THERE’S a morning press conference the day of the next game, the first since the trade, so up there on the podium are Moreau and Hayes next to Coach Stephenson and our GM.
I’ve snuck in the back, behind all the media, because I can’t help myself. That and we have our morning skate right after this.
Anton looks too damn good in his suit, his black hair parted and styled in that perfect way he has it after games. His smiles are easy, and his answers are short. He’s the walking definition of perfect PR.
Unlike me. Exhibit A: I’m attending this press conference in jeans and my B’s jacket. Big no-no, but the plan is to go unnoticed. That lasts all of two minutes until someone asks about the rift between Hayes and me.
Then suddenly cameras are pointed in my direction and toward the front.
Anton smiles again, still unflustered, and says into the mic, “Ezra Palaszczuk and I have only ever come to blows on the ice.”
Hey, I’d offer to blow him off the ice, but he’s adamant about pretending he doesn’t want me.
“We’re actually great friends,” he continues.
I bet that was difficult for him to get out without wanting to hurl.
“Now that we’re on the same team, there’s no reason to be fighting over plays. You might not know it to look at Ezra, but he has a big heart and has even volunteered to help me with my latest charity campaign at the local animal shelter, Boston Paws. We’re having a volunteer day this weekend, and he’ll be there with me.”
I’m going to be where with who now?
His dark eyes lock on me, along with every camera in the damn room, and suddenly his smile isn’t so easy. It’s downright evil.
I wave it off, acting like a good sport.
He’s going to pay for that.
As soon as the press conference is over, I approach him in the locker room. His jacket and tie have been discarded, his suit shirt is unbuttoned, but that’s as far as he’s gotten.
The other guys are only starting to arrive, so it’s still practically empty when I shove past Anton and send him flying into his cubby.
Anton rights himself and advances on me, only stopping barely a foot away.
I pump my eyebrows. “You know, if you wanted to spend more time with me, all you had to do was ask. No need to steamroll me into going on a date with you.”
Moreau steps behind his old Philly teammate, but Anton holds him back.
“I got this,” Anton says.
Then his dark and broody stare is back on me. “If you think spending any time outside the rink with you was by choice, you’re more egotistical than I ever thought.”
“That’s your problem. Always underestimating me.”
Anton licks his lips. “I can’t wait to see you on Sunday at the shelter. Rumor has it you have this weird fear of cats.”
My eyes widen.
“Guess what I signed you up for?” he continues. “Cleaning out all the little kitty cages. You’re welcome.”
I turn to the few guys who are here. “Which one of you ratted me out?”
I might have an irrational superstition about cats—not fear. Which everyone knows about after a stray black cat was found outside the arena one day. Larsen had brought it in to find a box for it, and we lost the next game. And the one after that.
“If we lose the game against Philly on Monday, we know who to blame.” I glare at Anton. “Will you be able to remember whose side you’re on?”
“Worry about your own game.” Anton turns his back to me and finishes getting undressed.
I stand here and watch because while he’s still and always will be an asshole, his body is divine.
He does have a point though, because later that night when we play against New Jersey, I take more penalties, more hits, and let way too many shots on goal happen.
It’s a shutout, and we leave the ice with our heads low.
“Should’ve gone with the dirty socks,” Larsen says as we head down the chute.
“Should’ve never traded and messed with our team dynamics.”
Anton, who’s in front of me, takes his glove off and throws me the finger. “I was nowhere near the worst out there tonight.”
“Oh, did I miss where you scored?”
“At least I didn’t spend more time in the sin bin than on the ice.”
“Cut the crap,” Coach says behind me. “The media is watching.”
A few reporters are hanging around outside the locker room waiting for sound bites and after-game interviews. Anton and I close our mouths like good little boys, but I bet Coach is already having regrets about the trade.
My alarm goes off at dark o’clock so I can get my ass to the fucking animal shelter to do this charity shit because fucking Anton Hayes is a fucking fuck fuck asshole fuck.
If it wasn’t obvious before, it’s crystal clear now. I am not a morning person.
Mornings should be illegal. Unless I’m climbing into bed instead of out of it.
I throw on the nearest pair of jeans I find crumpled on the floor and pull a B’s shirt out of my closet.
Anton couldn’t pick a shelter close by, could he? Nope. I have to schlep all the way out to Gloucester. I bet he did that on purpose.
I grab coffee on the way but am ready for another one when I pull into the parking lot. Hell, I’m ready for a vat of it. Or an IV drip. Caffeine, get in my veins.
Anton stands by the door, arms folded, scowl on his beautiful face. No, not beautiful. Damn it. “You’re late.”
“You’re an asshole,” I bite back.
“Original.” He opens the door.
“I’m not caffeinated enough for originality.”
“Let’s get to work. We need all the cages clean before people turn up to look at adoption.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure we can find someone who’d want to take you home. Maybe. Actually, no, it’s a tall order.”
He lowers his voice, letting out a sexy but teasing rasp. “That’s not what you said a few months ago.”
“I’m a temporary stop. I’m no one’s forever home.”
Anton’s dark brows furrow at me, but it’s the truth. I’m not the settling down type. I have nothing against the sanctity of marriage or monogamy—maybe one day the urge to settle will pull me down the aisle—but I can’t see it happening. The idea of long-term makes me itchy. I’ve never had that need to claim someone as the person who belongs to me.
I’m not convinced the need exists. It certainly didn’t for my parents.
We get to a set of doors, and Anton grabs a pair of rain boots and shoves them into my hands. “Put these on.”
“Why couldn’t we have turned up when the cameras and people were here so it looks like we did it?” I grumble as I switch out my shoes.
“That’s probably the most Ezra-like thing I’ve ever heard you say.” He pushes cleaning supplies at me next.
“Hey, I’m not against charity, but the schedule is so grueling during the season, I want to take advantage of every chance I get to sleep in.”
“Of course you do.”
We enter the cat area, which is a depressing room if I ever saw one.
All the cats are in individual cages, not like others I’ve seen where they’re housed in a big area together outside with play equipment. There’s one climbing tree in the corner, and I can’t help getting a prison vibe from it all. Each of them gets one hour of rec time outside their cell.
I would feel sorry for them, but cats are evil bastards. Who knows? Maybe they’re all doing time for murder and eating their owners’ faces.
“You can put the supplies down here.” He points to a table.
“Yes, sir,” I mutter.
“You really are cranky in the mornings. I was warned about that by a few of your teammates. Apparently, you go through roommates on the road faster than you do hookups. Now that’s impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“Not a compliment.” He heads for the corner of the room, and I follow him.
I want to point out my teammates are now his teammates too, but I don’t. “Maybe I wouldn’t be complaining so much if you’d volunteered for me to visit an old people’s home or a cancer ward. I can cheer up a whole room by walking into it. But animals?” Just as I say this, we walk past a cage, and a cat hisses at me. “Cats don’t like me. Where are the dogs?”
Anton opens one of the cages and picks up a black kitten. He lifts it in front of his face and does a ridiculous voice. “Pwease, Ezwa. Loooove me! I’m a cute innocent kitten, but everyone hates me because of stupid superstition that black cats are bad wuck.”
“Black cats are bad luck.”
“Hooold me.” Without missing a beat, he practically shoves the poor thing in my arms.
It scrambles to get away, and I almost drop it, but then I hold it close to me, and—
“Ouch. It bit me.”
“Maybe if you weren’t trying to smother it, it would play nice. You know, they say animals have a great sense of reading people. They know when they meet a shitty person and show it.”
“I think that’s dogs. Cats hate everyone.”
Anton grunts. “Fine, I’ll hold the cat. You do the cleaning.” He takes the evil thing back, and the tiny fluff ball immediately settles in his big arms and starts purring.
“Maybe dogs can sense good humans and cats can sense people who are dead inside. Just like them.”
“Hurry up and get to work.”
I sigh and start the job of emptying out the cage, which is already sparse apart from one toy, one blanket, and the litter tray.
Anton takes the kitten over to the climbing tree and watches as it explores. He has a slight smile on his face and almost looks peaceful.
“How do you know your way around here already?” I ask. “You were traded a few days ago.”
“I was on time. Plus, I grew up here. Used to volunteer here during school.”
“What? No way. How did I not know you were from Boston?”
“Is it because I don’t say things like ‘I’m wicked smaht’?”
“Hey, I’ve never said wicked in my life, but I still have that Boston edge in my accent.”
He cocks his head. “Maybe you didn’t know because you’re only interested in yourself.”
“Oh, right. That. But also, how did we not cross paths before going pro?”
Anton snorts. “Because you had your head so far up your ass you never noticed me before?”
“Wait … we were in the same league?”
“We only had one season where we played against each other because I’m younger than you, but yeah. It’s hard not to remember the guy who thought he was above it all, even back then. The Ezra Palaszczuk who didn’t have to work at anything. Natural-born talent, all the newest equipment money could buy—”
“You’re forgetting all the pressure Dad put on me to make it all the way.”
Anton shrugs. “I saw a cocky kid who had it all. I … I was quiet back then, still figuring myself out, and I had to fight tooth and nail to become the best at hockey. I didn’t really hit my stride until freshman year of college. By then, you were already drafted and in the AHL.”
I try to think back to when I was a teenager, and fuck, I barely remember my teammates let alone anyone I played against. “So, what I’m hearing is, you’ve had a crush on me since high school.”
Anton lets a laugh slip out. “Can you get back to cleaning, please?”
“Sure. But just know, when we lose every single game from here on out, it’s because you made me hold a black cat.”
“I’ll take all the blame.”
“Good.”
By the time we’ve cleaned out all the cages and moved on to the dogs who have much bigger and better living quarters, I’m exhausted.
But then an adorable old golden retriever mix tackles me when I open his cage, and it gives me a burst of energy. “At least someone likes that I’m here.”
“Mm, an affection-starved, homeless dog. I don’t think his standards are high.”
“From memory, he’s not the only one in this space who has slobbered all over me.”
“Yeah, well, my standards that night took a massive dive too.” While his words are still as cutthroat as ever, I can’t help noticing the conviction is missing. His tone is lighter, and when I look up from where I’m playing with the dog, not only is he smiling, but he’s smiling at me. I get the impression he’s trying to remind himself how much he hates me.
We get the rest of the cages clean with the help of other volunteers who arrive not long after we start on the dog area. Then for the actual PR part of the day.
Adopt an animal, meet a hockey player.
This is the kind of PR I like. Not because it makes me look good, but meeting fans, especially young kids who look up to me, is not only an ego stroke, but it feels like I’m actually doing something good. I like giving people hope in a world that has so much wrong with it.
And when a teen boy comes up to me, his eyes cast down, head held low, I can predict what he’s about to say before he says it. He’s not the first confused-looking kid to come out to me.
His brown hair falls in his eyes. He has to be around fifteen, but he’s muscular for a teen. If it weren’t for the acne and braces, I’d assume he was older from his physique.
He glances around and steps closer, speaking low. “Umm, I wanted to say thank you for, umm, you know … umm—”
“What’s your name?”
“Tai.”
I hold my hand out to shake his. “You can call me Ez.”
His face lights up. “Really?”
“Of course. It’s nice to meet you, Tai.”
“Uh, well, yeah, umm, thank you. Again.”
“I’m guessing you don’t mean for volunteering here.”
He wears a small smile. “No. I mean …” The next part comes out in a rush. “For-coming-out-and-playing-hockey.”
“I’m not doing anything heroic. I’m just being myself. Everyone should be allowed to be themselves.”
He finally meets my eyes. “That’s heroic to me.”
Beside me, I sense Anton listening in.
“I hope one day you’re as supported as I feel in the league.” Okay, so not everything is perfect in that sense, but I feel a hell of a lot safer than I ever could have imagined at Tai’s age.
“C-can I get a selfie?” Tai asks.
“Of course.”
The whole time, Anton keeps watching us, and when Tai walks away, I lean in closer.
“Careful. With how hard you’re staring, someone might think you have a thing for me.”
Anton shakes his head. “Just when I think you might actually be a decent human being underneath all your shit, you come out with … that.”
“Hey, I can be a decent human being and be full of shit at the same time, thank you very much. It’s called multitasking.”
“If you say so.”
I will never, ever, ever admit it, but today has actually been fun.
Minus the cats.
