Unrivaled, page 2
I’ve thrown out my whole script at this point, but I need to get something that relates to hockey, so I ask him, “Sounds like your family, uh, shows their love in a certain way…?”
He laughs out loud. “We’re all a bunch of shit-disturbers.”
I reach for another chip. My margarita is almost empty. “So your role as, let’s say an agitator on the ice—that’s something that comes naturally to you?”
Max signals our server to bring another round. He grins again, then chomps down on a nacho. “God, yeah. We were always needling each other at home. You should’ve seen my brother’s face when my little sister called him the first pancake—you know, the one that comes out a little funky because the pan wasn’t hot enough yet. Never really expected that playground skill to come in so handy professionally, but I guess it translates.”
Considering he’s drawn a penalty nearly every game I’ve watched him in, I’d guess so too. “World Cup of Hockey games can be a little different from the regular season,” I say diplomatically. What I mean is, no one’s working that hard to sacrifice their body when they’ll be playing for their regular team in three weeks. “How is your role with Team Canada different from the one you play with the Monsters?”
“Well, I’m hoping not to get punched in the face as much. Maybe score a couple goals. It’s not every day you get to play with the country’s best, so I’m looking forward to rolling with that.”
Well, sure. Who wouldn’t?
Max and I are talking like we’ve been friends for years by the time we polish off the plate and the server brings the bill. “I know I said we’d go halfsies, but I definitely ate more of the nachos,” he says as he reaches for the folder.
Who is this guy? And can we get him traded to Toronto? “I’m expensing it anyway,” I tell him.
He grins and lets me get it. “Oh, well in that case.” It feels like we’re sharing a joke.
It remains to be seen if, when the regular season starts in a few weeks, the joke’s actually on me.
IF ANYONE asked what Grady thought about the NHL’s World Cup of Hockey gimmick, he’d lie.
It originated when the NHL decided players couldn’t go to the Olympics anymore—something they’d waffled on several times since. Instead they held the World Cup of Hockey, a glorified All-Star tournament, on top of the regular one, with a bunch of made-up teams like Team North America, with the Canadians and Americans who were under twenty-three, and Team Europe, because most of continental Europe couldn’t ice a competitive team alone. But you could never say you weren’t proud to wear your country’s flag, even if it was a meaningless tournament based on money and offered as a shitty consolation prize.
“Wow, Grades.” Jess slid his beer toward herself in their corner booth at the bar. “Tell me how you really feel.”
Grady scowled slightly as he realized he’d run his mouth after all, even if Jess wasn’t just anyone. Still, he felt like a bratty kid. “Sorry. I know I’m being ungrateful—”
She snorted. “Save it. It’s nothing everyone doesn’t already know, but most people have more sense than to say it out loud.”
Grady made a face. “Cowards,” he said hypocritically.
Jess laughed, but her amusement disappeared quickly. “Anyway, I didn’t come to get you drunk or impugn Old Glory or whatever. We can get to that later.” She stirred her own drink, the ice clinking gently against the sides of the glass. “I came to ask you something.”
Grady wasn’t even buzzed, but the words sobered him. When he was fifteen and she was twenty-five, their parents died. Jess had taken on the role of his parent ever since. She’d made every sacrifice to make sure Grady got to the NHL. “What’s up?”
She traced a water droplet down the outside of her glass. “So, some of my old teammates are doing a ski trip this year.”
Some of my old teammates. That probably meant Amanda, the ex-girlfriend Jess had never gotten over. They’d broken up just after Jess and Grady’s parents died. “Sounds fun. Why are you freaking about it?”
Jess sighed, her face etched with misery. “It’s over Christmas. I don’t want to leave you alone. And this is definitely a ‘no boys allowed’ kind of event.”
They were all each other had, so they always spent the holiday together. But Jess had given up so much for him—Grady could suck it up for one year. “So I’ll find something else to do. I’m a grown man. You don’t have to take care of me forever.”
“Shut up, I do too. You’re just a baby.”
“Come on.” She never asked for anything. After fifteen years, maybe she could finally get some closure. “What do I have to do for you to be okay with going?”
Jess rattled the ice cubes in her glass of vodka soda. “God, I don’t know. Fall in love and go spend Christmas with your boyfriend’s family?”
Grady snorted. “You don’t ask for much.” Jess had opinions about his love life—or lack of one.
But a strange light had come into her eyes—the one she got when she was about to snipe the puck off his stick and embarrass him in front of all his friends—and she speared him with a sharp look. “Actually….”
Oh God. Had he given her some kind of horrible idea? “Why am I suddenly afraid?”
“I’ll make you a deal.” She sipped the last of her drink. The slurp of it echoed through her straw. “I’ll go on one condition—you have to try online dating.”
She probably thought he’d push back on that the way he’d been doing for years. But honestly, Grady didn’t even think twice about it. If this was what it took for Jess to do something for herself, it was the easiest decision he’d ever made. He held out his hand. “Deal.”
“Wait, seriously?”
“No take-backs.”
“I’m going to make you tell me about the dates.”
He could just lie to her. He wouldn’t, though, except as a last resort. She was the only family he had left. “I would expect nothing less.”
Jess eyed him with suspicion, but she finally shook his hand. “Okay.” But when the handshake ended, she left her palm out. “Now give me your phone so I can download the app.”
Despite the fact that Jess was even worse with tech than he was, Grady didn’t argue.
“That went better than I thought,” Jess said a few minutes later, when a server had brought them another round. “I was worried about it. I wanted to break it to you now instead of, like, before a game that actually counted for something.” She paused. “Although maybe you should be careful of those baby Germans. Didn’t Europe get runner-up last time?”
“That was, like, eight years ago,” Grady said, but he’d forgotten about Kirschbaum and his Hart trophy. Team Europe was absolutely capable of kicking their ass.
Jess patted his shoulder. “It’s okay. I played Olympic hockey, remember? I know the only thing that matters is beating Canada.”
Grady allowed himself a small smile. “You were never tempted to marry one of them?” There was a strong legacy of American and Canadian female hockey players marrying each other. More recently, a few male couples had joined them.
“Eh.” Jess waggled her hand back and forth, playing along. “Never seriously.” Then she propped her chin on her hand and said, “Have you?”
“Fuck no.” He laughed at the idea. “As a breed, we are horrible, gross, overly competitive assholes. Why would I saddle myself with that?”
She crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward. “What is your type, then, baby brother? Since you have such strong opinions on the topic.” She was eyeing his phone again, like she wanted to start filling out his dating profile right now.
The million-dollar question. “I don’t know, someone nice?”
For some reason that set Jess into peals of laughter.
“What?” He hunched his shoulders. It wasn’t that funny. Just because he wanted to come home from a road trip to some physical affection, someone who was easy to be around, someone he could let his guard down and relax with. What was wrong with that?
“Grades, I mean this with all the love in my heart.” She reached across the table and took his hand. “But you’re an overcompetitive asshole. What nice guy is going to sign up for you?”
Grady pulled his hand back. “Wow. Thanks for the support, sis.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I get that you don’t want every day to be a battle. Just… I don’t know. Nice is all you can come up with? I’m not saying go date someone who hates your guts and kicks puppies, but that sounds….”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Kind of a low bar?” she suggested. “Boring? Like, you don’t want a doormat, Grades. You like a challenge.”
“I challenge myself professionally. Every day.” Couldn’t he have something easy? Just one part of his life where he didn’t have to be at the top of his game all the time?
Jess shrugged. “I guess. What do I know about romance anyway, right?”
Oh God, was this conversation some kind of older-sibling-projection nonsense? “Are you having a midlife crisis?”
She gasped. “How dare you!”
“That’s not a no.”
“I see how it is.” But instead of answering the question—which was telling in and of itself—she signaled the server to bring another round.
LIKE EVERY good East Coast Canadian kid, Max grew up dreaming of playing hockey with the maple leaf on his chest.
Of course, he imagined wearing it in a tournament that mattered, but just because this one had no real stakes didn’t mean he didn’t want to win. He just wouldn’t sacrifice his body for it.
But he would bring his A game for the chirps. Team USA was playing Grady Armstrong on their first line, and there were few players Max had more fun riling. His sister, Nora, had been in town for one of their regular season games against each other, and back at his house later, they got high and giggly as they watched the replay of Armstrong in the penalty box. “No, but check out the muscles bunching in his jaw when he clenches it,” she’d half tsked, half giggled. “I mean, the look works for him, but he definitely grinds his teeth.”
“Guy’s strung way too tight,” Max agreed sagely. Then he restarted the video so they could watch him lose his shit again.
So maybe Max had had an idle fantasy or three about how to help Armstrong unwind. Or, honestly, not—he’d probably be equally good in bed cranky.
Max would’ve enjoyed the World Cup of Hockey experience either way, was the point. Go team and all that. Plus events like this were prime hookup opportunities—hockey players, hockey fans, hockey capital of the country.
Unfortunately, tonight he didn’t have the energy to hook up in person—not after practice and then drinks with the boys, and with practice again tomorrow. Putting an effort into his appearance at 10 p.m.? In this economy?
Pass.
This was why God invented Grindr.
Max flopped on his hotel bed and thumbed open the app.
He didn’t use it often. Max’s charm was more potent in person and in limited doses. He knew his strengths. But he was pretty good at taking dick pics that were sexy but still anonymous. Everybody should have a plan B.
He perused the app’s offerings.
The first three guys he passed on were like beers. Young, blond, inoffensive profiles. Not memorable or particularly potent, but they’d quench your thirst. One of them had actually posted the lyrics to “867-5309” under his profile pic, which made Max suspect he was either a douchebag or lying about his age.
Not tonight, Jenny. He swiped on to the next guy.
The following one, Jordan, was a mixed drink. Could be watered-down and flavorless, could knock you on your ass. No way to know until you took a sip. Jordan was cute, but not what Max was looking for tonight. He just wanted to get off and go to bed.
He swiped again.
… and then there was this guy. His face and dark eyes promised the potency of a shot.
The fact that it was Grady Armstrong’s face meant it was a straight-up catfish.
“Seriously, dude?” Max navigated to the message icon before his brain could even engage. Who did this guy think he was kidding? They were in Toronto. If Grady Armstrong wanted to get his dick wet, all he had to do was go outside and smile at someone.
The smiling would probably hurt him, though. It was not the guy’s natural expression. See: evidence of teeth grinding.
Max debated a handful of seconds before settling on the fishing emoticon. He followed up with nice try asshole, in case the message wasn’t totally clear.
A moment later a checkmark popped up to indicate the message had been read.
Max had intended to jerk off tonight, but getting into a fight on the internet was almost as good. He settled in to wait for the reply.
What? came through a minute later.
Eloquent. Max snorted. Gimme a break, bud. u think just cause the wcoh is in Toronto that people are gonna believe ur Armstrong? U took his headshot from nhl.com. 0 effort.
Grady Armstrong would never. Guy was the biggest try-hard Max had ever met.
What’s wrong with my head shot?
Max rolled his eyes. aside from the fact that its obviously not u? like at least crop a pic from the team’s insta or something, god damn. gimme something to suspend my disbelief on
Not my problem you don’t believe me.
What, he wasn’t going to take a candid photo to prove it? Big shock there.
It is tho. Bc I have too much self-respect to sext a guy whos catfishing as a dude with a hockey stick up his ass
That definitely sounds like a you problem.
Max laughed. He knew this was a good idea. Your loss, Fakey Armstrong. To rub it in, he scrolled through the folder of his borderline-obscene photos and sent a shot of his chubbed-up dick in his favorite pair of sweat shorts. No nudity; Max wasn’t an asshole. He wasn’t gonna send unsolicited dick pics.
Guess I’ll have to take the L since nothing I say will convince you.
Now he was getting it. Still… Max was having fun. He hated to have the whole thing end just like that. Besides, it was entertaining to pretend that Grady Armstrong did have Grindr on his phone and was somewhere in one of Toronto’s hotels, getting salty about Max chirping him. Well, Grindr profile MXLmillion—because Max had the brains to avoid accusations of catfishing and also didn’t want casual users identifying him by name—chirping him.
It was a good fantasy. Almost as good as the idle daydreams Max had about needling Armstrong until he finally gave in and fucked Max against a wall. The guy was tightly strung. Max wanted to know how hard he had to pluck to get him to snap. The sex would be phenomenal.
But in the meantime, he had to deal with Mr. Catfish.
Tell u what, Max said, because he had spent his entire life making sure he got the last word. If ur really Armstrong u can prove it. Meet me in the arena basement after the Canada/young guns game. Ill be wearing the team Canada shirt.
This time the response took longer to come through. Perhaps the guy had finally realized Max had him. What’s in it for me? he finally said.
Seriously? Was this guy new or something? If ur grady Armstrong?? An orgasm.
What’s in it for you, then?
Grady Armstrong’s dick, if Max was lucky. When I prove u are not grady Armstrong u will delete this account and stop trynna catfish horny queers.
See you then, came the immediate reply. This was followed by a row of American flag emojis.
Max laughed again and sent back a middle finger. Whoever this guy was, he was committed to the bit.
Satisfied, he set his phone on the nightstand to charge and flicked out the light.
Sleep came easily.
GRADY HAD never been in love. Jess, like any overly invested older sibling, thought this was her fault and therefore her job to fix.
When Amanda broke up with her, she was a wreck. She tried not to show it in front of Grady, but there’d been no hiding it.
Grady could admit—to himself, anyway—that it had left its mark. He’d already lost his parents. He couldn’t imagine being in Jess’s shoes and losing his partner too. It was bad enough when he overheard one of the friends he had in juniors talking to a teammate about how everyone treated Grady like he was special “just because he’s an orphan.” The betrayal still stung over a decade later. So he’d never put much effort into relationships. Grady had suffered enough losses.
But Jess didn’t have to know he was looking for a holiday date and not a happily ever after.
It was just as well that guy on the dating app only seemed to want him for sex, because what did Grady know about relationships?
It was that, more than anything, that convinced him to go through with the meetup. At this point, what could it hurt? Grady would show up, his “date” would be surprised it was actually him, and they’d have sex. At least he’d get some physical gratification out of it. Maybe he could even get in a few verbal jabs at the man who said he had a hockey stick shoved up his ass.
He considered no-showing—how was some random going to get into the arena’s basement anyway, unless he was one of the army of staff members it took to keep the place going?—but at the end of the day, his pride wouldn’t let him.
It wouldn’t let him dress up for the occasion either. Sweats and a T-shirt would do. He was an athlete. It was practically his uniform.
So half an hour before the game, Grady entered the players’ area of the arena, the same way he would if he were going to do a workout, but instead he took a left turn into a small lounge and put the game on the TV. He needed to know the competition.
The game ended in Canada’s favor. No surprise—Grady figured them for the strongest competition at the tournament. But that meant it was time to meet his mystery date.
So. He’d go, he’d have casual anonymous semipublic sex, and then he’d go out tomorrow and play hockey for his country.
What could go wrong?
