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The first was Lauren, canceling for this weekend. A work event she couldn’t miss. Shit. Bennett typed back a short message telling her it was no problem. Maybe the weekend after? he wrote. I’ll take you to that curry place you love.

Next was a notification from the covert messaging app he used for hookups. He didn’t use it often, only when he felt the need to peel the flesh from his bones if someone didn’t touch him, kiss him, make him feel human again.

Glancing around, making sure he was really alone, he opened the app and found a message from David, the guy from last night. They had fucked three times in the past two months. Each time had been . . . fine. Not the earth-shattering, mind-blowing experience he’d been hoping for. Some days, it felt like hope was all he had left, like the hope he could keep playing. The hope that no one learned about his secret. The hope he could retire on his own terms.

Hope, hope, hope.

Giving into the desperate urge for sex each time wasn’t easy. It made him vulnerable. So he avoided dates or any kind of meaningful connection. It was fast and usually forgettable, and he tended to rely on the same guy for an extended period of time, until the guy got annoyed or grew bored.

And they did. Always. Hockey came first in Bennett’s life, before anything or anyone else, and being out as a gay man would never happen, not as long as he still had a career. Even a secret relationship wasn’t an option for him, so he relied on the hookups, whenever his schedule allowed.

Now David was saying what a great time he had last night and asking when they could get together again.

The mafia guy’s words came roaring back:

You mean tell people you let a man fuck you badly? That he showed you no basic regard, no kindness in the encounter?

Mortification stung the nape of Bennett’s neck. A tall, handsome, physically perfect specimen had watched Bennett get fucked over the arm of his sofa, then criticized him for it. But the Italian had no idea how difficult it was for Bennett to find discreet partners who didn’t know who he was. So what if the sex hadn’t been mind-blowing? It was something and that was better than nothing. Wasn’t it?

But his embarrassment almost made Bennett miss an important piece of information from last night:

I know what a man looks like when he enjoys being fucked.

Was this mafia guy also into men? There was no other way to interpret that statement. It would explain why Bennett felt like the Italian was eye-fucking him once or twice. At the time it seemed surreal, but it had definitely happened. Bennett had been closeted long enough to recognize how one guy subtly checked out another—and the mafia guy hadn’t been all that subtle.

But he had bigger problems than a visit from the maybe-not-completely-straight Toronto mafia gangster. A guy in his locker room was drugging girls, and then what? Assaulting them? Raping them? What the fuck? Bennett was so goddamn furious that he wanted to hit something. He’d worked for so long to root out a lot of the bullshit from their club when he became captain. It took years to make even the smallest progress, got him labeled “woke” and, while he was considered their leader, he wasn’t their friend.

All that and this still fucking happened. When would it end? When would the guys playing this sport get their shit together and stop being clichés? How would hockey ever evolve into a safe environment for all types of players and fans if they couldn’t stop this from happening?

He was so tired. And mad.

A door slammed closed somewhere nearby and Bennett blinked. The time showed he was ten minutes behind schedule, so he stood and collected his trash. He needed to get ready for practice and focus on tomorrow night’s game.

Everything else would have to wait.

Nico hated crowds, especially in a large building. There were too many tiny hiding places, too many unfamiliar faces. And the Alpine Center was the worst example. It was a labyrinth, a maze of corners and blind spots—a nightmare for safety. So tonight, Nico had brought Filippo and three of their men to the game. Probably overkill, but Nico had too many enemies in this city. There was no such thing as being too careful in public.

Now he was seated in the team’s box. An Italian, at a hockey game. In the cold. Surrounded by throngs of people with no fashion sense and an unreasonable amount of enthusiasm. Madonna mia, what a turn of events. His ancestors were weeping at the stupidity.

Nico sighed and unbuttoned his suit jacket. This was what he’d been reduced to, thanks to Bennett Verreault, who disappeared last night. Nico had been left holding his dick in Verreault’s penthouse, waiting for the hockey star who never bothered to come home. Hiding hadn’t seemed like Verreault’s style, but the man was full of surprises thus far. Nico could almost appreciate it.

“Mr. Marzano,” a voice said. There was now a thirty-something man in a Reign pullover standing there.

“Yes?”

The man extended a thick hand. “I am Kevin Easton, President of Corporate Sponsorships for the Toronto Reign. It’s nice to meet you.” Easton shaved his head close, leaving the thinnest layer of gray hair, and he was in good shape, like maybe he was a former player who still liked to hit the weights every now and again.

Nico stood and shook the man’s hand. “Thank you for having us.” Not that he’d given them much choice. A large amount of sponsorship money hung in the balance, and this was the “only” night Nico could attend a game.

“Of course. Always happy to meet a Toronto business owner interested in helping the team. Mind if I sit?”

“Please,” Nico said and gestured to the wide leather seat beside him. Filippo sat on Nico’s other side. “You can explain the game to us.”

“Ah.” Easton settled himself in the chair. “Not familiar with hockey, eh?”

“It is not very popular in my country, I’m afraid.”

Easton chuckled, easy and friendly. “Italy, right?”