Page 4 of Breakaway Goals

It was a risk putting Danny and Monty on his wings, but Morgan had specifically convinced Thompson to do it because he thought it could create a kind of alchemy that might work out there.

Morgan really hated it when a plan didn’t come together.

He hated it even more when a plan just plain fucking sucked .

“You want to switch things up?” Thompson leaned in midway through the first, eleven minutes down, nine to go, and asked Morgan when he’d gotten back to the bench after his last shift.

But the thing he hated the most was admitting that he’d been wrong.

“No,” Morgan said. “We’ll find it.”

He didn’t need to turn his head to see the flash of incredulity on Thompson’s face.

“We’ll get there,” Danny said, patting Morgan on the knee.

“Yeah, if you find another gear,” Hayes huffed on his other side.

“It’s not my fault you’re the fucking energizer bunny out there,” Danny bitched. Good-natured at this point, still, but probably because they were still up 1-0 against Sweden, Calvin Miller getting a great rebound from one of Noah’s shots.

Braun was steadfast on the other side of the ice, blocking shot after shot effortlessly in a way that would totally chap Morgan’s ass if they weren’t wearing the same fucking jersey.

“It’s early still,” Blackburn soothed, leaning in.

But Morgan had a feeling he needed to do something, and the remaining two shifts he spent on the ice told him exactly what that was.

On their way into the locker room for the first intermission, he grabbed Hayes’ arm.

“Hey,” he said, pulling him gently to the side of the hallway next to the locker room entrance.

“What?” Hayes looked momentarily apprehensive before he smothered it, his face smoothing out.

And that was the whole problem. Hayes was playing afraid out there.

Afraid of making a mistake. Afraid of checking. Afraid of skating the way he normally did. Afraid of taking charge of the puck the way he might, if he was in Morgan’s position.

Maybe he’d been wrong, and Hayes couldn’t play wing.

Danny had made his share of fuckups, sure, but he was working hard, especially to keep up with Hayes.

Of course, Morgan wasn’t sure if that was because he was genuinely trying to find a new gear, or if Hayes hadn’t been pushing the way he normally might.

Morgan wasn’t sure how to say it. Normally he might just say it, bluntly, with no attempt at tactfulness.

But Hayes seemed like a good kid. A good hockey player.

Then there was all the staff lingering in the hall, and if Morgan chastised Hayes here, someone would leak to the media that the chosen one thought the next one was playing like shit.

“You okay?” Morgan settled on.

“Yeah. Yeah. Of course. I know we’re—”

“Yeah,” Morgan agreed. Not sure if he wanted to hear Hayes’ assessment of the garbage fire they’d been in the first period.

“Danny’s . . .well, I’m adjusting.”

“He’s adjusting too,” Morgan reminded him. “Adjust faster.”

Hayes nodded, eyes huge in his face.

Morgan didn’t think he’d ever seen eyes that color before, sharp as emeralds. He looked away. “Come on,” he said gruffly and led Hayes into the locker room.

During their third shift of the second period, Morgan began to realize he’d made a serious tactical error.

Hayes wasn’t any better. Danny wasn’t either.

Their line was sluggish, awkward, and getting dominated by the Swedes, barely getting one shot off. Not what anyone would’ve expected from the offensive powerhouse that this starting line was supposed to be.

The second line scored again, and at least there was that—they were winning. But Morgan had never settled for “good enough” and he felt anxious and restless, sitting on the bench, watching the other guys celebrate.

Hockey was a team sport, for sure, but Morgan liked— needed— to be in the thick of the action.

Next to him, Danny let out a frustrated noise.

Morgan thought about saying something to calm him down—he was the captain, after all, and that was kind of his job. But maybe if Danny got worked up, Hayes would match his energy.

He turned towards his other side. Instead, Hayes’ face was blank. Wiped clean of emotion.

“You got this,” Morgan said to him, nudging him with his gloved hand.

“You better,” Danny said, leaning right over Morgan.

Morgan liked to think that he preferred Danny’s brash, almost complete disregard for who Morgan was over Hayes’ hero worship, but at least Hayes wasn’t annoying.

Hayes rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, you’ll find your feet,” Morgan said encouragingly.

“Gustafson just picked the puck right off my fucking tape,” Hayes muttered.

Morgan didn’t mention that the last time the Bandits had played the Mavericks, Morgan had attempted a very similar play, and Hayes had just blocked him out effortlessly, like Morgan hadn’t even fucking been there.

Only a great defensive play after the takeaway by Danny and then an unbelievable save by Braun had kept the Swedes from cutting their lead in half.

“He’s sharp,” Danny agreed. “But you’re sharper.”

Hayes was .

Morgan had watched enough hockey over the years and then there was the two times a year the Bandits played the Mavs for him to know that Hayes was better than this.

“Lock in,” Morgan said, a little more harshly than he had before.

It didn’t help.

And by the end of the second period, Sweden had cut their lead and were pushing.

They needed another goal, and there was absolutely no fucking reason it couldn’t be Morgan or Danny or Hayes, except that they looked like beer leaguers out there.

This time he couldn’t be nice. Not if they wanted to win this game. Not if they wanted to win any more fucking games.

Instead of lingering in the hall or taking him into the locker room, Morgan dragged Hayes down the main hallway and then around the corner, deeper and then deeper still into the arena, until it was just them.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded and then hated himself a little when Hayes shrank back even more.

He was fucking this up.

“Nothing,” Hayes muttered under his breath.

He was looking down at the ground. Wouldn’t even meet Morgan’s eyes.

And suddenly, Morgan hated that even more than the shitty ass way their line had been playing.

Wanted Hayes to look up and meet his eyes.

Wanted that bright green on him, seeing him.

Challenging him. Being brilliant, the way Morgan knew he could be.

“That’s bullshit. You hurt?”

Hayes shook his head.

“Then what the fuck, dude?”

Finally, Hayes lifted his eyes up. “You’re just . . .I’m just . . .I’ll get it together, I promise. Don’t take me off your line.”

Morgan was beginning to understand what this was. He knew what pressure could do to a person. Make you crumple like a damp piece of paper or crush you until you became as hard as a diamond.

He’d have assumed Hayes was more the latter than the former, but there was no question there’d been a whole lot of media bullshit around this tournament.

About Hayes and Morgan playing together for the first time.

Even if you thought you had your shit handled, it could still sneak up.

Being locked in one day didn’t mean that you were locked in forever.

“Listen,” Morgan said, “you gotta forget about all that bullshit. About how you watched me as a kid. Thought I was the greatest thing you’d ever seen—”

“Presumptuous,” Hayes interrupted, and Morgan saw a little of his fire flame back to life.

“Hey, I’m not the one who’s playing afraid of fucking up, of making a mistake in front of my childhood hero,” Morgan retorted.

“Did you even have childhood heroes?” Hayes sounded annoyed now. Which was better than afraid, at least.

“You gotta be more like Danny. Don’t be afraid to tell me to fuck off, okay? I’m just . . .” Morgan put a hand on Hayes’ chest and paused, suddenly and horribly aware of how close they were standing. They had all their gear on, sure, but it felt intimate.

Morgan told himself he was just trying to bridge the gap between them. For hockey .

Not because there was a frisson of something like awareness skittering through him, suddenly wild and untamed.

Hayes was a very good-looking guy, even dripping sweat and wearing all his smelly gear. It was the eyes, but it was more than that too. The sharp jawline. The wet strand of hair falling across his forehead. The plump pink lips.

Hayes bit that bottom lip and the sight sent a jolt through Morgan. “You’re just what?”

Morgan couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this flustered—suddenly or otherwise. “Uh.” He tore his eyes away from the indent in Hayes’ bottom lip. “I’m just a man, Monty.”

Hayes looked like he’d just been hit with a puck to the head. “What?”

You’re doing this for hockey. You do everything for hockey. That had been true for so many years Morgan barely even remembered when he’d had other priorities. Could he even have other priorities?

Morgan was still touching Hayes’ chest. Hockey players were super touchy, always, but this felt like a step further. He curled his fingers into Hayes’ jersey. Right above the eagle’s wings that were spread across his chest. “I’m just a man. I’m not special. I’m not anything—”

“Untrue,” Hayes said.

Morgan shook his head. “You gotta forget about . . .I don’t know . . .any of the times that you jerked off to my hockey highlights, okay?”

He’d been seventy-five percent joking, but the way his words hit Hayes, making him flush bright red, told him that he’d hit the nail on the head.

Oh, God.

“I didn’t . . .I wouldn’t . . .” Hayes stammered. He smacked Morgan on the arm and pulled back. He looked annoyed, now. Like he hadn’t liked being called out on it. Annoyed was better than timid, any day of the week. Morgan was a self-professed asshole; he could work with annoyed .

“You sure fucking did, and I can’t even blame you. They’re some damn good highlights.” He shot Hayes his best cockiest smile. Ignoring the flames licking up inside him at the idea that Hayes thought he was hot.