Unrivaled, page 28
Grady puffed out his cheeks. He wanted to say No, come over tonight. But he shouldn’t. He didn’t want to wonder if he’d have had a better night’s sleep with Max out of the house, or if Max had sabotaged him somehow. He knew Max wouldn’t, but he didn’t trust himself not to have a weak moment and blame Max anyway, and ruin everything.
“Tomorrow,” Grady said. “Bring your A game.”
Overtime
WHEN MAX walked into the Fishtank for his first home game, he could feel the electricity in the air crackling along his skin.
The locker room buzzed with anticipation. Max was buzzing too, not only with anticipation but with nerves. The last time he’d played against Grady, things had gone to shit. He needed tonight to go well to prove to himself—and Grady—that playing on rival teams wasn’t a deal-breaking obstacle for their relationship.
No pressure.
Bishop bumped his fist as he headed into the workout room for the first part of his warmup routine. “Ready for this?”
Guess we’ll find out. “Always.”
Bishop climbed onto the exercise bike next to him. “You want to give me a real answer?”
Max gave him a sideways glance. “I’m saving that for media.”
Snorting, Bishop slipped his AirPods in and let Max stew in peace.
After a few minutes on the bike and another ten of two-touch, Max felt more like himself. It helped that the Fish were a young, energetic group and only took themselves as seriously as they needed to and that Baller had shown up with his walking boot and was offering advice from the sidelines.
“Don’t forget to make a lot of stick jokes. Oh—you could mention how you’re going to try to keep his stick tied up.”
Max feigned a long-suffering expression and turned to Bishop. “What’s he even doing here?”
“Hey! I’m moral support.”
“Lockhart.” Their PR person poked their head out into the hallway. “You’re up.”
Bishop crossed himself. “Go with God, my son.”
Max replied with a much ruder gesture.
It was easier sitting in the hot seat only having to think about Grady’s reaction and not the team’s.
The first question came from Piranhas beat reporter, Craig MacLeod. “Are you looking to start something tonight to get the team fired up?”
“I think the team’s plenty fired up already, and it turns out I play better when I’m on the ice instead of in the box, so… no, I’m not going looking for trouble. But it usually finds me anyway.”
He laughed.
“This is your first home game as a Piranha. What do you want to accomplish tonight?”
Max scratched at his chin where he’d nicked himself shaving. “That’s a good question. I think last game I finally started to find my groove on the team, started scoring goals again, sort of fit what I can do into the system the Piranhas play, which is different from what I’m used to. So I’m looking to continue that and hopefully give the fans a good show.”
“Max, how do you respond to Armstrong’s comment that you must have missed his face?”
Oh, an easy one. Max put on his most innocent expression. “Guess I’ll aim higher next time.”
That was the last question for the session. Their beleaguered PR person gave him a look once they’d ushered everyone else out. “We might have to revisit that ‘say what you want’ rule.”
In fairness to Max, he could’ve been talking about not spearing Grady in the dick instead of giving him a facial. He wasn’t, but the internet didn’t have to know that.
Half the arena booed when the Condors hit the ice for warm-ups, but they made enough noise to fill the space. Max laughed, invigorated all over again, and raised his stick in a salute when he took his own first lap on home ice. Half the arena booed him too, but the other half drowned them out.
Someone near the Condors’ bench had a poster of a bird with a fish in its talons. A few seats down, a fan had rendered a Piranha chowing down on a chicken leg. Max grinned at them and tossed them a puck.
Around center ice, someone was holding a sign that depicted a muscular arm wrapped in chains and secured with a heart-shaped lock. Clever. The legend read LOCK IT DOWN, MAX.
Kind of early, but Max would take the suggestion under advisement. He winked at the fan holding the sign and skated back to start the shootout drill.
“How’d you get popular so fast?” one of his new teammates asked, mouth twisted with barely contained humor.
I sucked Grady Armstrong’s dick. “Must be my sparkling personality,” Max told him, and snagged a puck for his shot on net. It went bar-down. Perfect.
Max wouldn’t shoot again for a minute, so he looped up to center ice to peek at the Condors.
Grady was stretching near the center line, and he glanced up as Max snowed to a stop next to him. “Really?”
“Gotta give the fans something new to talk about,” Max told him cheerfully.
With a dead-eyed expression, Grady wiped ice shavings off his eyebrow and flicked them at Max. “Aim higher, huh?”
“You can get me back later.”
When Grady made a vaguely threatening motion with his stick, Max laughed and skated away.
For obvious publicity reasons, Max and Grady took the opening faceoff. The ref eyed them both with the expression of a man facing the gallows. “I don’t suppose I can talk the two of you into a nice clean game.”
“You could try,” Max offered.
Grady chomped his mouthguard and rolled his eyes.
The ref sighed. “That’s what I thought.”
Then the puck dropped.
Max won the faceoff by the skin of his teeth. The crowd roared as he regrouped around Bishop to follow the puck into the offensive zone.
Bishop dropped the pass back to Max, in perfect position to screen his shot. But Grady collided with him before he could pull the trigger.
The impact knocked Max’s breath out of him, but it also made him laugh. Of course. He should’ve expected nothing less. Grady only played to win, even if that meant Max got steamrolled.
It was on.
Max’s shot went wide. A Condors defenseman collected the puck from behind the net, and now Max and his team were chasing.
As Max burned toward the defensive zone with Bishop, something finally clicked. Max had spent almost two weeks on third line waiting for this feeling. Tonight he was getting his first shot at first line, and he belonged here.
And by the end of the night, everyone in this arena would know it.
The game got physical fast, not with fights, but with questionable checks and raised elbows. Max kept his head up and his elbows in and didn’t run anyone into the boards, mindful of Barry’s admonition in Winnipeg—Your job here isn’t to draw penalties, it’s to score goals. Don’t get injured. And stay out of the box.
Max stayed out of the box. Damned if he was going to stay out of the box score.
The Condors drew first blood with a goal five minutes in, Grady from Barclay—the one he called Dawg. Instead of letting it ruin his night, Max let it fuel him.
Three shifts later he roofed the puck on a one-timer, and the Fishtank erupted in cheers. Bishop slammed into his side with a whoop and bellowed, “Fresh Fish!”
“BEWARE THE FISH!” the fans chanted. “BEWARE THE FISH!”
Laughter bubbled out of Max’s throat as the sound of it washed over him. Beware the Fish. And he was one of them.
“Nice goal,” Bishop said. “Let’s get another one.”
In the meantime, they had their hands full keeping the Condors from scoring again. Max might be keeping his elbows in and the butt end of his stick to himself, but that didn’t stop him from laying legal hits.
“Hey babe, miss me?” he chirped his usual line as he slammed his body into Grady’s, sweeping his stick out in front to try to get to the puck.
Grady responded with a variation on his own theme. “Maybe if you went away and gave me a chance—” He passed the puck, and Max didn’t have a reason to hang on him anymore.
Not until after the game, anyway.
Grady’s linemate scored again in the middle of the second. Both teams were rolling, and Max could already tell he had half a dozen shiny new bruises. Grady wasn’t the only one who’d laid a hit on him, though Grady’s had probably been the most legal.
Every time Max returned the favor, Barclay gave him the evil eye. Max blew him a kiss.
The Fish tied the game again, and Max added another goal eighty-three seconds later. So he knew, going into the third, that there’d be a target on his back.
Max’s line didn’t play against Grady’s every shift. Nothing in hockey lined up that perfectly. But they played each other often enough for Max to lay another good hit early in the period, two shifts after Grady got away with holding Max’s stick to keep him from taking a pass.
Max couldn’t be mad about it, since it was Grady’s job to get away with it, but he could retaliate.
He just didn’t expect to turn half a second later and find Barclay’s fist zooming toward his face.
Max dodged the first wild punch. Barclay was clearly an inexperienced fighter, because he’d left his gloves on and his footing sucked. But now his gloves came off and he grabbed the sleeve of Max’s jersey with his left hand and swung again.
A solid part of Max’s career had been built on his ability to take punches. Normally, though, he got more warning, and his opponents were players his own size and not teenagers who were 97 percent hormones by volume, and too hotheaded to give their opponents time to drop their gloves.
Max might not have the same soft hands as Grady, but they worked a hell of a lot better when his fingers weren’t broken. He preferred not to test them on other people’s faces—especially not guys like Howard Barclay, who’d grown out of his baby fat without growing into the ability to build muscle. If Max hit him, he’d go down like a sack of potatoes.
The second punch caught the side of Max’s jaw and knocked off his helmet.
Somewhere a whistle blew. Max knew the linesmen were making a beeline for them, ready to break up the fight.
But he recognized the fury in Barclay’s eyes, and he’d need a couple teammates to pull him back. Meanwhile, Max didn’t want a concussion.
So he shucked his own gloves and twisted his arm out of Barclay’s grasp. For the first time, reality intruded on whatever was going on in the kid’s mind. Max saw the oh shit flash in his eyes.
Then he grabbed the front of Max’s jersey instead, and fine, he asked for it. At least he still had his helmet on. Max hooked an ankle behind the kid’s leg, knocked him to the ice on his back, and then followed him down in an undignified heap.
“You fucking asshole!” Barclay shouted. “You piece of shit!”
What the fuck. “Simmer down, kid.” What did Max do?
Barclay was still trying to hit him, though with Max essentially sitting on him, the blows landed against his pads. It probably hurt Barclay more than Max.
It felt like an eternity passed before they separated, with the bewildered linesmen helping Max up while a couple of Barclay’s teammates held his arms and tried to talk him down. One of them was Grady, who was bleeding from the nose.
“Did I do that?” Max asked under his breath as the ref sent Barclay down the tunnel. That would explain part of why Barclay went apeshit.
With a grimace, Grady swiped away some of the blood. “No, which is why you’re not in the box.”
Max blinked at him. Why was he so pissed off? “So then how….”
Grady pressed his lips together in a thin line. “Watch the replay.”
So he was definitely pissed. Fantastic.
At least the game was almost over.
The refs called three more penalties in the last eight minutes, but the outcome didn’t change—the Piranhas pulled out a 3–2 victory. Max hardly took any satisfaction in it. What had just happened didn’t make any sense.
Somehow he managed to answer a handful of media questions after the game. By the time he’d showered and dressed, the rest of the team was making plans to go out to celebrate.
Max took advantage of their planning to send a message to Grady. R u ok? wtf was that with ur captain?
Grady hadn’t replied by the time Bishop ruffled Max’s hair and said, “You’re coming. Hero of the hour and all that.”
He should. A little hometown team bonding would be good for him, and it might stop him from obsessing over his phone all night.
“Obviously.”
“Nice. Baller found this new place—”
It figured that Baller had become the de facto social coordinator.
Max made the most of his night out. A little alcohol, a few ridiculous stories, rookies being rookies, good music, and good atmosphere should have had him feeling fine. He didn’t have to put on a show for these guys; they were young and fun and had Baller for that. Max only had to sip his beer and follow along and laugh when the occasion called for it, which was often because Baller was kind of a drama queen.
But he couldn’t entirely keep the situation with Grady out of his mind, and he kept checking his phone. Finally, a little over an hour after Max had texted, Grady sent, I’m fine. It’s a long story. Talk to you tomorrow?
Max released a breath, but the knot in his shoulders didn’t go with it. He wished Grady had used a different word than fine. He wished Grady would just talk to him now so he could stop worrying about it. Not that Max was in a very good place to talk, between the alcohol and the volume in the bar.
He hunched his shoulders and reached for his drink. If it was this hard to talk to each other after a regular season game, how the fuck were they going to manage if they had to play against each other in the playoffs?
GRADY CAME out of his meeting with the coach in a black mood that he knew showed all over his face.
Showering didn’t help, but at least he’d missed any postgame interviews.
He texted Max, feeling guilty the message had sat there so long while Grady endured a mortifying conversation, but the last thing Grady wanted to do now was talk about it some more.
In Philly, the guys on the team would’ve taken one look at Grady and studiously ignored him.
Farouk assessed him head to toe and said, “You need a drink. I’m buying.”
Grady didn’t want a drink. He wanted to go home and get into bed and pull the blankets over his face. But Jess was still there, and she’d never let him get away with it.
Fuck, they’d come to the game tonight. He was definitely going to hear about it if he went home.
So he sighed and said, “Fine.”
“Sweet.” Farouk patted his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
But alcohol did not solve Grady’s problem. He stopped trying—and drinking—after the second beer and debated getting up and going home to face the music. Sooner or later he was going to have to read his texts from Jess anyway. But he was supposed to be entertaining the friend of the woman Farouk was trying to chat up, and he was aware that as an openly gay guy he was already not the ideal candidate for wingman. He didn’t want to leave Farouk hanging, or this girl bored out of her mind while Farouk flirted. He didn’t want to make the same mistakes he’d made in Philly and end up essentially friendless.
Across the table from him, Emily eyed Farouk and her friend, then leaned toward Grady. “Do you think they know they’re adults and they can leave the bar and fuck whenever they want?”
At least he had good company. That made him laugh, which caused Farouk and Janelle to look over.
They didn’t have to look that surprised about it, Grady thought. He hadn’t actually tried to bite anyone’s head off tonight unless you counted Dawg, but that had been in private and Dawg deserved it.
Except it turned out they weren’t looking at Grady at all but past him, and Farouk’s demeanor went from “charming pro athlete looking to get laid” to “alarmed pro athlete about to drag his teammate out of a fight.”
Grady turned around half expecting an angry fan—
And got an eyeful of angry Max instead.
“Hey,” Max said, way too belligerent for a guy whose team had won tonight’s game. “You can’t be here.” He frowned. “We were here first.”
Grady looked at him and then back at Emily, who wasn’t even pretending she didn’t find this conversation fascinating. The phrase it’s a free country came to mind, but just because Max was drunk didn’t mean Grady had to get down on his level.
The second thing that occurred to him was yeah, well, we were here second, which was not any better. Instead he said, “Hi, Max.”
What he said didn’t matter anyway, because Max continued talking over him. “You don’t get to just, just, just be mad at me and not talk to me and then show up at my bar!”
Mad at him? Grady had texted and said they’d talk later! “I know this is going to come as a shock, but not everything is about you.”
“Fuck you,” Max said. “You’re mad at me! I could see it in the game! You had the face, with the eyes, and the thing your jaw does when I’m annoying—”
Grady clenched his teeth.
“See!”
Farouk cleared his throat. “Maybe you should take this elsewhere,” he suggested. “Before you get more of an audience.”
Fuck. Angelenos were great about not giving a fuck who you were, but even if the participants weren’t famous, a public argument would draw attention. Who could resist the chance to eavesdrop? Especially when Max was making it so easy.
With a huff, Grady stood from the table. “Come on. Let’s talk.”
The almost cold night air felt good. Maybe it would sober Max up into a semi reasonable person. Grady could hope, at least.
“You said you were fine, but you’re not fine! You’re pissed!” Max accused. “How are we supposed to, like, have a relationship if you’re pissed off at me when I do my job?”
“I’m not pissed off at you!” Grady said.
“Then why are you yelling!”
Grady made a grand sweeping gesture with both arms. “Gee, Max, I don’t know. Maybe I’m a little testy because my teenage captain lost his fucking mind on the ice tonight and started a fight with my boyfriend because he doesn’t like it when you throw legal checks! Maybe it’s really fucking embarrassing when a nineteen-year-old tries to defend your honor in a stupid macho sport!”
