Page 4 of The Hockey Stud

“Fuck!” Madden curses and bursts out laughing. “Congratulations, asshole!”

“We need to celebrate,” Dario suggests, a mischievous glint in his eye as he throws me a playful wink. He leans in a little closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially as if sharing a delicious secret. “You know, Gemma has this friend who apparently has quite the thing for hockey players. I think this could be the perfect opportunity for some fun, don’t you?”

“You do remember I’m gay, right?”

He smirks. “I never said it was a she.”

Rolling my eyes in exasperation, I make my way over to the waiting golf cart, my mind swirling with indecision as I consider whether I should accept Dario’s suggestion that his wife, Gemma, set me up with someone she knows. The thought lingers as I recall my ongoing situation with Levi, who has made it abundantly clear that there is no possibility of anything romantic ever happening between us. With that reality settling in, I begin to wonder if perhaps it’s time to move on and open myself up to new possibilities. After all, what do I have to lose? I finally make up my mind and say, “You know what? Go ahead and tell Gemma to set it up. I’m ready to give it a shot.”

Dario turns to me, his expression shifting rapidly from calm to utter shock, and I can’t help but burst into laughter at the sheer surprise on his face. My amusement is short-lived, however, as my eyes suddenly widen in alarm when I realize what’s happening—we are heading straight for a large tree that seems to have appeared out of nowhere, its trunk looming ominously in our path. Instinctively, I reach out and grab the steering wheel with both hands, trying to wrench it away from danger, but the wheel jolts violently as it rolls over what I can only assume is a thick, gnarled tree root hidden beneath the grass.

As the golf cart lurches and begins to tip precariously to one side, Dario reacts at the same time, his hands scrambling for the wheel alongside mine in a desperate attempt to regain control. The combined momentum proves too much, and the cart tilts further, finally toppling over onto its side. In the chaos, I cling tightly to the steering wheel, using it as an anchor to keep myself from tumbling out and getting trapped beneath the heavy frame of the overturned cart. Despite my efforts, I am unable to avoid Dario, who, in the confusion, ends up landing squarely on top of me, pinning me to the seat with his weight.

Groaning and muttering curses under our breath, we awkwardly extricate ourselves from the tangled mess of limbs, crawling out from under the tipped golf cart. Once we are both free and on our feet, we glance back at the scene of our mishap, and the absurdity of the situation hits us. We exchange a look and can’t help but chuckle, the tension dissolving into laughter. Shaking my head, I turn to Dario with a wry smile and declare, “You’re not driving again,” making it abundantly clear that he won’t be trusted behind the wheel any time soon.

“Hey now, I’m a good driver when not distracted.”

Bradford pulls up beside us, and Madden jumps out. “Help me tip it back up,” he says, taking charge.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for this.” I groan and help anyway, realizing I have a few bruises, probably from Dario landing on me more than the cart tipping.

Placing the empty bottle of beer gently on the polished wooden bar, I let out a long, weary sigh, feeling the weight of my first day back at work finally lift from my shoulders. The day had been uneventful, a stark contrast to the fast-paced, unpredictable nature of my previous job. While I’m not accustomed to such a slow and steady pace, I have to admit that the change made it easier for me to transition back into the routine. The slower tempo gave me the space to adjust, allowing me to ease into my responsibilities without feeling overwhelmed.

My introspection is abruptly cut short by a burst of laughter that rings out from the back corner of the dimly lit bar. Curious, I turn my head in that direction and let my gaze linger for a moment. There, I notice a group of the team gathered together, accompanied by their wives, all sharing drinks and stories, their faces illuminated by the warm glow of hanging lights. Among them, one man immediately draws my attention. Dover, always the life of the party, stands out as he jokes and banters with his teammates, his laughter infectious and his energy unmistakable.

As I continue to watch, my eyes are suddenly drawn to another figure—a blond man who is standing uncomfortably close to Dover, engaging him in animated conversation. A surge of jealousy and confusion rises within me. Who is that guy, and why is he so close to Dover? I find myself staring openly, unable to look away, but thankfully, the group is too engrossed in their own merriment to notice my scrutiny.

A troubling thought crosses my mind—has Dover decided to start dating someone new because I’ve been hesitant, hung up on the difference in our ages? The possibility stings, and I can’t help but think that it would be exactly what I deserve for letting my insecurities get in the way.

Blond guy catches my eye from across the crowded room, his expression tightening into a frown as soon as our gazes meet. He leans in closer to Dover, speaking quietly under his breath, his words meant only for Dover’s ears. Dover, catching whatever the guy has said, turns his head and glances over at me, his eyes lingering on mine with a look that is difficult to read. Holding my gaze for a moment longer, Dover lifts his bottled beer to his lips and takes a slow, deliberate drink, as if considering something important. After swallowing, he shakes his head slightly, a subtle gesture that suggests disapproval or perhaps resignation. Without another word or glance in my direction, Dover turns his back to me and resumes his conversation with the guy standing next to him, appearing to be fully engrossed in whatever they are discussing.

Then I remember that Dover is only twenty years old and technically shouldn’t even be inside the bar, much less sitting at a table with a drink in his hand. For a moment, I consider saying something, but ultimately, I decide to let it slide since it really has nothing to do with me. Besides, Dover isn’t the only underage drinker in this bar tonight. In fact, I’m sure there are several others scattered among the crowd, and there will undoubtedly be more in the future.

As the evening wears on, time seems to blur together, and I find myself still sitting at the bar, now alone. My chair buddies have either drifted off or found other people to talk to, leaving me with only my own thoughts and a bottle of nonalcoholic beer. The taste is a far cry from the real thing—watery and bland—but it’s a small price to pay if it means I won’t wake up tomorrow with a pounding headache and a stomach full of regret.

I do my best to ignore the group of Viking players who are still gathered at their usual spot, even though I’m fully aware of their presence. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of me, and I glance over in their direction. That’s when I notice that Dover seems to have gotten even friendlier with the blond guy from their group. It’s hard to tell whether Dover is the one making the advances or if it’s actually the blond guy who’s taken more of an interest in him. Either way, the two of them are definitely hitting it off, their laughter and animated conversation standing out even in the noisy bar.

A sudden, sharp sensation creeps up the back of my neck, causing the fine hairs there to stand on end, as if warning me of something I can’t quite name. My gaze is instantly drawn to Dover, who is quietly slipping away through the dimly lit back hallway, his movements quick and purposeful. He isn’t alone—walking just ahead of him is the blond guy. My eyes narrow instinctively, suspicion and unease tightening my features, while my heart begins to pound heavily against my ribcage, each beat echoing with a mix of anxiety and something uncomfortably close to envy.

I try to convince myself that I’m not jealous, that there’s no reason for me to feel this way. Dover and I have always shared a mutual understanding, a camaraderie built on our shared experiences and similar preferences. After all, Dover—the new heartthrob of the Vikings, as the fans like to call him—has been basking in the spotlight lately, drawing the attention and adoration of countless female fans. It’s something I’ve always been able to shrug off, knowing that their affections are ultimately misplaced, considering Dover is just as gay as I am. That knowledge has always been a source of comfort, a quiet reassurance that I had nothing to worry about.

But now, watching Dover disappear into the shadows with the blond guy, that comfort feels hollow. The sight churns in my stomach like acid, burning with a jealousy I can’t quite suppress. It’s not just the fear of losing Dover’s attention but the realization that someone else might be stepping into the space that I want if only I had the balls to grab onto him. The feeling is raw and unsettling, leaving me rooted in place, unable to tear my eyes away from the spot where they vanished.

As I become aware that my grip has unconsciously tightened around the bottle I’ve been nursing for quite some time, I pause for a moment, feeling the now warm glass pressing into my palm. The realization prompts me to gently set the bottle back down on the worn wooden surface of the bar, the faint clink echoing in the dimly lit room. I catch the bartender’s eye and offer a small, appreciative nod, silently signaling that I’m finished and ready to go. Taking a steady breath, I rise from my seat, feeling the slight resistance of the barstool beneath me as I prepare to make my way toward the exit, stopped by one of my favorite people who I wanted to avoid this evening.

"How long have you been sitting here alone?"

"Evening, Rosie."

She rolls her eyes. "Dodge, honestly. You exasperate me." Throwing her arms out to the side, she steps closer. "Do something, you big buffoon!"

My eyes widen, and then I back away, shaking my head. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

Stepping outside, I pause for a moment, allowing myself to breathe in the crisp, cool night air that fills my lungs and helps clear my mind. I take this brief respite to get my bearings, trying to shake off the exhaustion that weighs heavily on me after a long evening—I ended up staying much later than I usually do. The quiet of the night is suddenly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps, the rapid patter of running feet growing louder as they approach from the alleyway to my left. Instantly, my senses heighten and my body tenses, shifting into a state of alertness as adrenaline begins to surge through me.

A troubling thought flashes through my mind—is this the same alley where Dover disappeared earlier, when he slipped away toward the back of the building with that blond guy? My concern deepens as I recall the uneasy feeling I had when I saw them leave together. Before I can process further, a man bursts out of the shadows of the alley, his movements frantic and desperate. He clutches a camera tightly in his hands, and without so much as a glance in my direction, he sprints down the street, quickly putting distance between us.

A sense of dread settles over me, making my heart sink. I can’t help but wonder if the man had just managed to snap compromising photographs of Dover. The possibility gnaws at me, leaving me anxious and uneasy about what might have just transpired in the darkness of that alley and what consequences could follow if those images fall into the wrong hands.