Adam scowled, gripping his stick. He could go high, he knew he could. He just had to catch Hunt off-guard.
“It’s been a week, and I already know that look,” Benton said. “Stop thinking you know better than me, buddy, because I’m here to tell you, ya don’t.”
“Yeah, you don’t,” Jake chimed in.
“You sure as shit don’t either,” Benton said, whirling on him. “So go sit down and practice your shutting-up face before I make you do a bag skate.”
Jake snapped his mouth shut and scurried for the bench.
“You’ve got potential, kid,” Benton said, more quietly. “But Hunty’s going to stop every shot you make until you learn to quit telegraphing your moves.”
Adam nodded.
“I want to start you on the third line our first game,” Benton said, startling Adam into looking up. Benton raised his eyebrows. “Think you can handle it?”
“Against the Ravens?”
Benton nodded.
“Is Jake going to be my winger?”
Benton snorted. “Right now, I don’t really have anyone else good enough to take his place. So yeah. You up to it?”
He’d have to skate twice as fast, watch for openings more closely than ever, and not rely on Jake for anything, Adam knew. He also knew he’d die before passing up this chance.
“Yes sir,” he said.
“Of course you are,” Benton said. “Shower and go home. Get some rest.”
“I want to do some more drills,” Adam protested.
“And I want a threesome with the Ice Girls,” Benton said. “From the looks of you, you’ve forgotten what rest feels like. Go home and try to remember.”
“Thanks, Coach,” Adam said.
Benton smiled, transforming his somber face. “Looking forward to seeing what you can do, kiddo. Hey! What makes you think you’ve got the skills to pull off that move, Hunt?” He’d already forgotten about Adam, it was clear.
Adam skated to the bench and left the ice. A quick shower helped him clear his head and he found himself on the street a few minutes later with nothing to do.
He had no real friends in Toronto, unfortunately. Most of them were back in Seattle, and since he’d moved, the only people he’d really gotten to know were on his team or the training camp he’d attended that summer.
Adam straightened. Rudy would know who Adam’s mystery man was. But he didn’t answer when Adam called, the phone going straight to voicemail. Adam gnawed his lip briefly. He didn’t know where Rudy lived. But he knew where he played.
Adam set off for the Thunder’s practice rink, tugging his cap low to avoid being recognized. He was still new to the Wolverines, and the season hadn’t even officially started, but the superfans were already posting sightings of him, along with speculation about his extracurricular activities.
The Thunder were in the middle of practice when Adam arrived, and he settled into a seat to watch. Rudy was every bit as good as he remembered from camp. Thirty-two years old and faster than most of the twenty-two year olds on his team, Adam thought, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the seat in front of him. He was wasted on the ECHL. Why was he still there?
Adam vaguely recognized the winger busy shouting at someone on his own team. Another player skated close and said something, and the man shut up, glowering at him. The player—he looked somewhat familiar too, and Adam thought he might have been at the bar that night—gave the winger a brilliant smile and touched his mouth with one finger before skating away.
The right winger was still glaring at the teammate who’d angered him, but he stopped yelling.
Interesting. Adam switched his focus to another pair.
This was… Johnny, he thought. He was only a little taller than Rudy, quick and sure on the ice and with a devastating slapshot. There was another player who appeared to be a defenseman, big and blond and not that great a skater, if Adam was being honest, and never far from Johnny. They’d been sitting together that night, he thought.
Another skater swung himself over the boards and hit the ice. Adam sat up suddenly, shock zinging through him. That was him. Adam would know that lean frame anywhere, those big hands that gripped his stick with the same surety as they’d mapped out Adam’s body that night.
Adam watched intently as the man stole the puck from Johnny and proceeded to play a complicated game of keep-away. He didn’t make for the goal. Instead, he skated in tight circles and intricate patterns, always whisking the puck out of Johnny’s grasp just as he reached for it.
Adam could hear Johnny laughing and swearing in the same breath as the other man seemed to tire of the game and dodged around him, heading for the goal.
The goalie tensed, clearly dreading the winger’s approach.
Relax, Adam urged him silently. You’ll never stop him if you’re that locked up.
Sure enough, the winger sank the puck between the goalie’s legs with insulting ease, circling smoothly and skating away without looking back. The goalie yanked off a glove and shot him the finger, but he was laughing. Clearly, this man was liked and respected by his teammates.
Adam had to talk to him. Had to. He waited as Rudy gestured everyone around. He waved his arms a lot as he talked, and apparently had a lot to say. Finally, though, he dismissed the team, which headed for the locker room. Adam hurried after them.
“Rudy!” he said, and Rudy glanced up, surprised delight flashing across his face.
“Adam, what are you doing here?”
“Had a little spare time.” Adam couldn’t help looking for the winger, but he was already gone, vanished down the hall toward—presumably—the locker room.
“Wanna come back?” Rudy asked.
“Hell yeah.” Adam followed Rudy through into the locker room, filled with rowdy men laughing and tossing things back and forth.
“You remember anyone I introduced you to that night?” Rudy asked, sounding amused.
“Not really,” Adam admitted. “I’d put away a few by the time we joined you.”
“Johnny,” Rudy said, pointing. “Liam, defenseman and Johnny’s boyfriend.”
Rudy’s casual acceptance of Adam’s sexuality at training camp had been Adam’s first clue that this was a man he could be friends with. He’d run into Adam in a little-known gay bar after practice one day, slid into the booth across from him, and given him that crooked smile. Adam, even taken aback, hadn’t been able to help the smile in return.
Johnny waved and Liam flipped a salute at them.
“Theo,” Rudy said, indicating the defenseman who’d talked the winger down. Theo smiled, making his eyes crinkle. His black hair stood up in sweaty tufts as if he’d just run his hand through it, and the winger beside him scowled.
“And that’d be Brewski,” Rudy said. “Robert Broussard. Kind of a dick, but Theo usually manages to balance him out.”
“Are they together?” Adam asked.
Rudy shrugged. “Getting there, I think. This is Logan, our goalie.” His voice softened and Adam glanced at him curiously before looking where he’d pointed, to a tall, lean man with a hooked nose and sensitive lips, currently unlacing his skates. He glanced up when he heard his name, a smile curving his mouth. He didn’t speak, though, just lifting a hand in greeting. “Logan doesn’t talk,” Rudy said to Adam in a low voice. “So don’t ask him anything involving more than a yes or no question unless you know sign language.”