Page 8 of Unrivaled

So half an hour before the game, Grady entered the players’ area of the arena, the same way he would if he were going to do a workout, but instead he took a left turn into a small lounge and put the game on the TV. He needed to know the competition.

The game ended in Canada’s favor. No surprise—Grady figured them for the strongest competition at the tournament. But that meant it was time to meet his mystery date.

So. He’d go, he’d have casual anonymous semipublic sex, and then he’d go out tomorrow and play hockey for his country.

What could go wrong?

THE KIDS,Max decided after the game, were not all right.

The kids were fast, hungry, and young enough to think they were bulletproof, and they played today’s preliminary matchup like it was game 7 of the Cup Final.

The kids also hadn’t had defensive responsibility beaten into them yet, so Team Canada won 5–3, but it cost Max more in bruises than he wanted to admit to hold on to the puck for his two goals and an assist.

Worth it, though, obviously.

“Hey, Mad Max!”

And now his team was going to want to go out to celebrate, or play video games to bond, or both, but Max had an appointment to undress an internet stranger. Literally or metaphorically, depending on whether he showed and how hot he was.

Max looked up from pulling on his T-shirt and met Coop’s eyes. “Present.”

They weren’t friends, which, like, Max wasn’tupsetabout. He knew he was better at leaving rivalries on the ice than 98 percent of the league. But Coop and the other Philly guys always gave him a little extra side-eye because they were protective of Armstrong and somehow thought Max had broken his arm on purpose or that he was out to personally destroy the guy’s carefully controlled on-ice persona. It wasn’t Max’s fault he was good at distracting him from doing his job. It was Armstrong’s fault for being so easy to nettle.

Coop rolled his eyes. “Cute. You coming to dinner?”

Oh, wow, an official invitation.

Coop gave a sheepish smile. “Your pickpocket move saved me from looking like a pylon. Figure I owe you a drink.”

Howard Barclay, Team North America’s nineteen-year-old hotshot captain, had faked Coop out and intercepted a pass he never should’ve made, but Max had it covered. They scored on that play too.

“Nah, that was my pleasure.” Max wasn’t going to rub it in—if Coop was going to treat him like a human being for the next week, he’d lean into it. “Gotta keep the kids in their place, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Coop laughed. “But you’re not coming to dinner? You got a hot date or something?”

One of Max’s teammates from Jersey raised his head and glanced over. “Oh no. I know that look. It’s dick o’clock.”

Max blew him a kiss. “I’ll catch up with you guys at the restaurant. Text me details?”

“As long as you promisenotto textmeany.”

“Your loss.” He had the feeling today’s story would be a good one. He saluted the room with his phone and then shoved it in his pocket. “If I don’t text you by ten, assume I’m dead and send someone cute to look for my body.”

The idea made him snicker a little as he navigated the depths of the arena. Like, imagine the cops delving into his app history and finding out he’d set up a meeting with someone claiming to be Grady Armstrong, and Armstrong having to answer questions about his Grindr use.

He’d look like a wet, grumpy cat, and he’d be about as friendly about it. Max was getting a warm, fuzzy feeling. Sure, in this hypothetical scenario he’d be dead, but he’d be dead andstill pissing off Grady Armstrong. God was good, et cetera.

It wasn’t that security was lax. It was just that Max was in the players-only area already—no extra measures required to keep people out.

If he’d thought about that a little longer, he’d have realized sooner. But he didn’t have time to think about it, because when he rounded the corner to the league’s best-worst-kept secret hookup spot, he came face-to-face with the grumpy wet cat himself.

Ohshit.

Max could feel his mouth dropping open, but he didn’t have the motor control to do anything about it.

For his part, Armstrong didn’t seem to have put two and two together yet. He glanced at Max and curled his lip in a sneer. “Get your own dark corner, Lockhart. I’m meeting someone.”

“I mean, I could leave,” Max said. “But then who’s gonna give you that orgasm?”

---