Page 101 of Interference

And that was a train of thought I really, really needed to stop while we were in the same room. Whether he had hookups in the offing or not, he was here right now and wasn’t making any noise about leaving or having someone over. We’d settled onto the couch to watch a game, and the conversation had been all about hockey. We’d talked about last night’s game. He’d explained a couple of penalties I’d seen but didn’t quite understand. He’d ranted about a player from Florida who’d been suspended for two games over a dirty hit in Buffalo last night.

“Should’ve been five games,” he grumbled as he put on the pregame show. “That son of a bitch has put at least half a dozen players on the long-term injured list in his career.”

“Really?” I sipped my drink. “And he’s still playing?”

Anthony made an unhappy noise and nodded. “He’s fucking thug. Everyone insists people just hate him because they hate playing against him, and they’d be thrilled to have him on their team.” Shaking his head, he put the remote aside and pulled his feet up under him on the cushion. “If his happy ass ever lands in Seattle, I’m requesting a trade.”

“I don’t blame you. What a dick.” I hadn’t been watching that game last night, but Anthony had shown me the replay. My knowledge of the sport was still incredibly basic, and sometimes things didn’t look dirty to me when they were, or vice versa; there were subtleties that were obvious to fans and players but went over my head. The one last night? Anthony hadn’t needed to explain to me why it was dangerous. The way the player had put up his elbow and aimed it right at the side of the other guy’s neck was so painfully obvious, even my novice ass understood.

“So what does someone like that have to do to get punted out to the League?” I asked. “Whip out a switchblade and stab someone?”

Anthony snorted. “His fans will just say the other guy deserved it for not keeping his head up or something.” He rolled his eyes. “Ugh. And he injured the shit out of a Seattle player the season before I got here. Broke his jaw and didn’t even get a penalty for it.”

“What?” I stared at him. “Seriously? No penalty?”

“Refs didn’t call it. But after that, the guy can’t touch the puck in Seattle without getting booed. We’re one of the only teams he never scores against because the fans fuck with his head too much.”

“Good!”

“Right? I just keep hoping he’ll retire.”

“How long do you think that’ll be?”

Anthony sighed. “Knowing my luck? He’ll be one of those guys who plays into his forties.”

“Always how it is, isn’t it?” I chuckled. “I had a first sergeant who we all just kept hoping would retire. Like we were all counting down the days until he hit twenty years.”

Anthony’s brow pinched. “But he stuck around?”

Groaning, I nodded. “Fucker got promoted, so he reenlisted. Last I heard, he was going for thirty years.” I shook my head and brought my drink up again. “One more reason I’m so glad I got discharged.”

“Yeah, I bet. I swear the dickbags are always like cockroaches. There could be a nuclear apocalypse and they’ll still be playing.”

I barked a laugh. “I can just see it—a whole team of asshole hockey dickheads playing through the nuclear winter.”

“Right?” He chuckled, and the conversation died away as the pregame show started.

Without our meandering, rambling conversation to hold my attention, my mind went right back to where it had been ever since we’d unpacked groceries.

Anthony. Out on the prowl. Hooking up.

He wouldn’t have any trouble in that department, that was for sure. If I’d come across him on an app, I’d have swiped right so hard my phone would’ve exploded. Between his gorgeous face and that mouthwatering six-pack, every queer man in Seattle was probably his to lose.

I shifted a little on the couch, hoping he didn’t notice. Anthony was a million miles out of my league. I had no illusions of even registering on his radar.

Didn’t stop me from being painfully attracted to him, though.

Or wondering if it would be seriously hot or absolute torture if he was loud enough in bed that it carried down to my room. On one hand, it would drive me out of my ever-loving mind, listening to someone else driving him wild. On the other…

I shifted again, and just for good measure, kept my glass in my lap so he didn’t notice my hard-on.

Get a grip, Wyatt. Jesus Christ.

Fortunately, the game was about to start, and trying to learn the sport meant paying close attention. Hopefully that would be enough to keep me from embarrassing myself.

Then Anthony’s phone pinged with a distinctive tone.

Before I could tell myself to play it cool and pretend not to notice, I turned my head.

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