Page 12 of Breakaway Goals
Danny grinned. “I’m not debating this unless it’s over a beer. Come on. Shower. Get dressed. Team’s going out.”
Hayes was going to do those things anyway, but when he finished, Morgan appeared by his stall.
“You coming?” Morgan asked, raising an eyebrow.
Part of Hayes wanted to go back to his room, crawl into bed, order room service, and watch some particularly trashy realityTV, but he knew he should go out and be social with his teammates.
Hayes hesitated just long enough that Morgan leaned in.
“Come on,” Morgan said a little impatiently. “Don’t go all bashful shrinking violet on me. That guy wouldn’t have made that play or gotten me the puck the way he did.”
“You asked me to do it,” Hayes muttered.
“I asked you to remember what you’re fucking capable of.” Morgan met his eyes with a challenging look. “And you did.”
That much was true.
“Yeah,” Hayes agreed. Kind of hoping—and not hoping—that Morgan might give him another pep talk. Might call himself “just a man” again, like Hayes had ever needed that reminder—but if Morgan wanted to give it to him, wanted toshowhim, he wasn’t going to argue.
“Celebrate with us then,” Morgan said. “I owe you a drink for that pass.”
“Hey, you took the shot,” Hayes said.
He’d asked Hayes to be a playmaker, and he’d done it.
“Sure,” Morgan said, smiling now. “Maybe you owemea drink, then.”
Hayes thought this was ridiculous. They both made a hell of a lot of money. What did it matter?
But half an hour later, he found himself in a bar, buried in the back of a big booth, pressed next to Danny on one side and Noah and Calvin on his right, Bram lounging with his hip pressed against the exposed side of the table. Everyone was shooting the shit, discussing the game they’d just played and what the next game—against Finland—might bring.
Morgan rolled up to the table, four bottles of beer dangling from one hand.
Hayes’ pulse accelerated at the thought of those big competent hands.
It wasn’t like his hands were really any bigger than Calvin’s or Bram’s, or even, God forbid, Danny’s, but somehow it was only Morgan’s that made his heart stutter and fall right at his feet.
It was that childhood hero worship, for sure, but it was more too. The way Morgan met his eyes and nodded slightly, just a dip of his chin, and the look in his eyes. Like he could see right through Hayes.
There weren’t many first overall draft picks, tasked as the savior to a whole franchise, who carried that burden and the burden of all of hockey’s expectations.
Part of Hayes wanted to ask him how he’d done it. The other part of him didn’t want to talk at all. Only wanted to tuck his head into the sinful curve between Morgan’s chin and his neck and suck a mark there until everyone knew that Morgan didn’t belong to anyone else but Hayes.
It was really stupid.
Hayes knew it and felt it anyway.
“Here,” Morgan said, sliding one of the beers right at Hayes. “You deserve this.”
“What about me?” Danny squawked. “I set him up with the puck.”
Morgan slid a look towards Danny. “Like you could’ve ever made that play. Not at that speed.”
Danny made an annoyed noise, but he was still grinning.
Hayes wondered if that was the secret: not being good at everything and getting used to acknowledging it.
But Hayes—and Morgan—had always been considered full skill players, without any obvious holes, and so when one cropped up, everyone micro-focused on it, until Hayes wanted to scream.
