Page 17 of Home Ice Advantage

“Yeah? Come on. One game.”

It wasn’t a good idea. There was not having friends in Boston, and there was belligerent pool with his boss, who had been drinking. Eric downed his entire pint in two gulps and gestured for another one. “You’re on. Let’s see if you can even reach the table.”

Sullivan’s brown eyes narrowed and for a second, Eric felt the little thrill of competition. The same way he would have done facing him across the red line for an opening face-off while they waited for their centers to duel it out. Sullivan ran one hand through his gray hair, pushing it out of his eyes. He was a bit disheveled, like the wind and alcohol had whipped him out of the tidy persona he usually presented.

Eric thought about grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. He would have, if he had any idea what would happen next. “Let’s see if you’re all talk the way I think you are.”

“Oh, shit. Does Ted Lasso actually have a temper?”

“Less crap, more pool,” Sullivan said, firmly, and Eric thought about reaching down to ruffle his hair out of order again.

Eric took his second beer, downed that too, and followed Sullivan to the pool table. He might have been short as hell, but his body was broad and solid enough, muscular enough, that people moved out of his way instinctively.

It was the kind of bar where even though everyone had to have recognized Sullivan, no one actually approached to bother him. The most anyone did was glance at them out of the corner of their eyes, and Eric was aware, once again, that he really could not afford to do anything stupid, like trip his head coach just to see him go tumbling to the tile floor and sprawl in an undignified heap.

Sullivan moved to rack the first set of balls. Even drunk, he moved with a careful and easy economy of motion, although Eric had to snicker a little when Sullivan did need to lean forward so he could reach and position the triangle correctly. Sullivan caught him at it and his head whipped around, frown tugging the corner of his mouth down, and Eric couldn’t resist.

“Should I get you a stool?”

“You can break them, and we’ll go from there, how about that.”

“Which rules? You want to pick stripes or solids?”

“Your choice. Whatever bar rules you usually use. I don’t need to worry about who has the best setup.”

“Oh, cocky, are you?”

“Competent,” Sullivan corrected him, and Eric really should not have found that as attractive as he did, especially because Sullivan was so fucking self-righteous about it. He held the cue stick in one hand like it was a hockey stick, leaning over the table to peer at the angle Eric chose to take to break the rack.

The balls broke with a satisfying crack. To his eye, the stripes were better arranged, but he wasn’t going to give Sullivan the satisfaction ofcompetenceby taking the easy way out. Eric took solids, and let Sullivan have the first go at it.

“I can’t believe you voluntarily hang out in Southie,” Sullivan said, with a disparaging snort, as he moved around the table looking for the best angle. “If I had the choice, I’d never come back here again.”

“It’s really not that bad,” Eric said. “At all. Where else would you, Mr. Hall-of-Famer Cup Champion, be able to play pool without getting bothered for autographs every five seconds?”

“I can tellyoudidn’t grow up here,” Sullivan retorted, neatly pocketing his first ball.

“What gave it away?” Eric couldn’t quite keep the smirk off of his face, and it only seemed to infuriate Sullivan further. What annoyed him was the equally neat shot and satisfying noise as Eric’s ball made its way to the target, too. “Was it the fact that this place isn’t as terrible as you think it is, or was it the accent?”

Sullivan didn’t answer, just moved around the pool table like a shark, picking his spots, getting a better view of the lines he’d have to pick to get his next shot. As much as he hated to admit it, Eric watched him, the way his shoulders shifted visibly even under the bulky fall sweater he was wearing. The muscle of his stupid, thick thighs pulling against the legs of his pants. Sullivan played pool the same way he did everything else, with an air that would have been cocky if he wasn’t so obviously enjoying the competition on its own merits.

The bar was crowded and humid, like everyone else in Southie was either avoiding their own shitty families or had simultaneously decided it was better to be lonely in a group. Even in the space around the tables, Eric kept getting shoved to the side as he waited, pushed around until he set his weight at the center and refused to move.

He had to stand too close to Sullivan, stupidly aware of the heat of Sullivan’s body, the way that the hair on his arms stood a little on end where he’d rolled his sleeves up to the elbow. Couldn’t help looking at Sullivan’s face, the way his mouth twisted in a firm line when he was concentrating, squinting down at the table. Teeth digging into his lower lip. Couldn’t entirely ignore the way he’d catch Sullivan watching him when it was his turn, the too-long stare, focused on the wrong parts of Eric’s face or body.

They were evenly matched, for the most part. A few fouls set Sullivan behind. A push from behind while he was lining up set Eric’s ball careening off at the wrong angle. Sullivan didn’t crow triumphantly at him either, just watched, intent, like he was plotting the trajectory of a particularly bad-angle wrister from behind the net. Even though he swayed a little as he walked, he still had a hell of a shot. It was satisfying, watching him play, Eric realized with a little jolt. He had let his guard down, and every time his arm brushed against Eric’s or his hip jostled Eric out of place, it threw him off of his game.

In between turns, Eric wove his way back up to the bar for drinks, Sullivan bristling when Eric warned him not to cheat while he was gone.

“Is this what you do with your spare time?” Sullivan asked when he returned, and Eric did a double take because the question had sounded so sincere.

“Nah. I watch a lot of hockey, you know.”

Sullivan laughed, and Eric felt the frisson of annoyance and frustration that he always had when Sullivan smiled. “No shit.”

They had wound down to Eric’s last ball, and the eight ball. He said, “Five ball, right corner.”

“Oh, confident,” Sullivan drawled.

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