My hopped-up hormones didn’t take it well when the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen treated me like public enemynumber one. I’ve done my best to pretend I’m not attracted to him, and I think I’ve fooled everyone… except myself. Dreams likethatare hard to ignore.
For a moment, I let myself remember the details, but somehow, now that I’m awake it’s not as satisfying—no pun intended. I’m not really the type of guy who gets off on making my partners beg, and sure, it might be nice to see Ari looking at me like I’m the sun his whole world revolves around, but a huge part of what I’m attracted to is his arrogance.
No, not arrogance. That implies he’s overbearing. Confidence, maybe? There’s just this air about him, like he knows everything around him will do exactly what he wants it to. It’s the kind of thing you’re born with, like it’s bred into you, that natural assurance.
It’s so fucking sexy.
So yeah, dream me might have loved humbling Ari, but real me would rather see him with a bit more spark. Still on his knees, though. That was hot.
The phone rings, and I glance over at it, remembering with surprise that it woke me up. Who’s calling me at seven in the morning? I grab the handset, and the name on the screen causes a lump of dread in my stomach. Why is work calling? I’m not due back for two more days.
Unless they’re going to tell me not to bother.
I push aside that thought and answer. “Hello?”
“Hi, Felix. It’s Lurlene at the clubhouse. You need to come in for a team meeting this morning at nine.”
What the fuck? I guess that’s a good thing, though—they wouldn’t call the whole team in just to fire me.
Would they?
Coach hates me, and I’ve got no doubt he’d enjoy firing me in front of the rest of the team, but I doubt he’d go to this kind oftrouble. Nobody’s going to be happy about a meeting when we’re still technically on vacation.
“Okay, thanks. I’ll be there. Any clue?—”
“Thanks, bye.” She hangs up abruptly. Damn. Was that because she’s got calls to make or because she’s already been asked that question by a bunch of my teammates and doesn’t want to hear it again? Does she even know why we’re being called in? She’s got superpowers when it comes to knowing what’s going on within the team, but occasionally the management team still manages to keep things secret.
Whatever. I’m not going to find out anything if I don’t get moving. I toss back the covers and get out of bed, grimacing as the clammy, cold cum in my boxers makes its presence known. I hoped that wearing underwear to bed would help to mitigate the sheet-washing situation, but this is so gross, I think I’d rather do laundry every day.
I’mat the clubhouse in plenty of time and make my way to the dressing room. It’s the most likely place for a team meeting, or at least where a bunch of people will be. Someone will know where we need to go.
As I guessed, nearly the whole team is there already, but the mood—and the noise level—is a lot lower than usual. Did… did someone die? I do a quick head count, then breathe a little easier. Two guys are still missing, but they’re both always chronically late. Their deaths would be an unlikely coincidence.
Ignoring the complete lack of logic behind that thought, I head toward my cubby. As usual, my teammates get out of my way, and as usual, that combined pang of smugness and regret hits me. Sure, most of them are assholes, and sure, some of themdon’t deserve to be here, but there are some decent guys as well, and I…
I’mnotlonely. But my shitty attitude that led to my teammates avoiding me also means that I don’t often get to experience the camaraderie of being on a team. They love it on the ice when I’m mowing down the other team, but that doesn’t mean they want to hang out with me. Not that I want to hang out withthem… mostly. Just, with our weird work schedules and traveling so much, sometimes they’re the only ones available to get a beer and talk about shit with.
On that despondent thought, I thump down onto the bench in front of my cubby.
“What’s wrong?” Gline asks, and I turn my head to look at him. He’s not sitting or standing—oh, no. Gline is squatting on his bench, eyes closed, arms crossed in an X over his chest, back perfectly straight, weight on the balls of his feet. I have no idea how long he’s been like that, but he’s rock solid, not a wobble or tremor in sight. Goalies are fucking weird, but I guess I shouldn’t complain. His weirdness is probably the only reason he’s willing to be somewhat friendly with me.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I assure him. “Just wondering what this meeting’s about.”
His eyes pop open, and his gaze slides toward me. My heartbeat picks up.
“Do you know something?” I lower my voice. “You know something.” Of course he does. He’s fully hardwired into the team and the club, our longest-standing veteran. I’m pretty sure he’s also got some kind of mind-reading ability. Maybe he links into our brains when we give him helmet taps.
He uncurls from his inexplicable squat and sits on the bench like a normal person. “I… might have heard something.”
I lean a little closer. “Feel like sharing?”
Doubt crosses his face, and that ball of dread returns.
“I mean, you don’t have to share,” I assure him, backpedaling. “Only if you want to. Or… not to sound conceited, but is it about me?”
His face doesn’t change, but he looks away, and my heart drops to my feet.
“Gline, am I getting fired?”
