Page 1 of Breakaway Goals

“Morgan, you haven’t played on a national team for eight years. What about this team, this tournament made you want to come back?”

Morgan drummed his fingers on his knee. It wasn’t that he expected the questions to suddenly not suck, but he’d expected the interviewer to at least work up to the crappy ones. The ones that hinted without actually saying it that he didn’t give a shit about playing for his country.

The interviewer gazed at him expectantly, a sweetly neutral expression on her face. He wondered if she’d been born like that. Just popped out of her mother with the ability to school her face into something bland and non-threatening as she poked him right where it hurt.

His son, Finn, would tell him that if he didn’t want anyone to complain about him not playing for the US team, he should play for the goddamn US team.

“Well, uh, that’s a great question.” Lie . “How could I miss this tournament? Four countries sending their best players? A tune- up for the Olympics?” That’s three fucking questions and not a single answer in there, Reynolds.

She nodded, clearly encouraging him to actually answer the fucking question.

“It’s just such a great opportunity.” And such a shitty fucking answer.

He was sweating, could feel it under his arms, in the damp patch at the small of his back, underneath his Team USA polo.

Ridiculous . Morgan had been doing this for a long fucking time, fielding questions starting back in his early teens, when he’d first entered the USA hockey national team development program.

Then he’d been drafted first overall, and the media interrogations only became more intense from there.

And yet, he was totally fucking this up, anyway.

He saw a flash of annoyance cross her features before it smoothed away, like it didn’t exist.

“And you?” She’d clearly decided that was the best she was going to get out of Morgan, because she turned to the man next to him.

He should’ve known that the NHL media team wouldn’t be able to resist putting them together for interviews. Morgan had been hearing his name next to Hayes Montgomery’s for years now, usually uttered with breathless anticipation. The chosen one and the next one .

It wasn’t Hayes’ fault that he made Morgan feel old.

But he did.

“Oh, well . . .” Hayes stumbled over his words a little, and Morgan didn’t have to look over to see the guy’s face was full of hero worship.

It made Morgan want to crawl out of his skin.

I’m not so fucking great, bud, I promise .

“How could I pass up a chance to wear the stars and stripes on my jersey and play next to Morgan Reynolds?” It turned out Morgan didn’t have to look at him, because Hayes’ voice was brimming with adoration.

The kind that made Morgan want to shake him.

It was weird, ’cause normally Morgan liked it when people stroked his ego.

He was a damn good hockey player. Had the stats and the awards and the Cups to back it all up.

But Hayes made him feel like he was halfway out the door, not because he wanted to be, but because everyone else was pushing him there, ready to move on. Yeah, Morgan, you were damn good, but look at this kid, he’s going to be even better.

“I heard a rumor,” the interviewer said lightly, “that you’re going to be playing on the same line during the tournament. What’s that going to look like?”

Hayes looked over at him, like he was giving Morgan the first crack at answering the question. But it was another one he didn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole.

“Good hockey, that’s what it’s gonna look like,” Morgan said, a little brusquely. What else would it fucking look like? They hadn’t even gotten on the goddamn ice yet.

“Even though you normally play center, you’re okay shifting to Morgan’s wing?” She directed this one entirely at Hayes.

“Oh yeah, for sure. It’s not my natural position, but I’m excited to feed him the puck. Morgan’s a legend,” Hayes said. That note of reverence was back and even more pronounced now.

Morgan wanted to roll his eyes. Hayes was making him sound a hundred and five, not thirty-five, and he hated it.

The interviewer asked a handful of additional questions which Hayes actually attempted to answer and Morgan gave brief one-word retorts to.

Then, finally, thankfully, the interview ended.

The interviewer stood and, after shaking both their hands, ducked out of the conference room they’d rigged up to deal with multiple interviews at once. The camera operator exited too, leaving them alone.

There were only two days of practice—not much time at all to try to find some chemistry and gel on the ice—so they’d been trying to get through the media bits as fast as possible. Frankly, Morgan thought they could’ve skipped them altogether, but they weren’t asking him his opinion for a reason.

“Hey,” Hayes said softly, unsure.

Morgan turned to him. They’d met before, he was sure of it, but when Hayes had been younger, he’d left even less of an impression on Morgan. Unassuming, he’d always believed. But when he looked at Hayes now, that wasn’t the word he’d pick.

Sure, his voice had been unsure, almost questioning, but when Morgan met his eyes, he was surprised at how direct they were. A clear green, almost fierce, and staring right at Morgan.

Like he was daring Morgan to see him.

Huh. That was interesting.

The hair prickled on the back of Morgan’s neck.

“What’s up?” Morgan asked, realizing that he’d just been staring . Staring and not saying anything, like a complete idiot.

“I just . . .” Hayes shrugged. “You wanna grab some coffee or something? We’ve got a few hours until we have to be on the ice for practice . . .”

Morgan did not want to share a coffee with Hayes Montgomery. If he did, it was going to become a whole fucking thing, the chosen one and the next one hanging out, and that was a whole level of obligation he didn’t want to deal with.

But also . . .Hayes was going to be playing on Morgan’s wing. Maybe they could keep the conversation solely on hockey and on the plan Morgan had heard about during the dinner he’d had with the coaching staff last night.

“We could do that,” Morgan said.

Tyler Thompson was going to be the head coach, and he’d brought in an old friend, Gavin Blackburn, who’d coached mostly at the collegiate level but was now with the Seattle Sea Monsters, to assist him.

Both Thompson and Blackburn seemed to believe the team would have plenty of fire power; they were more concerned about how all the different puzzle pieces would come together.

Hayes’ face broke into a big smile, lighting his eyes up even more, and that prickle on the back of Morgan’s neck itched again. “Yeah? That would be so freaking great. I’m—”

Morgan had to cut this off before the guy drove him crazy. “Yeah, only great if you stop looking at me like you’re going to fall to your knees and worship me.”

It was kind of an asshole thing to say—maybe a better man than Morgan would’ve just accepted the uncomfortable squeeze at the base of his stomach every time Hayes gazed up at him like he was hockey Jesus—but even the slightly asshole flavor didn’t explain the way Hayes went so pale.

Morgan reached out and grabbed his arm to steady him.

“Who told you?” he asked under his breath, going from looking happy and excited to anxious only a second later.

“Who told me what?” Morgan didn’t want to be concerned, but it was hard to look into those green eyes, full of apprehension, and not worry.

Maybe he’d only be Hayes’ captain for ten days, but he was still technically Hayes’ captain, and the instinct was too ingrained for Morgan to resist.

“Who told you?” Hayes asked again, this time his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.

“Told me what?” If Hayes was going to repeat the question, then so was he.

“About—” Hayes broke off and waved at himself. “That I like, you know . . . men .”

Morgan jolted. He hadn’t even thought about how his words could be interpreted. Finn, who was queer too, would be seriously judging him right now, and while he couldn’t say he always deserved that look in his son’s eyes, he’d have deserved it this time.

“Shit, man, nobody did. I didn’t know. I was just . . .” A wave of shame crashed over him as he rubbed his neck. “I was just talking shit.”

“Oh. Oh .” Hayes’ eyes were very wide now.

“Yeah.”

“Well, uh . . .”

“It’s alright, you know? I won’t tell anyone. I’m an ass, but I’m a circumspect ass, at least. My son, Finn—”

“I know Finn, or of him, rather,” Hayes said, nodding.

“So you know, I’m not gonna be shitty about it.” Morgan winced. “Other than what I stupidly said just now.”

“It wasn’t that stupid. I was being dumb and paranoid,” Hayes said, looking like he was five seconds away from apologizing to Morgan .

That was crazy, because he’d been gunning for the opposite, to remind Hayes that Morgan wasn’t that great.

That he didn’t really need to gaze at him like he was Wayne Gretzky and Bobby Hull wrapped up in one single player.

“Really—it’s fine.” Morgan didn’t love that he’d put his foot into it, because he never loved when he did that. It was bad enough that most of the other NHL players he knew totally fit the dumb hockey stereotype. Always more brawn than brain.

“Alright.” Hayes seemed to relax then. “Do you uh . . .still . . .”

Morgan rolled his eyes. Didn’t even bother to try to hold it back this time. After all, that’s what he’d been trying to tell Hayes before he’d stepped in it. “Yes,” he said. “We’ll go to coffee. But only if you stop looking at me like you’re five seconds away from apologizing. Again .”

Hayes wet his lips. “Alright. Sorry—God, sorry .” He flushed red this time, which was way better than the sheet white he’d been before.

Cute, even, the pink flush staining the apples of his cheeks.