Page 3 of On Thin Ice

My gaze fell to the framed photographs displayed on the shelves that flanked the fireplace—pictures of my teams hoisting trophies, grinning over beers with my brother, and lounging on beaches during the off-season. Anyone looking at them now would think I had it all.

It was a life that looked damn good in photos.

But photos only told part of the story.

In reality, my life was a relentless cycle of workouts, games, endless travel, and the unyielding pressure of the public spotlight.

And beneath it all—buried so deep I barely let myself acknowledge it—was everything I denied myself.

The things I could never act on.

The secrets I kept locked away.

Austin was liberal, sure, but it was still Texas. And a gay man playing pro hockey here?

I couldn’t risk it, especially not after that rugby player was forced out of the closet a couple of years ago when a hookup threatened him about going to the press. So here I was, thirty years old, and I’d only ever fucked one guy—someone who had maybe even more to lose as I did. But we hadn’t crossed paths in over a year, which meant it was just me, my right hand, and a growing sense of pathetic self-loathing.

And if that wasn’t the saddest fucking thing I’d ever heard, I didn’t know what was.

My gaze snagged on another photo—one taken back at Thackeray after some big win, though I couldn’t even remember which one. My right arm was slung around a blonde whose name I should have remembered but didn’t. Kelcey? Kaitlyn? The names of all my past “girlfriends” tended to blend together at this point. She was gazing up at me with stars in her eyes. I was looking at the camera with a smile that didn’t quite reach mine.

The fact that this photo still held a prominent place on my shelf made me want to puke. It was nothing but a prop, just another piece of my carefully curated persona, another layer of bullshit masking the truth.

Would Bell have photos like this in his place? Some half-hearted attempt at proving something to the world?

Doubtful.

No, his shelves would be filled with pictures of his friends with bennies—as he called some of the guys who graced his socials. He probably wouldn’t hesitate to point to one and say something casual like, “Oh yeah, we hung out for a few months. He was straight until I sucked his cock. Good guy. Married to a dude now.”

My stomach twisted, and my jaw clenched as heat pooled low in my gut as my thoughts veered wildly off-course, somewhere they had no business going.

I exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over my face, but the damage was already done.

The thought of Stryker Bell on his knees—his mouth stretched around someone, his confident smirk flickering with something softer, something filthier—lodged itself deep, unwelcome and impossible to shake.

I definitely did not need to be picturing that.

And yet, for one reckless second, I let myself wonder what it would be like if, instead of some nameless, faceless guy, it wasmestanding in front of him. If he looked up atmethrough those thick lashes, smirking like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.

A sharp pang—equal parts longing and anger—ripped through me, and I shut the thought down fast.

Because it didn’t matter. It wouldnevermatter.

Bell got to live that life. He got to be the bold, unapologetic poster boy for queer men in sports. He could skate onto the ice with pride tape on his stick, talk about queer romance novels online, and be with whoever the fuck he wanted without second-guessing it.

Me? I’d spent my whole career making sure no one looked too closely at who and what I wanted.

When I was his age, I was too afraid.

Afraid of being judged, mocked, and shunned.

Afraid that the second I so much as hinted at the truth, my masculinity and my ability to play a brutal, aggressive sport like hockey would be called into question.

Hell, I was still afraid.

So I’d made my choice—again and again—to suppress that part of myself. To stay deep in the closet, hiding behind the macho stereotypes the world expected of me.

My gaze dropped back to the picture of me with Kaitlyn—to the guy in the photo, the one selling a version of himself that never existed.

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