Puckless (Hockey Heroes Book 1), page 6
“After a perfect assist from Marek.” Our footsteps echoed down the hallway as the distant cheers from the arena lingered in the air.
“True, but you’re the one who sealed the deal. You know, everyone will be talking about that for weeks, right?”
“Even more than the pregame tumble?” I glanced at Nate, and we both laughed.
The door swung open as we approached the locker room, revealing our exuberant teammates within. The air was heavy with the scent of sweat and triumph, and the room vibrated with contagious energy. Laughter, shouts, and jubilant high-fives reverberated through the space as we stepped inside.
“Captain Clutch!” someone bellowed, and suddenly I found myself engulfed in a sea of sweaty embraces and backslaps.
“Way to go, Ethan!” another teammate chimed in. I was happy about the congratulations, but the victory wasn’t solely mine—it belonged to all of us.
“Great game, guys,” I proclaimed, projecting my voice above the din. “We’ve shown them the true strength of the Madison Mitts!”
“Damn right, we have!” Nate roared, his palm striking the lockers with a resounding clang.
“Let’s not forget that spectacular tumble during warm-up,” Biedler added, his laid-back, California beach-bum drawl mingling with the laughter that surged through the room. With a massive grin, I couldn’t resist joining in.
“Hey, if it brought us good fortune, I’ll take it! But in all seriousness, we poured our hearts into this game, and it paid off.”
“Here’s to more victories like this!” Nate raised an imaginary glass, and the rest of the team followed suit.
A chorus of cheers rang out through the locker room, permeating every nook and cranny with the thrill of victory. Moments like that made every sacrifice worthwhile—the grueling practices, the late nights, the aching bodies. As we basked in the euphoria of our hard-earned win, we knew that our journey to a playoff berth had only just begun.
EIGHT
RYAN
“Intense practice, huh?” Ethan’s voice was low and husky as he closed the gap between us, his presence filling the secluded corner of the locker room. I pressed my back against the cold concrete wall and tried to steady my racing heart. Sweat glistened on Ethan’s face and forehead. In the dim light, his blue eyes burned with a desire that sent shivers down my spine.
“It was—intense,” I managed to reply, whispering in the charged atmosphere.
The world around us faded into insignificance as Ethan closed the distance, his body pressing hard against mine. Heat surged through me, fueled by the urgency of a fervent kiss. It was a kiss that mirrored the passion and intensity of the game that had brought us together—the game that had become the backdrop for our forbidden connection.
As our lips locked, a storm of emotions swirled inside me. In that stolen moment, I reached out to feel the damp fabric of Ethan’s jersey clinging to his powerful chest. As I kneaded the muscle, the sensation under my fingertips confirmed the strength of our bond.
The feelings were both exhilarating and dangerous, a testament to our chemistry. As a player and a journalist—we defied the norms of the testosterone-fueled hockey world. At that moment, I craved everything within my reach—career success, a comfortable home, and, most of all, Ethan.
“Guys!” A voice shattered the spell, abruptly yanking us back to reality. Reluctantly, we broke apart, both sighing deeply as we looked around to identify the source of the voice.
“Shit,” Ethan muttered under his breath. He stepped out from the shadows into the harsh fluorescence of the locker room, and I followed him. The rest of the team stared, their expressions ranging from shock to amusement.
“Looks like the Captain’s found a new goal to score,” one player quipped, igniting laughter that echoed through the room. Heat crept up my cheeks, and my heart continued to pound in my chest, anxiety replacing the intimacy of our shared moment.
“Hey Ryan, gonna write about this in your next article?” another teammate teased, a sly smirk on his lips. He tossed a towel at me, and I caught it, attempting to play off the embarrassment. But beneath the surface, worry churned inside me. What would this revelation mean for Ethan and me? For our careers?
“Ease up, guys,” Ethan’s voice cut through the mirth, steady and firm. “We’re all on the same team here.”
“Damn straight, Captain!” Nate chimed in, the tension dissipating as the room erupted in laughter. The teasing banter was a testament to the spirit that bound the team together.
I forced a smile, but inside, my footing felt unsteady. What would it mean for us if everyone knew? And how much was I willing to risk for a chance at love in a world where the odds seemed stacked against us?
“Alright, enough distractions,” Coach Pritchard’s voice boomed, commanding attention. He clapped his hands to redirect the focus. “Let’s wrap it up and get out of here. Practice is over.”
“Ryan!” Marek slapped me on the back as he walked by, his genuine grin providing a flicker of relief. “Welcome to the family.”
“Thanks, man,” I replied, my voice steadier than I expected.
“Hey, Ryan,” another player called out, his tone laced with amusement. “Better invest in some skates. You never know when Ethan might whisk you away in the middle of a game.”
“Or at least a helmet,” Biedler else chimed in, a mischievous snicker accompanying the comment. “You’ve seen how he might fall for you.”
“Whoa, whoa,” Ethan intervened, his voice laced with playful defiance. “Let’s give it a rest. He’s not part of the team.”
“Yet!” someone shouted from across the room, provoking another wave of laughter that echoed through the locker room.
I joined in, my laughter mingling with theirs. In the lighthearted teasing, I found solace, a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, things wouldn’t be as complicated as I feared. Still—a small voice in the back of my mind remained, a nagging doubt questioning if the acceptance would extend beyond the confines of the locker room.
“Alright, men,” Coach Pritchard interjected again as the laughter subsided. “Let’s call it a day. Too much time at the arena isn’t good for anyone. I want you all rested and ready for tomorrow’s game.”
I caught Ethan’s gaze as the players gathered their belongings and approached the exit. His piercing blue eyes held warmth and affection, silently assuring me that whatever challenges lay ahead, we would face them together, step by step.
“Hey, Ethan,” I spoke up, seizing the moment as the final players vacated the locker room. “Do you think the league would react as positively to us—as the guys did?”
He tensed, his fingers drumming a nervous beat against a cold metal locker. “I don’t know—and honestly, I don’t want to find out right now.”
“Really?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice steady, my gaze fixed on him. “Why is that?”
“Because,” Ethan continued, his voice filled with a mix of determination and concern, “we have a real chance at the playoffs this season, and I don’t want any distractions to jeopardize that. Not even this.”
“Okay,” I swallowed hard, my heart sinking a bit. “I understand.” But did I? On the one hand, I admired Ethan’s unwavering commitment to the team. On the other, keeping it all in the dark made it feel a little like a shared dirty secret.
“Watch out, guys!” Biedler called out during the next day’s practice, breaking the ice with a playful shout. “Captain’s got his sights set on a new target!”
“Make sure you don’t let him score,” a player named Mike said with a teasing wink. “We all know how he gets when he scores.”
Laughter rippled across the rink. They were teasing, but it didn’t sting. It felt like a warm embrace, an affirmation of their genuine care for both of us.
“Alright, alright,” Ethan rolled his eyes, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Enough with the chirping. Let’s focus on the game.”
I stood at the ice’s edge, observing the lighthearted banter and the chuckles mingling with the crisp sound of skates gliding across the surface. I knew it might be my last practice to watch for a while. I had already emailed my editor requesting a discussion about the feature article.
After practice, I sat on the bench in the empty locker room, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts. The echoes of laughter and camaraderie reverberated in my head, reminding me that the team was more than just a collection of athletes playing a game. They were a family, and for the first time, I felt like I might belong to a tribe of sports warriors.
“Hey,” Ethan’s voice broke through my reverie as he sat beside me on the bench. “You okay?”
I chewed on my lip. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just—I’ve been thinking about the article.”
“Ah,” Ethan’s face fell slightly as his eyes searched mine. “What about it?”
“I don’t think I can write it anymore.” I turned away to avoid his steady gaze while I continued. “I mean, not without betraying what we have here. Your team—they’ve welcomed me with open arms, and I don’t want to risk undermining that by writing some sensational exposé. Besides, it wouldn’t be ethical while I’m dating you.”
I turned to face him, and Ethan studied my face intently. “Are you sure about this? It’s a big decision.”
“Positive,” I replied, meeting his eyes with unwavering determination. “There are other stories out there, other journalists who can cover the team. But this—this feels like something special. I’d rather be a part of it than write about it.”
A slow, genuine smile spread across Ethan’s face as he reached for my hand. “Ryan, I can’t begin to tell you how much that means to me—to all of us.”
I smirked, “Who wants to read about a bunch of sweaty hockey players anyway?”
“True,” Ethan laughed, squeezing my hand. “But seriously, thank you.”
As we exited the locker room together, the weight of my decision settled on my shoulders, but it felt lighter than I’d anticipated. Sure, my editor might not be thrilled, but I knew I could make her understand. After all, sometimes the best stories weren’t the ones you wrote—they were the ones you lived.
As I walked out of the arena with Ethan by my side, I knew that ours was a story worth living.
NINE
ETHAN
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered as I hurled the game controller to the floor. The TV screen taunted me with its bold red letters—GAME OVER—as if I needed the unsubtle reminder. It was 2:00 a.m., and I hadn’t yet caught a wink of sleep.
Ryan consumed my thoughts—his unwavering support for me as an athlete, his ability to make any conversation fascinating, and his kisses and touching that drove me wild. Those were all great things, but lurking in the shadows of my mind was the blood-curdling fear monster. It was the massive fear of losing everything depending on how, when, or if I came out publicly. I worried I could lose my career, reputation, and, worst of all, Ryan himself.
Fortunately, I knew the team had my back. No one had shared my orientation yet, and I didn’t think the revelation about my relationship with Ryan would change any of that. It was all on me. I held my destiny in my hands.
I fell backward on the couch and stared blankly at the ceiling. The weight of my secret pressed down on my chest like a lead brick.
“Enough is enough,” I whispered to myself as I reached for my phone. My fingers trembled when I punched in Nate’s number. One thing was sure—I couldn’t bear the burden alone any longer.
“Hey, Ethan,” Nate’s groggy voice answered after a few rings. “Damn, man, it’s two o’clock in the morning. What’s going on?”
“Can you come over? I need to talk.”
“About?” A moment of silence passed between us. “Fuck—I’m sorry I didn’t just say yes. I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail—maybe only one.”
While waiting for Nate to arrive, I paced nervously around my apartment. My usually immaculate home was in disarray—clothes strewn across the couch, dishes piled up on the kitchen countertop, and discarded mail scattered everywhere. I rushed around in a flurry of activity, trying to make my place look vaguely presentable again.
My apartment was on the second floor of a weathered house. It gave me a welcome sense of seclusion while the high ceilings and oversized windows allowed light and air to flood the space in good weather. For the final touches before Nate’s arrival, I adjusted my hockey memorabilia on the walls, ensuring I’d positioned everything precisely, and I inspected my most prized cactus. I nudged it two inches to the right to ensure optimal placement to receive the pale winter sunlight.
Seconds later, Nate knocked. I greeted him at the door with a forced smile—a weak attempt to conceal my anxiety.
“Hey, thanks for coming,” I said, ushering him inside.
“Of course, man. What’s going on?” I read the concern etched on his face. Nate’s clothes didn’t quite match, but I knew he’d thrown it all together without much thought. He wore threadbare blue jeans and an old Milwaukee Admirals t-shirt with a black fleece hoodie over the top. He finished off the look with a Mitts ball cap.
Before we even had a chance to sit down, I let all the words spill out. I told Nate about my fears of exposure, losing my career, and hurting Ryan. One confession after another rolled out onto the carpet. When I finished, I felt like I was standing buck-naked in the middle of my living room without a stitch of clothing for protection.
“Wow, Ethan—that’s—that’s a lot,” Nate said softly, his eyes brimming with empathy. He threw his arms around me for a massive hug. His strong arms made me feel secure as long as he held me tight. “I’m here for you, buddy. Come on—let’s sit here on the couch.”
We took up positions on opposite ends of my sofa. Nate pulled off his cap, and I tried not to laugh. He’d forgotten to use a hairbrush, and his hair pointed in a hundred different directions at once.
“Okay, let’s break this down,” Nate said as he stretched his hands and cracked his knuckles. “First, being in the closet doesn’t make you a bad person. There is no requirement that you feel guilty about it.”
“Easy for you to say,” I grumbled.
“Hey,” he immediately countered. “I’m the guy once voted ‘Most Likely to Accidentally Out Myself at a Family Dinner,’ and I’m not even gay. Trust me. I might know one or two things about this territory.”
I couldn’t stop myself from chuckling at the image of Nate’s jaw dropping when he saw that the yearbook editors assumed he was gay. I didn’t know where they would get that idea for a bulldog like him, but it was a story to pursue at a different time.
“Look, Ethan,” he continued as his voice took on a more serious tone, “you have to do what feels right for you. If you think coming out now will jeopardize your career, maybe you should wait until you feel more secure. Or maybe you can find a way to come out that won’t harm your professional life.”
“Like what?” I asked. I searched his eyes for a flicker of hope.
“Maybe you should seek advice from someone who’s been there and done that. I know the list of athletes in the hockey world that fit the description is slim, but maybe you should talk to somebody who plays basketball or check out your mom’s connections with figure skaters. I’m confident the struggle is similar across sports.”
“Or I could talk to a journalist. I’ve never asked Ryan about his process, but I know he’s out to his boss and friends.”
“There you go. And remember, you have friends who will always listen, no matter what. The team is 100% behind you.” Nate reached out and planted a reassuring hand on my thigh.
“Thanks,” I said, and I nearly choked up.
“You know I’m here for you anytime you need me. Now,” he clapped his hands together, “let’s take a break from all this heavy stuff.”
“How?”
“I’ve got an idea.”
Nate led me down the stairs and outside. We walked around the house and stood in the moonlit backyard. A thick layer of snow only two days old covered the ground.
“Let’s have some fun,” he suggested as he scooped up a handful of snow and molded it into a compact ball.
“A snowball fight?” I asked. “I’ll murder you.”
Nate poked at my chest with his free hand. “Yeah, I thought about that. You’ve got way too much nervous energy.” He pointed across the yard. “See that big oak tree over there? Let’s have that be our target. We can both pelt it with snowballs.”
“And what will that do?” I asked skeptically.
“It’ll get rid of a lot of that energy keeping you up at night. Trust me,” he said with a mischievous wink.
And so, we launched snowball after snowball at the imposing oak tree. The cold air stung my cheeks and left me breathless. After about the twentieth ball, I’d lost myself in the activity. I built the snowballs faster and hurled them with all my strength until they splatted against the tree’s trunk, sending scattered snowflakes in every direction.”
“Okay, okay!” Nate called out with laughter in his voice. “You can stop now. The tree has officially surrendered.”
Finally, I relented. My arms ached, but my mind felt considerably lighter. Standing there amid the moonlit snow, I sensed perhaps, just perhaps, things would turn out okay—regardless of when or how I chose to come out.
Leaving the backyard, we trudged back through the snow and into the house. We kicked off our boots outside the door to my apartment and shuffled in through the kitchen.
“Hot cocoa?” I asked as I rubbed my hands together to chase the chill away.
“That sounds perfect,” Nate said as he sank into the couch with a contented sigh.
As I stirred the cocoa powder into steaming mugs of milk, I felt the tension in my shoulders subside. The snowball toss provided a cathartic release, and Nate’s unwavering support and understanding grounded me. I carried the mugs to the living room and handed one to Nate before settling in beside him.
