Page 45 of Tough Guy and the Show Off

By tomorrow, everyone will know. I’m sure Chicago will make a formal announcement since I’ll be on the ice with the team one night from now.

Shaking my head, I lean back against the couch cushions. I’m not sure it’s sunk in yet that tomorrow morning I’ll be in Chicago, and not for an away game. For good. I never had any delusions that I’d retire with Boston. You’re setting yourself up for heartbreak getting attached to one team unless you have clout like Trav does, but I sure thought I’d be here for several more years. I played my ass off to secure my spot and it didn’t work. Instead, it bit me in the balls because my salary is too high.

About fifteen minutes later, Trav steps onto the screen, wearing a burgundy suit that looks so good against his skin. His expression is tight, his typical smile nowhere to be seen. Coach Hall, Harlson, and Albert, the second-line D-man who replaced me, are out there too, standing behind Trav at the podium, ready to field questions if any come at them.

I listen as the questions turn toward the inevitable: Where is Bozeman?

Trav tenses in his seat, avoiding eye contact with the media as Coach fields and deflects questions. They ask a bit more about the obvious challenges tonight, directing one of the questions to Trav.

“Showalter, do you think your playing tonight was affected by Bozeman’s absence?”

No one else might notice it, but I can see his jaw twitching even through the screen. He straightens his tie and intentionally softens his expression.

“Every player has an off night sometimes. Even hockey gods.” His smirk is fake as hell, but I doubt anyone but me can tell the difference. I know this tactic—kill them with arrogance. They’ll talk about how cocky he was instead of the obvious.

But the journalist presses on. “If this is a permanent change, what can we expect to see from you going forward?”

“You can expect that I’ll do my job.” Trav levels him with a “watch your step” look that seems effective since the questions shift to the goalie.

Harlson is asked a few questions about missing me, but he avoids answering directly too. I’m not sure if this makes me look more dispensable to the team or not. I know they’re protecting the secret, so I’ll hold out for their comments after the trade is announced.

I shut the TV off again, this time for good.

Then I wait for Travis to get home.

TWENTY-TWO

SHOW

The energy in the locker room felt like a goddamn funeral. Before the game, Coach sat everyone down and made the official announcement that Beau had been traded, and I felt a dozen sets of eyes on me instantly. I don’t know if Coach was expecting me to put on a smile and rally the team—he probably was since I’m team captain and all—but that wasn’t gonna happen. There were positive murmurs when he introduced our new goalie, Florian Jurowski, an old timer who’s likely only a few years from retirement but has a goaltending record that’s worth getting a boner over. I might have popped a victory stiffy myself if him being here hadn’t cost me my… Beau.

I murmured a halfhearted welcome, got dressed, and went out there to play one of the worst games of my life. It felt all kinds of wrong not having Beau on the ice with me.

No one said a word afterward. There was no joking, no singing, and no one mentioned getting a drink. Not in front of me, anyway. I think they could all tell I wasn’t in the fucking mood.

With the pressie over, I open my car door and throw my suit jacket inside a hell of a lot harder than necessary. Fuck, I just want to scream about how goddamn unfair this whole thing is. Except I tried that this morning and it didn’t make a damn bit of difference. Beau is still getting shipped off to Chicago and everything that felt so right and hopeful this morning is gone.

It feels like there’s a ten-pound boulder on my chest as I slide into the driver’s seat and start my car. I can’t breathe. I can’t feel anything except for the crushing weight of losing him.

The drive home is a blur. I don’t even sing along or clap when Dua Lipa’s “Levitating” comes on, which I always thought was physically impossible. Turns out, it’s possible as long as you’re fucking devastated. I park in my assigned space in the parking garage and trudge inside. It’s not until I’m in the elevator that the heavy feeling starts to lift.

It’s Beau’s last night here and I’m not going to waste it moping. There will be plenty of time to feel sorry for myself after he gets on the plane tomorrow, but tonight we’re going to have a proper sendoff. I swallow hard and step off on our floor, refusing to let myself think about who might buy his place and move in across the hall from me. Not tonight.

I drop my equipment as soon as I step inside and kick off my shoes. The smell of garlic and cheese tickles my nose, making my mouth water and my stomach growl. And there’s Beau, sitting on the couch waiting for me, looking cute and sexy and like he’s mine in ways I still haven’t had a chance to sort out yet. He’s wearing one of my Boston Magic t-shirts that probably got mixed in with his laundry at some point. I can tell it’s mine though, because it’s at least a size too small, stretched tightly over his chest and around his biceps. He shifts forward on the couch and gives me a shy smile.

“I know we had a cheat night last night, but I figured, when’s the next time I’m going to get Gino’s Pizza?”

I wheeze out a laugh that sounds all wrong in my own ears. “I hear they actually have pretty decent pizza in Chicago.”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “But they don’t have Gino’s.”

My throat tightens. Maybe he really is just talking about pizza, but it feels like there’s subtext there that I’ve already decided I don’t want to deal with tonight. I don’t want to sit here and fucking cry all over slices of greasy pizza about all the things that won’t be the same once he’s gone.

I stride the rest of the way across the living room and climb onto Beau’s lap, straddling his thighs and taking his face between my hands. His beard is thick and soft as I drag my fingers through it, and instead of widening in surprise, his eyelids droop this time and he meets me halfway, slamming our mouths together in a desperate kiss.

Our tongues tangle and a well of emotion rises up in my chest, coming out as a muffled sound against Beau’s lips, something between a moan and a sob that I can’t bring myself to feel embarrassed about. He wraps his arms around me, tugging at my tucked-in dress shirt until he gets it loose enough that he can slide his hand up the back of it, dragging his fingers gently up my spine. I shiver and kiss him deeper, pouring every confused, needy, heartbroken feeling into the way my tongue slides against his before stuffing every one of them into a box in the back of my mind to be dealt with later.

I don’t want to feel anything except Beau’s body against mine and the vibration of his groans and sighs around my tongue tonight.