Page 2 of Breakaway Goals

“No worries. Let’s go.” Morgan patted him on the shoulder. He did it instinctually, the long habit of affectionate touching ingrained after so many years of teammates, but also because Finn had told him once how important a casual touch could be after a guy came out.

Means you’re not afraid of us , he’d said, and Morgan had lost nights of sleep after that, worrying about his son. Worrying if Morgan would end up in jail because if Finn’s teammates ever did the shitty thing and avoided touching him on purpose? Morgan couldn’t be responsible for the consequences.

“Alright.” Hayes grinned at him, a dimple emerging in his cheek.

Morgan pushed the door open, Hayes following him.

There were various personnel scattered in the hallway, the interviewer leaning against the wall, talking to her boss, someone high up in the commissioner’s office.

They’d just dodged her, on the way to the coffee shop that Hayes said was just across the street, but then they ran—nearly literally—into a problem.

Because there was, ugh , Jacob fucking Braun.

His nemesis.

Morgan never knew what bothered him more—that Braun always saw right into his brain and knew exactly where he was going to shoot the fucking puck and somehow always blocked it, or that he gave way less of a shit about Morgan than Morgan gave about him.

“Oh, there’s Braun,” Hayes said brightly. Did he not know ? Morgan thought everyone knew about him and Braun.

The last game they’d played against each other, he’d pushed his way into the crease, and one of Braun’s teammates had pulled him out by the back of his jersey, and the next second, Morgan had been swinging his fists.

Morgan hadn’t been able to punch Braun, but his teammate had been a decent enough stand-in.

“Yeah,” Morgan said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trackpants.

Last night Thompson had asked if he and Braun on the same team was going to be a problem, and he’d said no, because he wasn’t stupid enough to think Braun wasn’t really fucking good.

He gave their team the best chance of winning, and he wasn’t back on Team USA, after eight years of pretending he was above national tournaments, to lose .

A second later, Hayes made an aborted noise. “Oh God, I’m sorry. You two—”

That, of course, was the moment they came face-to-face.

“Reynolds,” Jacob said, tilting his head. “I’d say it’s good to see you but—”

“Just do your fucking job on the ice,” Morgan said between clenched teeth.

The corner of Jacob’s mouth turned up in an insufferable smirk. “Aye, aye, Captain,” he said.

Morgan made a face and then, thank God, they were moving on, heading down the escalator to the ground floor of the hotel, away from the conference level.

“Shit, I’m sorry, that was . . .” Hayes didn’t finish his sentence. Because he’d realized he’d apologized again, or because he didn’t know how to? Morgan wasn’t sure.

“It’s fine, I’m fine, it’s just a thing.” Morgan didn’t usually feel compelled to offer an explanation for why he disliked Braun so much.

How he’d set up semi-permanent residence in his brain, constantly taunting him with the goals he’d never score and the records he’d never set.

Hayes shrugged, and they headed out the front door and towards the coffee shop.

They were settled at a table, Hayes drinking some long-winded multi-hyphenated drink that made it clear, from the way he rattled it off, that his order was not as simple or straightforward as Morgan’s “large black coffee,” before Hayes brought it up again.

“So what is it about you two?” Hayes asked, his nail picking at the edge of the paper sleeve on his cup.

“I just don’t like him. He’s smug.”

Hayes shot him a knowing look. “Really? That’s why you don’t like him?”

“I think I liked you better when you were afraid of me,” Morgan muttered.

“But you like me!” Hayes said brightly.

“Of course that was what you took from that sentence.” Morgan hesitated.

“And I’m not smug.” But he could be. Maybe it was more deserved than Braun’s smugness, but it was annoying that Hayes, who’d seemed barely able to utter a whole fucking sentence in Morgan’s presence before now, had decided to call him on it.

“Are you kidding me? You’re Morgan Reynolds.” Hayes said it all hushed and reverent.

“We’re not back to this again, are we?” Morgan asked with a groan punctuating his question.

“No, I mean, it’s not like that, it’s just . . .you’ve got the shit to back you up, if you want to be smug. But then so does Braun, frankly.”

“Don’t say that,” Morgan muttered. He didn’t want Hayes to think Braun was good, even if that was objectively true.

“I mean, he saved an absolutely sick shot I took last year in the playoffs, so yeah, he’s good. He’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

Morgan took a long drink of his black coffee. “Come on. Don’t pretend. You leaped at the chance.”

“I . . .” Hayes made a frustrated noise. “Okay. Fine. Yes.”

“We’re all a little starstruck.” Morgan wasn’t, but then he’d been doing this too long to worry about other people. Other than Braun, that was.

“Not you,” Hayes scoffed.

“Okay, not me,” Morgan conceded.

Hayes went back to picking at the sleeve on his coffee cup. “I just want you to know . . .I’ve never bought into the whole next one , thing. That’s not what I consider this, even if other people do.”

Morgan told himself that he liked this kid—could he still call him a kid when he was in his mid-twenties? Probably— even when he was being really fucking stupid.

“Are you serious with this?”

“Uh yes? Yes. Yes, definitely.” Hayes punctuated this with a sharp nod of his head, like he’d just finally decided.

“Your lack of ego’s not gonna do you any favors. You’re really fucking good, kid.”

Hayes looked happy, then at the end bristled, unexpectedly. “I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-five.”

“Okay. You’re really fucking good, grown ass man.”

“You’re not funny,” Hayes said, but he was choking back a laugh.

“No, of course not,” Morgan deadpanned.

“I just meant . . .I’m not here to push that bullshit narrative.” Hayes wouldn’t look at him, those piercing green eyes glued to the wood tabletop. “That’s not why I’m here. I just want to play hockey.”

Morgan decided that this was the best time to change the subject. If Hayes didn’t want to look at his own skills frankly and realize just how unbelievable they were, that was his problem. “I guess the most important question is can you play wing?”

Hayes looked surprised. “Yeah. Of course.”

“It’s not that straightforward.”

“Sure it is. It’s fine, I’ve got this.” At least Hayes sounded confident. “At practice, you’ll see.”

“Here’s what I was thinking,” Morgan said, going on to describe what he envisioned for their offense, generally, and for their line specifically.

Hayes cocked his head, and Morgan wasn’t surprised when he asked one good question after another, poking and prodding at the plan, because even though he downplayed his abilities, Morgan had seen enough through the years, against each other and more, to know how good Hayes was.

It even got to the point where Morgan got up, grabbed some paper and a pen from the counter, and drew it up so they could dissect it further.

“Canada’s always good, and so’s Sweden,” Morgan said, leaning back after he’d finished his coffee. “And we can’t count Finland out, even if they’re shorthanded because of injuries. This isn’t going to be a gimme.”

“I never thought it would be,” Hayes said earnestly.

“No, you probably didn’t,” Morgan said, barking out a laugh and patting him on the shoulder. “Come on. Team lunch, then we’ve got practice this afternoon.”

"I swear to God, I thought I was going to have a heart attack about ninety-five percent of the morning,” Hayes said as he stepped out of the elevator onto his floor.

His best friend, Zach, on the other end of the call, scoffed.

“He’s just a guy,” Zach said.

“He’s not just a guy. I can’t believe you’d say that.” But Hayes could believe that Zach would. He wasn’t ever intimidated by anyone on the ice. No matter who their team, the Los Angeles Mavericks, faced, Zach was always level-headed.

During the more surreal parts of the morning—the interviews, the unexpected and humiliating coming out, and then their coffee shop hangout—Hayes had wished he could be more like Zach.

Of course, Zach hadn’t spent his whole life being compared to Morgan.

“Okay, he’s not just a guy. He’s a hockey player.”

Hayes rolled his eyes. “I wish you were here. You’d keep me from exploding out of my skin or saying I’m sorry one more time and annoying Morgan so much he never talks to me again.”

“I’m sure you haven’t been that bad,” Zach said.

He’d have to be a lot dumber to miss how Zach sort of avoided the subject he’d broached. How Zach was not here. How he hadn’t been picked to play in this tournament.

And really, even though Zach was good, solid , Hayes hadn’t been all that surprised.

It was insanely tough to whittle down the US players to just one team’s worth.

Canada had a similar problem. It was slightly easier for Sweden and Finland—they had a smaller group to pick from.

But lots of good players—including Zach—had been left off the four rosters.

Next time , Hayes had promised Zach, when the list had come out.

Zach was two years younger than him, only twenty-three, and had lots of time to improve and make national teams. Even in the four years since he’d been drafted by the Mavs, he’d come a long way, working his way onto the top six, now solidly anchoring the second line.

“I was pretty awkward,” Hayes admitted as he slid his keycard into the lock, pushing the door open. “You’d have been so fucking embarrassed for me.”

“Probably,” Zach said. “But hey, you told me you wanted to ask him to go to coffee, and you actually did it. And he actually said yes.”