He continues to refuse to look at me, but I can’t tear my eyes away from him. His long body makes me want to go to him and wrap myself around him, like how we were last night.
Maddox pulls me out of almost doing something indecent in front of everyone.
“You could totally tap into the queer market,” he says to Damon. “Represent all the gay guys in sport.”
Tommy leans against the kitchen counter, next to Ollie. “He might already be there with Matt and Ollie.”
Damon scoffs. “Trust me. There are way more gay guys in sports. It’s just a fact that it’s still hard to come out in our world.”
“Exactly,” Ollie says, and even if he’s still not ready, he’s taken another important step, and as selfish as it is, my stupid brain and heart think he’s done it for me—something he wasn’t willing to do for Ash.
But as fast as that happens, guilt replaces it, because the last thing I need is the pressure of being the guy he comes out for.
Of course, Ollie knows everyone at the arena. This used to be his playground. He fist-bumps his way past all the security and into the press box with me, despite my protests about being in the vicinity of several other reporters who’ll be interested to know why he’s sitting with me instead of in his old team’s owner’s box or in the stands with family and friends.
He assures me it’s fine and he’s allowed to have friends. No one should suspect otherwise.
I’m legitimately beginning to worry that topping for the first time means he lost a severe amount of brain cells when he came.
Sex makes you dumb, people.
He’s taking risks he hasn’t allowed himself for years.
I’m sweating. Is it hot in here?
This is a lot of pressure.
It eases a little when the game starts and I have to concentrate, but he’s got that whole awareness thing about him again, and I feel him everywhere.
“Stop it,” I mutter.
“Stop what?”
When I turn to him, his eyes are on the ice, and I begin to wonder if the heat from his gaze has been imagined, but nope. His lips twitch upward.
“I have to work.”
“So do I,” he says. Then he leans to his right, bringing him closer to me so no one else can hear but not so close it looks suspicious. The scent of his cologne is stronger and somehow reminds me of sex. In particular, sex with him. “I have to work at getting you back to your hotel room and out of your clothes as soon as this game’s over.”
Kill. Me. Now.
Seems Ollie’s goal all day today has been to drive me crazy. Or try to make me come without him even touching me. He’s exceedingly good at both, and if he’s not careful, I’ll have to go back to my hotel room, but it won’t be to fool around; it’ll be for a new change of pants.
I would’ve thought he’d be more inconspicuous than this, but maybe I’m being overly paranoid. Maybe he was like this with Ash, but I got the impression he hid as much as possible with him and didn’t allow for silliness in public.
I have to admit, it’s a huge turn-on not being able to touch but subtly dropping hints about what’ll happen later. I wish I could concentrate on the ice instead of the unfairly hot, talented, somewhat awkward when he’s uncomfortable guy who not only makes playing hockey look good but also makes the game interesting.
I thought I was having an off night when Ollie was with his family instead of at the game. Turns out my interest in hockey solely revolves around one hockey player.
As if sensing me watching him instead of the game, he glances my way, and the smile he gives me reminds me of a promise—a promise for more. And not just sex, but everything. I wish I was rational enough to dismiss it, but whether it’s my inner nerd wanting this since I first started liking boys or whether it’s my stupid side, a huge part of me knows I’m already in too deep. We might’ve only admitted aloud yesterday that we want each other, but if I’m completely honest, I’ve been gone for this guy since the day we met.
It’s the reason I kissed him that day in the stairwell. It’s the reason I started watching his games and following his career. And ultimately, it’s the reason my boss transferred me to hockey. Because my passion for the game—a.k.a. Ollie—shone through in the articles I wrote about him.
“Whoa,” Ollie says, his gaze snapping back to the ice.
I tear my eyes away, only to be confused by what’s happening below.
Two New Jersey players have gotten into a fight … with each other. Not Boston.
“That’s new,” I say as I watch the two giants drop their gloves and try to pummel one another.