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Nico lingered on Verreault’s face, rubbing his own jaw while letting his eyes slowly trace down to the tendons and hollows of the other man’s throat, along the strong collarbones. Such thick, sturdy shoulders, perfect for all the secrecy and responsibility this man carried. How did he manage the weight of it all?
Under different circumstances, the two of them might’ve exchanged notes about it . . . while relaxing in bed, naked.
For now, Nico let his displeasure show in his expression. “That is not how this works. You will have answers for me tomorrow night.”
“Or, what? You’ll tell everyone about what you saw earlier?”
“You mean tell people you let a man fuck you badly? That he showed you no basic regard, no kindness in the encounter? Is this what I should tell people?”
Even in the low lighting it was clear that Verreault paled again. Was this shame? Embarrassment? “Fuck off. That’s not what happened.”
“Dai, I know what a man looks like when he enjoys being fucked. That—” Nico pointed to the sofa “—was not it.”
“I won’t let you blackmail me.”
Foolish threats from a man with absolutely no leverage. Nico closed the distance between them, but Verreault didn’t step back. Instead, he stood taller, muscles readying themselves, expecting impact. Meglio prepararsi al peggio. Better brace for the worst. Was this how Verreault existed? On the knife’s edge of ruin every day?
Nico paused an arm’s length away, close enough that he could see red irritated skin—beard burn—on Verreault’s neck. He didn’t like the way the sight made him feel, as if he wanted to smooth that abused skin with his thumb. Erase the existence of that incompetent man who dared to waste such a gift.
The inappropriate thought injected a sharpness into his tone. “I do not need to blackmail you, Verreault, or use the fact that you like men against you. Because you will tell me what I want to know regardless.” He pulled open the door and gave the other man a grim smile full of promise. “A presto. See you tomorrow night.”
CHAPTER 2
The Reign practice facility was located inside the Alpine Mobile complex, right beside their main rink. Unable to sleep, Bennett arrived early at the Alps, as it was called. He went into the lounge, where a few teammates were eating.
Did one of them spike that woman’s drink?
Bennett couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop wondering who might do something so heinous. He needed to address the team about it, but he didn’t know what to say. Would the man responsible actually own up to it? He didn’t think so. This was serious, with prison awaiting whoever was caught. And if Bennett’s visitor last night was, in fact, in the Toronto mafia, the guilty player was a dead man.
Drugging a woman, Jesus Christ. Some days professional hockey made Bennett so goddamn mad. He loved this sport, loved it with every breath and bone in his body. The skating, the feel of the stick in his hands. The cold breeze on his face as he rocketed down the ice. The chemical smell of the coolant, the bright white of the rink. There was nothing on earth like it.
But there was a darker side, one most players either ignored or excused as part of hockey’s “culture”—the culture that covered up violence against women. The culture that allowed in only a few players of color. The culture that promoted hyper-masculinity, groupthink, and toeing the line. One that reinforced hierarchy and not speaking out. Conformity.
Heterosexuality.
Since taking over as captain, Bennett had worked hard to create a more inclusive, more tolerant locker room. He shut down homophobic slurs and racist comments. Hazing the rookies was a thing of the past, and he routinely tried to check in on everyone’s mental health. But some days, that effort felt like pushing the world’s largest boulder up a toxic hill.
“You look like shit, Benny,” Patrick Cross, a third-line winger, called as he looked Bennett up and down. “Rough night?”
“Fuck off, Patty.” He put his large cold brew from Café Orange—part of his morning ritual—on the table then went to where the catering staff had set out breakfast. He loaded up on Greek yogurt, fruit, and a side of egg whites. In his twenties, breakfast would’ve been a stack of pancakes and bacon, but that was two knee surgeries and three lost teeth ago. Thirty-one was old in hockey years and his daily nutrition routine was constantly being adjusted, adapted for age, and he never deviated from it in season.
Bennett sat with Patrick and Noah Brown, their best d-man, who was also one of the assistant captains. “What’s up, Brownie?”
“Same shit, Cap. Did you see Unkovsky went out with an upper-body injury?” Unkovsky was the center for the Cleveland Blades, division rivals who they were playing next week.
“No, I missed it. Did you see what happened?”
“Bro, you don’t already know?” Patrick reached over to feel Bennett’s forehead. “You sick or something?”
He shoved Patty’s hand away. “Knock it off, asshole.” Bennett was generally up to date on news around the league, but he deserved a pass after last night. “What happened to Unkovsky?”
“Lemming tripped him,” Noah said. “And Unkovsky slid into the boards. Looked brutal.”
“Good for us, though.” Patrick shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “We’re four points behind them in the standings.”
“Man,” Noah said. “Don’t say that shit. It’s bad karma.”
Hockey players never celebrated injuries. They all knew how much it sucked to be put on LTIR. “I’ll text Unkovsky later. He missed half a season last year, too. He’s got to be pissed.”
