Page 14 of Crossed Sticks

HARPER: Me too. Goodnight, Luca. I’ll text you tomorrow.

LUCA: I’ll count on it. Sleep well.

I placed my phone on the side table and leaned the recliner back. Living in the same building could be a great thing, or it might turn into a mess. Whatever. I was determined to think positive for once.

5/

harper

I downedtwo fried eggs and a bowl of fruit, then devoured a slice of toast in the elevator. After chugging orange juice straight from the bottle, I tossed the empty plastic jug into a nearby bin and sprinted for my SUV. Oversleeping meant a mad dash to Amherst because I didn’t want to be late meeting my new teammates. It was a first impression I couldn’t afford to screw up.

My knuckles turned white as I gripped the steering wheel and accelerated onto the highway. Last night’s bravado in my texts with Luca had been for show. After leaving the Jitterbug, I’d kept my phone with me every second, waiting for a message. I’d needed to hear from him to be sure he wanted to see me again. I was relieved he did, but the idea of texting while I was in D.C. made me nervous. While it would be fun, it would also be a chance to shoot myself in the foot. I didn’t know what made men get tired of me, but if Luca and I only had limited time together, I didn’t want to waste it online.

It seemed like we both wanted to be friends as well as have sex. The last I heard, that meant friends with benefits. Our physical attraction was undeniable, but was it enough? Could wehandle the “friends” part? One hot encounter in a coffee shop wasn’t exactly a recipe for a lasting connection.

Lasting connection?What the hell was I thinking? There would be no lasting connection because protecting myself was job number one.Lasting connection, my ass.Instinct told me Luca wouldn’t want anything long-term even if it was on the table. And if he did, it wouldn’t be long until he kicked me in the heart and disappeared. No one had ever wanted me for me, and things went to hell every time I got my hopes up. When Luca and I went out, I’d be the four Fs my friend Sara always talked about: friendly, funny, fashionable, and fuckable. Then, in no time, I’d be forgotten, forlorn, and—fuck Fs—devastated.

Fans thought professional hockey players had it made. To them, we were millionaires who had it all. I swallowed hard, unable to blink back a few tears. I’d have traded everything for someone who loved me, a man who thought I was special for more than how many goals I scored. I dreamed about meeting someone who wanted more than having a hockey player’s dick up his ass so he could brag to his friends about it.

Hockey player?Shit.Fuck it, fuck me, and fuck my life. Luca didn’t know I played hockey yet. Feeling punched in the gut, I wondered if I should pull to the side of the road before I hurled in the SUV. Everything changed when guys learned about my job. They either wanted the things I could buy them, the attention of being seen with me, or—full circle back to what I’d thought before—being able to brag about getting fucked by a jock because, yeah… they were super-hot.

No one ever asked what I wanted; they assumed I’d go along with whatever they had in mind. No one ever bought me dinner, even a pizza, because I made a lot of money. And no one ever took me to meet their family because I wasn’t a keeper. I was only someone they could have before they found the person they wanted to share a life with.

I breathed a sigh of relief when the Warriors Sports Complex came up on the right, interrupting my pity party. The two-year-old facility housed the team’s practice rink and offices. After parking in the players’ garage—my name was already listed in front of my designated parking spot—I got out of the SUV, slung my gear bag over my shoulder, and headed inside.

Some of the guys from our bar excursion were already there, along with someone I hadn’t met—Logan Grayson, the other openly gay Warrior. I didn’t know much about him except he was one of the league’s best wingers. He was in his early thirties, and with blond hair and blue eyes, he was a looker. Though not as handsome as Gabe, and not even in Luca’s stratosphere, he probably turned heads wherever he went.

“Blanton, have you hooked up with that guy from the bar yet?” I turned my head to see Holcomb coming in from the restroom, wearing a friendly grin. “He was really into you.”

“I heard he was handsome as fuck,” Logan said, smiling. “I can see why he liked you, pretty boy.”

My heart drummed, but I went along with the kidding. “Shut the fuck up. I am not pretty.”

Holcomb snorted. “You aresopretty. Even I can see that, and I’m not into guys.”

“You’re a pretty one, Blanton, so get over yourself.” The accented voice belonged to Axel Björk, the back-up goalie, who was taking off his shirt.

“Quit giving Harper shit,” Gabe called out. “Save it for the ice.” Glancing at me, he stage-whispered, “You are pretty, though, Harpy.”

“Fuck you all,” I said, laughing. “I’ll show youprettyon the ice.” I’d been on enough hockey teams to know they were being friendly, not assholes. With strangers, it might have been different, but this was one of the ways teammates bonded.

Amid a chorus of guffaws, and while Holcomb called out, “Bring it on, gorgeous,” I found a locker and started changing into my gear.

“Wear pads,” Logan said. “We get rough out there.”

He didn’t need to tell me that. Shinny—basically street hockey, an informal game with no rules—was hard-fought. Between teammates, it was usually cutthroat. I was glad conversation moved on to topics not involving my looks, and by the time I was dressed, everyone had arrived.

“What the hell?” Gabe scowled at me. “The fuck is that?”

Logan looked appalled. “Come on, man, what kind of bullshit is this?”

Björk snickered and shook his head. “Lose that Barracudas practice jersey, or I’ll cut it off. Jax keeps scissors in his locker in case somebody needs them.”

Jaxon Wyatt, the team captain, was a brawny defenseman with long brown hair and a short beard. He stood and walked toward me. “Give him a break. We all had our first days.” He nodded down a hallway. “Let’s go find something decent for you to wear.”

When we returned, I was sporting a Warriors practice jersey. It was crimson, matching four of the guys. The five others had white jerseys, so I knew which team I’d be on.

“Here he is, boys,” Jax said. “Our newest Warrior. Make him feel welcome.”

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