Page 3 of Cherry Picking
“Is this your first season as captain?”
Hawks’ smile wobbles, and he winces. “Second, actually. I hyped the team up for this when Coach told us.” He claps the back of my tank. “Don’t make me look bad.”
He says it with humor that has an edge of nervousness, and I can’t say that I blame him. I can say that knowing the captain went to bat for me makes me feel better about this placement.
Locke wants me to stick around, and maybe I do need to rest my wings a little.
“You do that all by yourself, Cap,” comes a voice from behind us, and I look up at the mirror we’re facing to be met with cool, gray eyes and upturned, amused lips.
The man is dressed in sweat-soaked workout gear, shaggy copper hair wet from exertion, and a broad heaving chest that my eyes shouldn’t linger on but absolutely do.
Hawks laughs and turns off his treadmill, turning to face his teammate while I keep up my pace and watch them in the mirror.
“Missing the first off-season practice.” Hawks shakes his head. “Losing your touch, Easton.”
He makes a gesture toward the man—Easton—and I glance down to see a walking boot covering his left leg.
“I’m here, aren’t I? I’ll ride the bench and study everyone’s plays. Gives me a chance to see the new guy in action without any distractions.”
He inclines his head toward me, and I can’t stop the grin that takes over.
“If you want to see me in action, why not stay after for a little private showing?”
I can flirt with the best of them, and most guys in the league know not to take me seriously. It’s almost a test in a way. To see how my new teammates react to the open queerness. Even if I’m not always this blunt about it, their reactions give me a gauge of how well we’ll get along—or whether I’ll be benched for decking my own teammate on the ice.
His shoulders tense even as his eyes threaten to drown me in their intensity. They’re the color of an impending storm, of clouds that roll through with heavy thunder, and it opens something deep and primal in my chest.
No lusting after teammates,I tell myself even as my dick takes interest in the way Easton’s shoulders flex as he crosses his arms over his chest.
Now would be a great time to turn around and introduce myself, but I’d like to keep the twitching in my pants to myself—good first impressions and all.
Thankfully, Hawks is on top of it.
“Have you met our new goaltender?” He says with a bright smile. “Griffin Foster.”
Easton looks at our captain with a soft fondness in his eyes, then turns the look back to me with an added edge that I can’t quite decode.
“Riley Easton.”
I know that name.
He played up in the Majors for three seasons before an injury at a game got him sent down to the PHL. That was years ago, and I haven’t heard whispers of him on any of my other teams, so I figured he’d quit for good.
Seems like he’s still reckless if that boot is anything to go by.
I finally slow my speed to a cool down, and my body agrees to give into the fresh burn in my legs and lose the unnecessary excitement.
“So what did you do, and how hard is Coach going to push you for it?”
Easton’s laugh is a rich, rumbled sound.
“Four-wheeling accident during the break. Double gym duty, and I get to be the equipment bitch until this bad boy comes off.” He taps his thigh, and my eyes travel down his muscular legs with an appreciative head nod.
When I shut the machine off and turn, his brows are pinched, and there’s a light dusting of red across his cheeks. Hawks hops off his own machine and claps Easton on the shoulder—which is hilarious because Easton has to have an easy foot on the captain.
“This guy here is going to be your best defenseman. He’ll quite literally analyze every move you make on the ice.”
Easton smiles and drops his eyes to the floor, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
