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“You don’t think two gay players on the same team is newsworthy?” he follows up.
“Statistically speaking, one in every eight men identifies as gay, which doesn’t include anyone identifying as bi or pan or demi, and there are twenty on this roster, so… If there are two gay men on the team, I’d say we’re right in line with the national average.” If there’s one thing travel gives me plenty of time for, it’s reading, and I may have brushed up on a few facts in preparation for the questions I knew would come my way.
“If there are two gay men?” He arches a skeptical brow.
I look to the players and coaches lining the wings of the room. “Did I miss an announcement that I’m gay? I don’t remember making a statement like that.”
“You’re dating a man,” the reporter presses.
“When was that established?”
“You don’t think this exchange will be distracting to your teammates?” He changes tactics.
“I’m only answering the questions you ask.” I hold my hands up like I’m innocent.
“You’re not answering, you’re evading.”
“Ask me a question about hockey and I’ll answer.”
“This team fell short in the playoffs last year and is already four games out of first. Can you turn things around?” He studies me critically.
“Considering we just won today, I’d say so.”
“That’s only one win.”
“I have faith in us.”
“Why?”
“Because if we fall seven times, we’ll get up eight.” I wink, just for Tripp, who I know is watching.
Later that night, my phone beeps with an incoming video call, and before I can even say hello, Tripp bombards me. “I don’t know a Preston. Is that customary? Statistically speaking. Omigod I about came in my pants. You make one sexy brat.”
“Well, I learned from the best.” I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Damn right. Now flip the screen and show me your gorgeous cock. It’s been way too long since I’ve seen it.”
“You saw it yesterday,” I remind him while doing what he says.
“Exactly. That’s entirely too long.”
Epilogue
TWO YEARS LATER
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I grumble, wincing as the tattoo gun hits my skin.
“Oh, come on, it’s not that painful. I’m sure you’ve taken a puck that hurt worse.” Tripp rolls his eyes.
“It’s not the pain I’m complaining about.”
“You don’t like my artwork?”
“I love the artwork. Or I did until you told me about its alternative meaning.”
Despite having rings that say we belong to each other, Tripp wasn’t satisfied with something that could be removed, so he talked me into matching tattoos. He drew up a design with two hockey sticks framing a skateboard like a heart, and our initials in an elegant old English-style text. Then he shaded it to look sort of vintage.
“I mean, it’s not inaccurate.” He smirks mischievously as the second hockey stick gets inked onto my skin, crossing over top of the first.
