” Dante shook his head. “Look, you don’t need my advice. I’m not older or wiser or more experienced or whatever. Any tips I could give you on maintaining a casual, uh, acquaintances-with-benefits situation would be outdated. But everything changes. I mean, you asked for a trade. Change is coming.”
Grady’s shoulders slumped under the weight of that truth. In a few weeks or months he might not have to worry about this. The Firebirds wouldn’t trade him within their division. They’d ship him halfway across the country into the Midwest or Florida or something—or even to Canada—and he could stop wondering whether he had the energy to make the hour-long drive to Newark for sex, because it wouldn’t be an hour-long drive. It’d be two, or four, or twelve.
Why didn’t that make him feel better?
Before he could worry about it, the goal horn echoed from the ice. Baller glanced up at the TV screen above the bar and grinned. “Aw, look at that—it’s your turn to buy a round.”
MAX’S TEAM was not having a good game. In the middle of the second, they were down 3–1 to the Orcas. From a puck-possession standpoint, it felt more like 30–1, thanks to Max’s teammates, who seemed determined to spend the period in the penalty box.
They finally got a breather at a commercial stoppage, and Max skated over to the bench for the ritual scolding.
Instead he got a call to arms.
“We need to break their momentum,” Coach said. “Three penalties back-to-back killed us. We need a chance to get back on top, put some shots on goal, get the crowd going for us.” He looked at Max. “Think you can draw a penalty?”
Max considered the options. Kirschbaum had an even keel, but Max might be able to goad White into doing something if he laid a big enough hit on his boyfriend.
A month ago he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Now he had a voice in his head—one that sounded annoyingly like Grady—pointing out that Max could get what he needed without hitting below the belt. So to speak.
“Put me on against Nordstrom.” The guy had a habit of escalating. If Max could sneak in a couple digs, he’d eventually retaliate with something the refs would have to call.
Coach smiled. “Attaboy.” Then he turned to the group and said, “Listen up, we’re going to change the matchups here for a minute and give Mad Max some room to make a mess….”
In the end it took Max three shifts to get under Nordstrom’s skin. The last straw was a little love tap with the butt end of Max’s stick right under the edge of his chest protector.
Nordstrom whirled on him against the boards, stick in both hands as he shoved Max’s chest. Max’s head snapped back and something in his neck spasmed. Another shove and Max went down, jarring his shoulder against the ice.
Somewhere the whistle blew. One of Max’s teammates was pulling Nordstrom away. Max stared up at the rafters and winced.
Hedgie leaned down next to him, brow creased. “You hurt?”
Yes. Nothing broken, Max didn’t think. Muscle tear, probably. But his neck screamed at him not to turn his head to the right, and his left arm had pins and needles from his elbow to his shoulder. “Roll me onto my right side,” he said through gritted teeth.
Hedgie’s eyes went wide. “Are you kidding me? If you can’t move—”
“I didn’t hurt my spine. I can’t turn my head and my left arm is fucked. Feels like I pulled everything from my neck to my delts. Help me roll over so I can get up.”
Hedgie did, and Max hobbled off the ice, half bent to keep his strained muscles as happy as possible. There was no way he could play the rest of the game. He limped off to see a trainer.
As he left the ice, he could hear the penalty announcement—number 39, Nordstrom, two minutes for cross-checking.
All this for a lousy two-minute man advantage. The Monsters better fucking score. Next time Coach could get someone else to draw a penalty.
THE NEXT two hours were misery. The trainers gave him something for the pain, but he had to have diagnostic testing just in case. In the end the doctors ruled it a partial tear and told him to take at least a week off from doing anything more strenuous than walking.
They hooked him up with muscle relaxants and painkillers and put him in a cab home. At least he wouldn’t be stranded without a car, since Hedgie had his spare key and could drive it home.
Not that Max could safely check his blind spot at the moment. Or drive under the influence of this drug cocktail. Or even bend down to give Gru some love when his precious baby came to meet him at the door.
Instead he let the dog out, waited for him to come back in, and then made his painstaking way to bed. Getting comfortable could be a challenge.
Gru climbed in with him, but he didn’t snuggle much at bedtime. He simply curled up and collapsed like all was right in the world.
Max was still low-key in pain and needed a few minutes’ distraction to let the drugs work their magic before he could sleep. He propped himself up against the headboard and put his phone on a pillow on his lap, since holding it at the wrong angle made everything hurt.
He had half a dozen unread texts from the team, everyone wanting an update on how he was and when he’d be back, and another notification from the NHL app that the Monsters had lost in overtime. At least they’d recovered some momentum.
Max didn’t want to get his hopes up, but he did anyway when he saw the unread message from Grady.
That hit looked bad. Are you okay?
It was a dumb text. Seven tiny words. It didn’t mean Grady gave a shit. Grady didn’t even like him. This was only the second time he’d texted Max first if he didn’t want something—like advice, or to bitch about one of his stupid dates. Which he was still going on—yet another reason Max didn’t need to let himself get any more invested. Grady wasn’t, and that was fine. He didn’t owe Max anything just because Max was an idiot who’d caught feelings.
But Max was an idiot who’d caught feelings, so instead of turning off his phone and going to bed—or deleting Grady’s contact and forgetting this whole thing ever happened—he typed out a reply. Rumors of my death r greatly exaggerated. Sorry 2 disappoint.
Fucking Nordstrom is a menace. He should be suspended.
Max shoved down the warm fuzzy feeling that wanted to well within him. Grady wasn’t pissed on Max’s behalf. This wasn’t some fairy-tale white-knight bullshit, and Max would hate it if it was. Grady was only stating a fact. Nordstrom’s conduct was suspension-worthy.
Ya but u know the department of player safety. What a joke.
Department of Pretending to Give a Shit. Max could almost see Grady’s bitchy face, hear his voice saying the words. I’ll let you get some rest.
Except Max didn’t think he could sleep. Eventually he plugged his phone in and tried to get comfortable. He managed to find a position that didn’t hurt, but his eyelids felt like sandbags. The rest of his body throbbed distantly.
But his brain was stuck on Grady.
The cat was officially out of the bag that he’d requested a trade. Max didn’t know how, and it didn’t really matter. It could’ve been someone in Philly’s front office or it could’ve been Grady’s agent intentionally letting other teams know he wanted to be on the market. The Firebirds didn’t have to deal him, but Max had snooped into his contract situation, and he figured they probably would. Rumor had it that they’d send him to the Anaheim Piranhas, who were looking for some offensive star power to kick their game up a notch. Grady would fit in there—not a traditional hockey hotbed, so less pressure, and with talented young teammates.
But Anaheim was on the other side of the country. The Monsters only played them twice a year. That would spell the end of their casual hookups.
Maybe that was for the best, though. Then Max would have to get over it.
That was what Hedgie thought he should do. El was on the fence, possibly because her pregnancy hormones had made her extra invested in his sex life. “Grady Armstrong is the guy who edged you for half an hour in his hotel room in Toronto?”
