Page 31 of Breakaway Goals

Hayes’ agent, Bartholemew Smith III, was a jerk, but he was Hayes’ jerk. It was the only reason he’d kept Barty around as long as he had. And, because it was impossible to deny that the guy was the best agent in the NHL.

That didn’t mean he hadn’t worked Hayes’ last nerve more than once.

Or that he wasn’t working it now.

“Come on,” Barty wheedled. “Don’t tell me this isn’t the fucking life.”

Hayes looked around, and it was hard not to be impressed—they were on a fucking boat, a boat possibly big enough to be characterized as a yacht, even—but there was no way in hell he was going to give Barty the satisfaction.

“It’s the life. Good to know my blood and sweat bought this for you,” Hayes retorted.

Barty rolled his eyes, his blond curls ruffling in the breeze, Ray-Bans covering his eyes. You could take the guy out of Massachusetts but you could never fully exorcise the Masshole out of the man.

“Bit egotistical to think it was just your blood and sweat,” Barty said. “It was lots of guys’ blood and sweat. But I’m glad you brought that up, because we should talk about your contract.”

“Do we have to?” Hayes took a sip of his virgin mojito. He tried not to drink much during the season, though every time he saw his agent, he was reminded of why that was a really shitty idea.

And every time he thought about running into Morgan again? Even shittier.

“It’s what you pay me for,” Barty said pragmatically. “We’ve opened negotiations. You want the dirty details or just the summary?”

“God, just the summary.” He knew the Sentinels had every intention of signing him again.

They wouldn’t have given him the C three years ago if they didn’t want him to stick around.

If he was lucky—and he was pretty sure he’d done what he needed to do to make his own luck these days—he’d play out the rest of his career here in Tampa.

But the details, those were why he had Barty.

“Okay, they’re low-balling me, but that’s to be expected,” Barty said, not sounding overly concerned as he sipped his pretentious espresso martini.

“Isn’t that how it always works?” Hayes asked.

Barty shrugged. “Yes and no. They wouldn’t want to give away that they want you wrapped up, but obviously they do. But I didn’t expect them to start so low.”

A frisson of worry shimmered in his stomach. Hayes set down his drink. “Is that concerning?”

“Not necessarily. You want to win another Cup. So do they. That takes money. Cap space. Draft capital.”

“Right.” Hayes knew that, which was why he’d never cared if he was the highest-paid player or whatever. He’d take a little less, to keep playing for a contender.

“But I didn’t expect them to start this low. It’s fine. They’re going to come up. They’re going to throw in sweeteners. Did you know you’re top five in jersey sales?”

Hayes shook his head. “Not bad for a gay guy not from Canada,” he said, chuckling self-deprecatingly.

“I’m not trying to freak you out,” Barty said, which was always what he said when the news was not good, “but if things continue this direction, we may need to test out free agency.”

“Isn’t that months away?” Hayes tried to keep the panic out of his voice. “The season just started! It’s not even November yet.”

“I know,” Barty soothed.

“I thought you told me it was going to be fine. Last time we talked, you said, it’s gonna be just fine, Monty. They want you. We’re gonna keep you here . And now all of a sudden I have to go on the open market?”

“It’s gonna be fine. I expect they’ll see reason. This is why you pay me. But I thought you should know,” Barty said calmly.

Hayes wanted to be pissed off, but it wasn’t Barty’s fault. This wasn’t exactly a “dirty detail.”

“I’m glad you told me.” He was trying to be diplomatic, but it wasn’t easy. Didn’t he have enough on his plate with a captainship and a rookie goalie and a rookie goalie’s father that he couldn’t seem to avoid?

“No, you want to yell at me,” Barty said knowingly, laughing now like this whole thing was actually funny.

Hayes shot him a faux-glare as he stood up, walking over to the deck railing. “Kinda, yeah.”

“Listen. I’m gonna do my job, you do your job.” Barty paused and actually set his drink down and got to his feet, joining Hayes at the railing. “And you’re already doing it, man. You keep these kind of numbers up, they’re going to be slobbering all over themselves to re-sign you.”

Hayes didn’t tell Barty that his hot start to the season probably wasn’t sustainable because Barty had been doing this long enough he knew it wasn’t. But leading the league in points and being top three in goals sure didn’t hurt.

“Okay,” Hayes said, trying to calm the panic that was bubbling away inside him.

Barty patted him on the shoulder. “There is something else we can do.”

Hayes was immediately suspicious. “What is it?”

“Own the court of opinion.”

Yeah, he was really going to hate whatever came out of Barty’s mouth next. “How?”

“As I’m sure you know, your new goalie’s dad is on ESPN practically every other day. We should get him on your side.”

Yep. Hayes pretty much fucking hated it. “No,” he said flatly.

“Are you joking? You have a solid fucking gold opportunity to have the biggest hockey player in the last few decades talking you up, telling everyone how you’ve taken Finn under your wing, how good of a captain you are, how well you lead this team, and you’re not going to take it?”

Common wisdom said you were supposed to tell your agent everything—all your dirty secrets, all the shit you’d done that you wanted to stay under wraps, every mistake you’d made, starting at the age of twelve. Every stupid tweet. Every scrap you’d ever gotten into with a teammate.

There wasn’t much dirty laundry in Hayes’ closet. With the exception of the Morgan Reynolds affair. And that was, of course, the one thing he’d never told Barty about.

“This is non-negotiable,” Hayes said in a tight voice. “No Morgan Reynolds.”

At the time, and directly after, it had hurt so much, been so humiliating and painful that Hayes hadn’t been sure he could even talk about it. By the time he thought he might have some objective space from the whole mess, it hadn’t made any sense to tell Barty. It was over, it was so over.

Even when fate had decided it hated him and Finn had been drafted by the Sentinels, Hayes had known it was years before he’d possibly end up on a team with the kid. And even that was hardly a guarantee.

Barty stared. “Why the fuck not? Hayes, I don’t have to tell you—”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Hayes interrupted. “But we’re not doing it.” Hayes could tolerate a lot of things—and he had a feeling that this season would probably test the limit—but he couldn’t stomach asking Morgan to talk him up to the press.

“What’s your issue with Reynolds? I thought all first overalls were all buddy-buddy and shit? And what about Four Nations, when you played on the same line?”

“No,” Hayes said steadily. He knew the risk of being so hard-assed and circumspect about his reasons why. Barty could be insatiably curious with a stubborn streak developed over way too many years working with professional hockey players.

“I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.” Barty sounded testy now. “We’ve always been honest with each other, Monty.”

Hayes had been honest, otherwise. Barty hadn’t been the first person he’d told he was gay, but he was the fourth—after his parents, and Oscar Garcia, who he’d hooked up with when he played for the Otters.

“You of all people know how fucking weird it gets, being seen as the heir apparent,” Hayes said. “I don’t want to give that story any more fuel than it already has.”

Barty shot him a look. “Are you joking? It already has fuel. The fact that Morgan’s son is on your team has given it new life.”

“And I don’t want to give it any more,” Hayes said, closing the door with as much certainty as he could.

“You’re going to change your mind,” Barty warned.

“I really don’t think I will,” Hayes said.

Zach called three times before Hayes finally picked up.

He’d been outside, lying on one of his loungers by the pool, sulking, since he’d gotten home from the marina.

Plausible deniability, he was taking advantage of a rare day off by working on his tan in the late afternoon sunshine.

Reality was a whole different kettle of fish, which was why he’d avoided Zach’s calls.

But finally Zach texted him, I’m pretty sure you’re avoiding me, and that says more than you telling me the goddamn truth about how you’re doing.

The last thing he wanted was for Zach to be proven right so he dialed his number, hitting the video button.

Zach was in his office when he picked up. “Hey,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You okay?”

Hayes rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. It’s my day off. Slept in. Worked out. Had a lunch meeting with Barty on his yacht. Now I’m relaxing by the pool. I promise I’m not putting up a murder wall with Morgan’s face in the middle of it.”

Not actually, anyway, but he might’ve constructed one—or ten—in his mind.

“If you ever do snap, please call me. I will gladly help you get rid of the body,” Zach said earnestly.

Hayes wanted to protest, but he was touched, always, by how much Zach cared about him. “Thanks, Zachy.”

“I mean it, he fucks with you at all, I’m there.”

“You’ve got a job and a hot boyfriend. I’m fine.” So fucking fine.

“A hot boyfriend who happens to be my boss and the head coach, who would totally let me leave,” Zach pointed out.

“I appreciate the concern, but again, I am fine .”

Zach frowned. “Except your face is doing that thing where it doesn’t match your eyes. Is it really terrible? You didn’t tell me what happened after Finn’s debut. Did you run into him? Was he an ass? Did he pretend he didn’t even know you?”

It might have been easier—and a blow to the ego, too, though it wasn’t like Hayes hadn’t been taking those regularly for the last six years—if Morgan had pretended that they didn’t know each other. Instead, he’d looked sad and torn and almost regretful.