Unrivaled, page 4
Fuck, that was probably part of Max’s plan all along—throw Grady off his game with sex, then humiliate him by sending him out into the world in a Team Canada T-shirt that smelled like Max.
After he made his graceless escape, Grady put on his sunglasses and speed-walked with his head down to the nearest shop, where he bought a Toronto Raptors shirt. He was thankful the clerk was too busy looking at her phone to pay him any attention.
He took the long route back to his hotel. He needed the exercise to clear his head.
What had he been thinking? No, this wasn’t the first time Grady’d hooked up with someone from another team, but it was the first time he’d done it with someone he actively disliked. Maybe the reality wasn’t as dramatic as sports media liked to pretend, but archnemesis was only an exaggeration because neither of them had superpowers.
And now Grady was spiraling because he’d handed Max a free pass to get into his head whenever he wanted. For what? A hand job in a deserted hallway? Had he lost all self-respect?
It was a good hand job, though. That annoyed him. Maybe he had a previously undiscovered public sex kink or something. Maybe he’d been getting off on being kind of mean to a guy he didn’t like. Grady didn’t get rough with his partners. He was a big guy, and it wasn’t the kind of thing he’d do with someone he just met. Even when he hooked up with other players, they went pretty easy. The last thing anyone wanted was a sex injury keeping them out of the lineup. And honestly… he’d never thought about it.
It figured that Max would be into a little pain with his pleasure. Ruining Grady’s life by making him realize Grady was into giving that to him was probably a bonus.
Grady needed to stop thinking about it. He had a game tomorrow. He couldn’t be up all night dissecting what it meant that Max Lockhart gave him a hand job and he liked it. It meant he had a dick and enjoyed having someone else touch it for once. The end.
Focus on the game.
That reminded him. He called up highlights from the Canada-North America game and scanned through until he found Chen’s hit on Max.
Oof. That was a big hit, all right. Grady smiled to himself as Max went ass over teakettle. Should’ve kept his head up. Rookie mistake.
He was still smiling at it when the Team USA group chat notification lit up with an invitation to meet for drinks and second dinner at the hotel bar.
Grady understood team bonding was important, especially for short tournaments like this. He’d just sucked at it ever since his first year of junior hockey, when he’d caught a teammate mocking him behind his back for being an orphan.
But he did need to eat again, and the invitation came from Dante Baltierra—Baller—who Grady had known since his parents were still alive, and who’d sat outside development camp with him after he got the news so he wouldn’t be alone while he waited for Jess to show up.
Hockey players being hockey players, neither of them mentioned it again, but Grady wouldn’t forget it. Nor would he forget the—well, balls it took to be one of the league’s first out players, paving the way for Grady’s much quieter and less dramatic exit from the closet of professional sports.
For one thing, Baller would never let anyone forget it. He’d appointed himself the league’s queer mascot.
Grady always tried to pick up the tab when they got together as a means of saying thanks.
Unfortunately, this time when he showed up, it was him, Baller, Tom Yorkshire, and Jack Hedgewood.
He considered turning around.
Baller must’ve seen it in Grady’s face, because he said, “Relax, Ace. Hedgie doesn’t bite. Unlike his teammate.”
Hedgewood played for the New Jersey Monsters with Max. Considering how much the league loved to play up the rivalry between Grady and Max, he didn’t have to guess who Baller was referring to.
Actually, he doesn’t bite, but it turns out I do, Grady thought, and was immediately appalled. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said, but he mustered a smile.
Grady didn’t know Hedgewood as well as he knew the other two. He’d played with Yorkie on the national team over the years. Hedgewood was a little younger, and various injuries and schedules had kept them from being on the US team at the same time.
But Hedgewood held out his hand for a fist bump and said, “Hey, we’re all competing under the same flag. Until the preseason. Then we’ll crush you.”
Grady laughed and bumped his knuckles. “Guess we’ll see.”
“First we gotta beat Finland,” Yorkie pointed out as he clapped Grady on the shoulder. “Eyes on the prize, boys.”
The four of them squeezed into a booth, and Grady ended up having a nice night, even if he had to rely on Hedgie for conversation because Baller and Yorkie spent the evening exchanging pictures of their kids.
Grady debated taking out his own phone. He’d been considering getting a dog, and maybe Hedgie would have a comment on the offerings at his local animal shelter. But he knew he’d never actually go through with it. He hated the idea that something he could love so much could have such a short life. Besides, considering the number of obscene pictures that had ended up on his phone since Jess installed that stupid app, showing his screen to anyone was probably a bad idea. He kept his phone in his pocket.
By the time he got back to his room, he’d regained his equilibrium. So he fucked around with Max Lockhart. That wasn’t any worse an indiscretion than spearing him in the ribs last time they played each other.
The bruises were even smaller this time… if also more visible.
But he did need to deal with his phone, because it was only a matter of time before he accidentally gave someone an eyeful of someone else’s junk.
So, after his bedtime routine, he shoved down the covers of the hotel bed, propped himself up on his pillows, and prepared to deal with Grindr.
Or he tried to prepare, anyway. Every time he thought he’d figured out how to delete his profile, he accidentally touched something and ended up looking at another poorly lit dick pic, or reading a horny sext from someone who couldn’t spell, or—most exasperating—getting accused of catfishing.
It took him a couple minutes, but he managed to delete his profile picture. He was pretty sure he could delete the app from somewhere else, but would that get rid of the pictures in his phone? Shit.
Grady knew how to use his phone, but he’d never used a dating app, and after this he never wanted to again. If he wanted to see someone’s dick, he’d ask.
He was about to give up when a familiar username flashed in his messages.
MXLmillions. He should’ve guessed that’d be Max’s handle. It seemed obvious now.
The first message was just a shot of the side of his neck, the string of bruises Grady left with his mouth.
The second read my team thanks u 4 giving them something 2 talk about @ dinner.
For a few seconds, Grady stared at his own handiwork. Apparently he’d been very… focused. Looking at the picture, he could almost taste the salt of Max’s skin.
Then the annoyance kicked in. What the fuck. You better not have told them anything. The last thing Grady needed was to have to deal with stupid chirps about this.
And maybe he wasn’t exactly proud of the way he felt about those marks on Max’s neck. He didn’t regret it, he just didn’t need the whole universe knowing Grady was the one who put them there.
Ya I definitely told team Canada I slept with the enemy. Max followed that with an eye roll emoji. Relax. U didn’t invent discretion.
Obviously, because if he had, he’d have used it to not sleep with Max Lockhart. Whatever, he sent back.
Then he turned his phone off before he could get drawn into anything else. Like looking at that picture again.
Once was more than enough.
GRADY THOUGHT his own regrets were sufficient punishment, but then they dropped the game against Team North America in overtime, off an unbelievable goal from Eric Chen, who dodged around three Americans like he was playing Chel, passed to his rushing teammate, and picked up the rebound without stopping.
“What the fuck, Yorkie?” Grady asked. “Did you teach him that?”
“I fucking wish.”
Their next game, the last of the round robin, was against Canada.
Grady had a love-hate relationship with US-Canada games. Love, because they tended to be great hockey since both teams had deep talent pools to draw from. Hate, because Canadians thought they owned the game and took every win as proof. The only thing worse than losing to Canada in an international tournament was losing to Canada in an international tournament that took place in Toronto.
Which was why Grady didn’t intend to lose.
Do not take a penalty, he reminded himself in warm-ups. Whatever he says to you, you cannot take a penalty.
Grady was on his fifth warmup lap and his hundredth repetition when a stick brushed his legs at center ice.
Fuck.
He sprayed to a stop. He’d only look more petty if he didn’t. “What do you want, shithead?”
Max leaned on his stick and batted his eyelashes. “Aw, baby, why you treat me so mean?”
Grady gave him a flat look. “How long do you have?”
Max barked with laughter. “Hey, if I tell you to suck my dick during the game, will they suspend me? Like, how does that work if it’s a sincere invitation?”
Fuck’s sake, Grady thought. “Try it and find out.”
Then he skated away to get his head in the game.
The minute the puck dropped, Grady knew it was going to be one of those games he loved.
The teams were well matched, with more scoring power on the American side balanced out by an absolutely psychotic Canadian goaltender. Grady would’ve had to dislocate every joint in his body to make half those saves. The guy was part jellyfish.
Coach kept matching Grady’s line with Max’s, which Grady expected—the NHL higher-ups probably told him to. Grudge matches were good for viewership. Grady braced himself for Max to say something horrible, but by the end of the first period, he hadn’t come up with anything newly disgusting.
With two minutes left until the buzzer, Grady’s line was out trying to increase their one–nothing lead. He kept his head up going into the corner after the puck, but he could feel Max’s gaze on the back of his neck. He gritted his teeth. Don’t take a penalty.
A second later Max’s shoulder slammed into his. “Hey, bud, didn’t your mom warn you your face would stick like that?”
Grady gritted his teeth harder and shoved him back. “Thought you liked my face.”
Max dug at the puck, but Grady had it trapped between his skates. However tenacious Max might be, Grady was stronger. He flipped a pass to Yorkie, Max cursing behind him all the while.
Good.
The ensuing rush gave Grady a chance to show off. He wasn’t the flashiest guy on the ice, but he had good vision, always knew where he needed to be. Today he slipped into a gap left by two defenders in time to get his stick on Yorkie’s shot and tip the puck over the goalie’s pad.
2–0. Suck it, Canada.
He caught Max’s eye as he was crossing behind the net on his way to the group celly. Max was red-faced and narrow-eyed.
Grady smiled wider to rub it in.
For some reason, that only made Max laugh and turn back to his team, but whatever. Grady was winning. He didn’t care what was going on in Max’s head.
The second period started out chippy, and Canada scored while Baller was in the box for holding. Half a dozen more plays that should’ve been penalties went uncalled.
Including one where Grady was against the boards with Max again, with Max’s stick hooked around his ankle while Max kicked at the puck. “Hey, so I was thinking—”
Fuck it. Nothing was getting called in this game. Grady brought his elbow back and Max’s breath whooshed out.
But he didn’t back off. “There’s a great little food cart outside my hotel. Let me treat you to a sausage—”
Grady snorted in spite of himself.
That moment of distraction was all it took. Max worked the puck off Grady’s stick and took off down the ice. It was in the back of the US net two seconds later.
Fuck.
Max clipped Grady’s shoulder as they skated back toward their respective benches, and winked when Grady glowered at him.
Grady couldn’t let that slide. He brooded a little in the locker room when the period was over, which prompted Baller to tap his shins. “Eyes on the prize, Ace. Where’s your head?”
In the arena hookup basement, also known as his own personal hell.
Grady shook himself. “Sorry. I let Lockhart get to me.”
“Well, stop it.” Baller flicked him between the eyes. “You need some earplugs?”
Grady batted his hand. “No. I got it.”
“Attaboy.”
Baller’s actual pep talk was a little more dramatic, and involved standing in his stall and quoting something that might have been from The Mighty Ducks. Grady didn’t watch a lot of movies, even about hockey. Eventually someone threw a ball of sock tape at Baller, and he interrupted himself mid monologue. “Fine, you ungrateful fucks.” He threw the tape back, grinning. “Go beat Canada so I can lord it over my husband.”
Gabe Martin was retired now. Would retirement make beating your international hockey rival any less sweet—or losing to them any less bitter? Grady wasn’t sure. Maybe if he wasn’t playing, he’d simply be happy to participate in victory sex.
In the end, it turned out it didn’t matter if Baller had only been talking to himself. They peppered the Canadian goaltender with fifteen shots, but Baller was the one who poked the puck through five-hole with thirty seconds before the clock ran out. The team mobbed him behind the net as the home crowd booed.
Music to Grady’s ears—almost as sweet as the scowl on Max’s face. Maybe if Grady had less of a stick up his ass, he’d blow the guy a kiss.
Probably not, though.
With the victory, the US team secured a spot in the semifinal without having to play in the quarter. This was Canada’s first loss, so they’d take another semifinal spot. Europe would play Finland to determine the opponent for the US team, and Canada would play the winner of the Russia-Team North America quarterfinal.
Grady was just glad he wouldn’t have to face Canada or Team North America again until the final.
“We’re going out!”
Hedgie rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”
“Everybody hit the bikes. Meet back here in forty.”
Grady stuck his earbuds in, cued up his postwin playlist, and started his cooldown.
He had five minutes left to go when his phone beeped with a notification.
So hear me out.
Grady snorted. Who else would it have been?
No.
Come on. Its a good idea.
Grady doubted it. None of your ideas are good.
Thats not what the cum all over ur shirt says.
Fuck. There was a difference between something feeling good and being a good idea. But answering with that would be admitting that it felt good, and if Grady gave Max that inch, Max would throw him in the trunk of his car and gun it for the border. Metaphorically speaking. They were already in Canada.
He still hadn’t decided how to reply when Max messaged him again.
So heres my idea. If Canada wins this tournament ill suck ur dick. Your team wins, u suck mine.
Grady’s body was still buzzing with postwin adrenaline, and the image hit him low in the gut and made his dick twitch.
He shouldn’t answer. Any engagement would only encourage him.
Grady really wanted that blow job, though.
Don’t you have it backwards? Why doesn’t the winner get the blow job?
U gonna trust me w my teeth around ur dick after u beat me?
He made a good point. Grady was also more likely to feel magnanimous after winning than gracious after losing.
Besides, Max continued, a blow job is a good consolation prize.
Grady knew he should’ve turned his phone off. Fine, he messaged.
In response he got a string of smug-looking emojis and a few clasped hands. Knew ud see it my way. Cant wait 2 suck ur dick!
Grady refused to spend any brain power analyzing that message. He turned off his phone and finished his cooldown in silence.
TO SAY Max was disappointed in the outcome of the Canada-North America semifinal would have been like saying water was wet.
He couldn’t believe they’d lost to a group of children, most of whom were still on entry-level contracts. He was thankful none of the Team North America guys were on the Monsters. Their egos were going to be out of control.
On the other hand, maybe Max’s team could use some young talent. Apparently he was old and sad now.
And Canada’s loss happened after the US lost their semifinal against Europe, which meant that not only would Max not be winning the tournament and getting Grady’s dick in his mouth, he also would not be getting his dick in Grady’s.
It also meant Canada got a rematch against the US for third place, which was basically the definition of consolation prize, but Max wasn’t going to turn it down.
Unlike the last time they’d played against each other, it was boring. Max didn’t know if everyone was tired or if, like him, they couldn’t bring themselves to care enough to put everything into a match for third place. Canada won 3–2, and Max went through the handshake line without even coming up with something annoying to say to Grady. He was off his game in more ways than one.
He answered questions for the media on autopilot, and then he went back to his hotel, ordered room service, and put on the North America-Europe game. Kirschbaum was playing in full beast mode, but North America had three forwards just as good and hungry as he was, and while Europe might have more experience, North America had youth and speed on their side.
Halfway through his dinner, Max found himself rooting for North America. After all, they were basically half Canadian, so….
A thought hit him, and he blinked at the television screen. The score was tied at 1. The game could go either way. If he messaged now, he wouldn’t look too thirsty.
