Page 10 of Line Change

I turn toward the window. There is nothing outside but cloud, which is easier to look at than him. Fraser crosses one ankle over his knee, pulling his pants tight across his thigh. My gaze catches before I can stop it.

The size of his quad explains the force he generates through a turn. That’s all I’m looking at. It’s part of my job to know how my winger moves. Wondering how that muscle would feel under my palm isn’t, so I stare out the window again.

I could call Mary, the team psychologist, after we land.

Yeah, Mary, I had a gay sex dream about my linemate, and maybe I want to lick his tattoos, but I’m straight. What’s that about?

No fucking thanks.

Fraser’s elbow brushes mine when he shifts. My pulse jumps like he touched bare skin.

“Are you planning to glare through the window for the entire flight?” he asks.

“I’m tired.” I lean my head against the seat.

“So sleep.”

“I was trying to.”

He stares at me for a few seconds. The memory of his mouth grinning through the steam makes my cock throb again, and I have to move under the jacket.

Fraser notices. “Okay,” he says, all the humor gone. “Whatever this is, enjoy it by yourself.”

He gets up and takes a seat across the aisle and two rows back. He puts on his headphones and doesn’t try to talk to me again.

Good. By the time my cock goes down, I’m pissed at him for leaving and even more pissed at myself for noticing.

Hours later, Fraser and I take our first shift together, and everything clicks.

He cuts toward the middle before I have control of the puck. I know where he’s going. I take the pass off the boards, pull it around the opposing center, and send it through a gap that barely exists.

Fraser is already there. One touch, and he snaps it under the goalie’s glove. The light goes on.

He turns toward me with both arms raised and a grin breaking across his face. I hit him hard enough to send us both into the glass. Bobby piles in, shouting against our helmets. Fraser hooks an arm around my neck, his chest slamming into mine through our gear. His visor knocks mine, and his laugh vibrates through me.

Then Bobby yanks us apart, and we’re skating toward the bench. I keep seeing water run down Fraser’s arm.

Our next shift is even better. Bobby wins a battle on the wall and chips the puck below the goal line. I backhand it through my skates without looking. Fraser takes it clean, drags it around a defenseman’s foot, and sends it back as I reach the post.

The goalie gets his pad down. The rebound kicks loose, and Fraser crashes in after it. We end up in the crease with the goalie across my legs and Fraser half on top of me.

“You weigh a fucking ton,” I tell him when the whistle goes.

“Pure muscle, Pope. Try not to sound so impressed.”

He plants a glove above my hip pad and pushes himself up. I feel the pressure through every layer.

We own the puck until the change. Next time out, I sell a pass to Bobby and send it behind my body to Fraser. He’s exactly where I expect.

For the first time since I got to Seattle, I understand why Gunderson put the three of us together. Bobby works until something opens. Fraser creates the opening. I make sure the puck gets there.

Fraser and I can barely talk without pissing each other off, but on the ice, our bodies agree about everything. That’s a hockey thought.

The third line takes the ice while we sit on the bench. Their right wing leaves the zone before the defense has full control. The first pass has nowhere to go and dies against an opposing stick.

“He left half a second early,” I say. “If he holds the wall, the defense has an outlet.”

Fraser sits beside me, breathing hard. “You want to say that louder? I don’t think he heard you.”