Page 10

CHAPTER 10

KENO

Barron Walsh tosses the puck to Patrick McEllen. Montreal intercepts it. Number eighty-four turns to bring the puck to our zone, but Julian comes out of nowhere and steals it away. As if he were picking a pocket. It’s so damn smooth I almost shout.

He doesn’t keep the puck for long. As soon as it touches his stick, he flings it toward Etna. I hold my breath as the next three seconds go by in slow motion. Etna doesn’t stop the puck’s momentum. Instead, he hauls his stick back and smacks it toward the goal as soon as it’s in range.

The horn sounds and the red light flashes as the announcer screams, “GOAL!”

“Yeah!” I shout, raising my stick in the air as I skate into him. “Nice goal, Etna!”

He meets my eyes, wrapping an arm around me. His beaming grin is just so… perfect. Glowing. If I were a braver person, I’d kiss him right now. This is definitely a moment for a celebratory kiss if there ever was one.

Some day. Once we make this public, I’m going to kiss him for every success he makes and fuck who’s around to see it.

The rest of our teammates on the ice surround us too, hugging Etna and showing him support. Then we break apart.

Because we are who we are and it’s always been a routine for our little group of friends on the team, Etna skates to the other end of the ice to hug it out with Horny, too. When he’s done, he comes back and hits his fist against our teammates’ before retaking his position on the ice.

The puck drops and Morgan Rivera hits the puck first. It slides through the ref’s legs and I catch it, ready to haul it back toward our zone so I can see where everyone is. There’s no good opening, so I take a chance and shoot it toward Julian.

Montreal number eight intercepts and circles back around trying to get it to our zone. Etna and Hilt on defense do a good job of getting in the way, but number eight flings the puck against the wall and it follows the curve around the back of the net toward the other side.

Etna’s there to receive it, but so is Montreal’s number eighty. He slams into Etna, and they battle it out with the sounds of their sticks hitting each other, though the puck doesn’t seem to move. Other teammates from both sides gather around, getting closer and closer as they try to win the puck for themselves.

As soon as they break apart, a whistle stops the game.

The whistle call marks a break for the peeps in the back to clear off all the snowy residue our skates create. So our two teams glide back to our separate benches.

Etna diverts me, his hand grabbing the collar of my jersey and shoving me into the center of the ice, barely missing Horny on his way back to the bench. “I just thought of something,” he says.

“What’s that?”

He leans in so the words only reach my ears and says, “We forgot one of the most critical aspects of this whole marriage thing—an official engagement. A ring and shit.”

I tilt my head to the side. “Like… asking the other person with a ring?”

He laughs. “Yeah, man. Who’s gonna ask who?”

“Oh, me. Definitely. I suggested it first. I get to ask.” Excitement bubbles up inside me. I feel like I’m a bottle of champagne that’s been shaken and ready to be uncorked.

Etna grins. “Cool.”

He releases me and we make our way back to the bench. This time, we both climb inside, ready to let our teammates have a turn on the ice so we can catch our breath. My attention moves between the conversation that Coach is having with Barron Walsh as the ice cleaners finish up what they’re doing, and the teams head back to the ice.

I glance at the clock. We’re tied with six minutes to go in the third. Horny stops in front of us before heading back to the net. We obediently stand and tap his helmet before sitting down as he glides back to the crease.

The game starts again on the red dot to the right of Montreal’s net. The linesman drops the puck and Montreal gains possession. Number fourteen takes it around and stops behind the net as the guys on the ice all jockey for position.

The seconds tick by without him moving. Just as I’m about to mutter ‘ delay of game ’ under my breath, one of the refs blows his whistle and makes the call. I grin and take another sip of water. Sometimes, these things work in our favor.

With Montreal receiving a two-minute penalty, we get a power play. I lean forward to watch, readying myself to get back out when one of our defensemen is ready for a break. We have the advantage for two more minutes. Surely we can break this tie.

We lose in overtime. I’m not ridiculously upset about it. Horny’s pissed, but it is what it is. I’m not giving up, but I don’t think there’s even a remote chance that we’re going to make it to the playoffs this season.

Just as we hadn’t last season. Or the season before that.

We have a good team. We just don’t have a great team. I’d say about half our players are really fucking kick ass. Yes, I’m being arrogant and including myself as a kick-ass player. The problem isn’t the half of the team that’s really good. It’s the half that’s not quite as good. Or maybe they just don’t gel with the first half.

Either way, the kick-assers can’t be on the ice all the time. Which is part of the problem. Two of the three goals made against our team happen when two or three of the less than stellar players were on the ice. Two rock stars can’t carry a team. And when you have defensemen who get in the way more than help, it means our goalies aren’t nearly as effective as they would otherwise be.

I don’t know what needs to change, but something does.

The team is quiet as we move through the locker room. No doubt we’re all thinking along the same lines as I am. Irritated. Frustrated. Maybe a tad upset.

Etna and I have our after game routine down to a science, so we’re finished at nearly identical moments. I think the first few times we truly did it unintentionally, but now we’re constantly sneaking peeks at each other to know whether we need to slow down or speed up getting ready to leave.

He meets me at the door, and we walk out with our bags over our shoulders. “That was shit,” Etna grumbles.

I shrug. “Horny’s fifty-fifty on shootouts. He knows it’s a weakness, and he’s working on it.” It’s probably the one thing that Horny gets down on himself about. Shootouts. I’ve heard him try to convince Coach to put in the second goalie when it comes to shootouts before.

The thing is, being a goaltender means you need to be good at all aspects of that position. Including shootouts. He’s been getting extra practices for a while now to try to work on it. Which is why he gets extra frustrated with himself when he still lets a goal in during a shootout.

“Hungry?” Etna asks as we push open the door and step into the Arizona evening heat.

I nod. “Silly question to ask a hockey player.”

He smirks. “Subs?”

“Yeah. Hey, did you check out the email I sent you? Or maybe I texted a link.”

Etna pulls out his phone. “About what?”

“The house for sale on the lake. I sent you the listing.”

“Ah. Yes. I looked at it.”

“You’re not feeling it,” I guess.

He sighs. He must have found the link because he’s scrolling through the pictures. “No, but I’m not sure why. The size is there, though not as big as my house. I’m not sure if I care that it’s not as big as mine. We don’t exactly need four bedrooms. It’s updated-ish.”

“There aren’t many options around here. Not unless we want to expand our search and have a longer commute.”

Sighing again, Etna puts his phone in his pocket. “I have a feeling we’re going to be looking for a while. Maybe we need to take one of our houses off the market until we find what we’re looking for.”

“They’re set to go live Monday, and there’s already been a ton of interest. I hate to lose that momentum.”

“You’d rather be homeless?” he asks, amused.

I huff. “No. Let’s take yours off.”

“No, let’s take yours off. We play at your house most.”

“We can play at either house,” I say as I open the passenger side door, meeting his eyes over the top of the car. My cheeks heat at the dark look in his eyes. Fuck.

Climbing in, I slam my door shut immediately. As soon as his is closed, I reach for the collar of his shirt and drag him to me so I can plant my lips on his. He smiles against my mouth.

“Stop that,” I mutter, not taking my mouth from his. “You’re supposed to be romanced right now. No smiling.”

Etna backs up, laughing.

“I need to work on my romance game,” I huff. Then jump out of my skin when there’s a knock on my window. Horny waves when I look at him.

Etna starts the car so I can roll down the window. “Fuck, Horny.” My heart races. Did he see us kiss?

“Sorry. Wanted to catch you before you left. Games tonight?”

I glance at Etna. He shrugs. “Sure. My house tonight.”

Horny tilts his head. “Okay.”

“We’re picking up subs on the way home. Want one?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I’ll grab something.”

“Kay. See you later.”

I roll up my window when Horny backs away, then look over at Etna. “Did he see me kiss you?”

“Horny has zero filter when it comes to shit like that. If he did, we’d know.”

I sigh. Etna pulls forward from the parking spot, then grabs my hand and links our fingers together. Not the safest way to drive, but I’m not sad about it.

“It wouldn’t be the end of the world if he had seen. You know that, right?” he asks.

“Yes.” I glance at him. “I guess I just don’t want to be caught off guard. I want to tell them when we’re ready. Not because I was spontaneous and couldn’t miss an opportunity to practice kissing just-because.”

“Only a couple more weeks. The people who matter will know first. Then it doesn’t matter from there.”

My stomach flips. That’s true. Everyone will know. This feels much more real.

I get it. It’s not going to come as a shock to the world since the world is already convinced I’m gay. Hell, it probably won’t even come as a surprise that it’s Etna since our ‘bromance’ has been commented on everywhere and it was Etna I drunkenly kissed . Even our own team’s social media page has dubbed our relationship a bromance.

It’s me kissing him on the beach that got me my gay tag. I’ve always said I had no interest in fighting it because it’s not worth the hassle. My truth is my own and I wasn’t going to waste my time telling people—whose opinions mean shit to me anyway—until I was blue in the face that I’m not gay when they wouldn’t believe me either way. They know best, after all.

But then… maybe I didn’t fight it because on a subconscious level, there was some truth to it? At the absolute very least, I’m pretty obviously straight curious, right? There can’t be any argument for that. Right?

Who’s going to tell me I’m right so I can stop fixating on this?

“You going to be okay being inducted into the Gays Can Play brigade?” I ask to take my mind off this pressing question.

He snorts. “You talk them up all the time. And I’ve seen how the youth events affect you. I think it’s a good cause, even if I totally understand the reasons Lo doesn’t want to be a part of it.”

“Maybe that’s the difference. He grew up knowing he’s gay, so he’s had hurdles and challenges forever. It’s a different mindset, right? We’re newly gay and so seeing how being ourselves in the open with so many people who want to crush us because of it is important to young queer kids is still… just… impactful.”

“That was a jumble of a sentence,” Etna teases, smirking at me. “But I get it. We had this conversation when he told us. Always being labeled as ‘ gay hockey player Laurent Duval ’ can be irritating when everyone else is just ‘ hockey player so-and-so .’ In a strange way, the LGBTQIA+ athletes are singled out far more than even the minority athletes by giving them this big club and flaunting it around. I wonder why.”

“I have plenty of stereotypes against me,” I say. “Trust.”

His hand tightens around mine. “I know. And I guess I don’t know at the same time. I’m never going to see it as much as you do because it doesn’t affect me being a plain white guy. But I’m about to make it my business.”

I smile. “Thanks, but we don’t need to make it anyone’s business. I understand what Lo’s saying on a very real but different level. I don’t want to be an Asian-American hockey player. I just want to be a hockey player. I want to be treated like everyone else.”

My heart just about stops when he picks my hand up and kisses the back of it. His eyes flick to mine briefly and he snorts laughter.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

I feel my face with my free hand. How am I looking at him? “You’re innately better at romance. It sucks. I need to study more.”

He laughs again. “Fool.”