Page 53 of Home Ice Advantage

Eric laughed, then, a dry chuckle. “Sully, you’re a fool if you think they’re not going to offer you an extension, no matter what the team’s record is.”

“You don’t know that—”

“With the way Cook’s playing? With the way Williams is playing? With the way all of our baby d-men have stepped up to eat twenty-five minutes a night? I remember how miserable they were last year under Leclerc. It’s so different now. You’re getting your extension.”

“Turn that same confidence on yourself. If an opportunity comes up—you know, like, I won’t hold you back.”

Eric’s phone buzzed and he glanced down at it. “Food’s here,” he said, and fled, like that alone would be an excuse to avoid having to talk about what Ryan had just said. By the time he had returned, Ryan was sitting on the couch, still thinking about it.

“You really think your reputation is preventing you from getting these opportunities?”

“Maybe not all of it,” Eric said, sitting down next to him, “but at least some of it’s definitely got something to do with the fact that I’ve had so many suspensions and teams think that says something deeper aboutme.”

Under Ryan’s hand, Eric’s thigh was warm and muscular and solid. “I just feel like once people get to know you, they’ll understand. That that’s not who you really are. They just have to talk to you, and I feel like you’d convince them.”

Eric raised one eyebrow, pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “I just have to plead my case, huh? All right, Department of Player Safety.”

“You had the hearings, right? It’s not like you didn’t have the opportunity to try before.”

“Are you kidding?” The snort was disparaging. “Like any of them actually listened to what I had to say.”

Before he could even think about what he was doing, Ryan found himself sitting up straight, posture ramrod formal. He took his hand away from Eric’s leg, raised his own eyebrows and said, “This is an in-person hearing for Eric Aronson to discuss potential consequences as a result of the biting incident committed on the ice against”—Ryan racked his brain, trying to remember the actual details of Eric’s incidents—“Jason Martin of the Vancouver Vanguard.”

Eric stared at him. “You’re serious.”

“This incident occurred on the ice during a game. Words were exchanged during the course of play, and the two grabbed hold of each other, wrestling briefly, before Aronson took Martin down to the ice—”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I would caution the player to avoid interruptions,” Ryan said severely, “as that shows he is not taking the process seriously. This is an opportunity to be heard.”

He could see the line of Eric’s full mouth, pressed thin in an expression of disbelief, twitch. The emotions that flickered across his face went in quick succession: confusion, annoyance, amusement and finally they settled into that sardonic smile, like Eric had decided he was going to play along, however stupid Ryan’s game happened to be.

“My apologies, Senior Vice President,” he said, “I’m taking this very seriously, actually.”

“Good,” Ryan said. He lifted his chin. “Because this is the major leagues, and we are representatives of the sport. Incidents of this nature are not—”

“Excuse me,” Eric interrupted. “Do I get to say anything in my own defense?”

“You are a repeat offender who is familiar with the process. If you continue interrupting, then I will have to take that into account when deciding on your punishment.”

“Okay. Please finish, Senior Vice President.” Eric’s mouth was still twitching, like he was trying so fucking hard not to laugh but was finding it very difficult. His face was admirably straight as he inclined his head slightly to the side, waiting for Ryan to continue.

“Before I was so rudely interrupted,” Ryan said, “we were going over the facts leading up to this hearing. Once Martin is down on the ice, their bare hands are in each other’s faces and words are continuing to be exchanged, and it appears that Aronson bites down on Martin’s hand with force.”

Eric was still watching him. His hands were folded in his lap as he sat there, the very picture of a contrite schoolboy. “If you—”

“Silence, please,” Ryan said sharply. “We will need to review the video before you can present your defense.” He realized, belatedly, that he had no video to review, and pulled up YouTube on his phone. He typed inEric Aronson biting fight Vancouverand found a clip someone had uploaded. They watched it with the sound off, Eric’s dark brown eyes searching, like he was remembering exactly what had led up to it.

“Excuse me, Senior Vice President,” Eric said, when they were done. He had moved a little closer on the couch while they were watching, and Ryan could feel the heat of Eric’s body against his thigh. It was objectively insane, the way Eric’s physical proximity could do that to him: like there was some kind of invisible magnetic force between them that he was minutely attuned to. “Can I present my defense?”

“Yes,” Ryan said, and swallowed hard. He wasn’t really doing a very good job of being an intimidating authority figure; he was trying to concentrate on the role he’d chosen for himself, but all he could do was watch Eric’s hands, the way he had twined his fingers together to crack his knuckles. The way he knew those same fingers felt, bruising against his body or twisting inside of him.

“My defense,” Eric said, leaning in. His voice was low and throaty, the kind of voice anyone else would have used when you were flirting with a woman in a bar. “My defense is that he liked it.”

“That’s—that’s not a defense,” Ryan said. He lifted his chin up again. “I need you to take this seriously, Mr. Aronson. You are a repeat offender, and you are facing a stiff suspension.”

“Stiff, huh?” Eric asked. His mouth was twitching again, just the corner. His eyes were dancing. “I can provide physical evidence.”

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