Page 16

TREV

If I made it through training camp—never mind the hockey season—without dropping gloves with Chats, it would be a genuine miracle. Like the kind where a god actually came down, stood between us, and said, “Whoa, hey, let’s chill, guys.”

I hadn’t liked Chats when he’d played for one of our rivals. I hadn’t liked him when he’d signed with Pittsburgh. I hadn’t liked him when he’d started flaunting his relationship with my ex-husband, especially when that had involved showing off bites, scratches, and bruises in the locker room.

But I was going to straight up rip out his still-beating heart through his ear canal if he got between me and my kids again.

Fortunately, either by sheer dumb luck or because Coach could see the writing on the wall, we were assigned to different teams for now.

I was on the gold team, Chats was on the white team.

One of the assistant head coaches directed the white team to the other rink, and Chats clomped out through the Zamboni gate with the others.

I fought the urge to look toward the bleachers and see if the boys followed Chats. I didn’t want to think about whether that would make me jealous, or if it should make me jealous, or if I should feel anything at all.

I reminded myself they’d probably be following Bryan, not Chats, and that was okay. And even if they were following Chats, that was okay, too. It stung, sure, but their dads were going to date post-divorce. It was a good thing if they got along with our respective partners.

I just needed to ignore this jealous bone and not even think about wishing my kids would play favorites. No matter what happened, I was their dad. Period.

And if I wanted to stay employed and not get my ass traded out of Pittsburgh, I needed to focus on what was happening here on the ice, not in the bleachers.

I hated myself for letting him get to me.

I also hated that shit like this could go beyond Chats, Bryan, and me, and that it could even go beyond the Pittsburgh Rebels.

Whether I liked it or not (and I didn’t) anything one of us did could affect other queer players.

Though there’d been straight guys who’d had similar issues—one getting together with another’s ex-wife or ex-girlfriend and dragging the drama into the locker room—we were held to a different standard.

Only a handful of players in the League were queer, and if one of us fucked up, it immediately reflected on all of us, not to mention future players like us.

Simon Chowning teared up during an interview about his best friend being traded? Proof that queers were too emotional.

Brad Lange took an embellishment penalty after getting checked and acting like a wounded soccer player? Obviously the queer guys are weak and melodramatic.

Trev Allen divorced his husband? Gays aren’t actually committed to their marriages.

Didn’t matter that I could easily name a dozen straight players who’d shed tears during interviews, embellished injuries, or been divorced. Straight guys were responsible for their own actions, but anything one of us did was an indictment against all of us.

And if my ex-husband’s boyfriend and I clashed where anyone who mattered could see it—our GM, a reporter, a fan with a camera—there’d be hell to pay for all of us going forward.

I’d be strongly encouraged to waive my no-move clause so they could punt me out of Pittsburgh, and incoming players who were openly queer would be scrutinized through a filter of “are they going to cause us the same problems that Trev Allen did?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck .

No matter how much of an asshole Chats was, no matter how much he and Bryan rubbed their relationship in my face, I had to just grit my teeth and smile through it.

I had to act the same way I did when someone asked me an intrusive or obnoxious question during an interview—smile, be professional, and hope no one noticed me screaming internally.

God, I hated this so damn much.

It was the reality of my situation, though, so I did the only thing I could do—I shoved Chats and Bryan out of my mind and focused on hockey.

For the first hour-long session of camp, the coaches were running us through some intense offensive drills.

This served to get us veterans back in the groove, of course.

Mostly, though, it gave the prospects a chance to both learn from us and the coaches, and to shine.

No one worked as hard as a prospect or a farm team player who wanted to make the cut during training camp.

And about ten minutes in, one of those youngsters was starting to seriously shine.

Dave Bell was twenty, and after killing it in major juniors, he’d played all last year on our farm team.

Though his stats had been excellent, he’d only been called up three times, and he’d never actually dressed for a game.

Today, it was impossible not to notice him or his determination.

He played every drill like it was going to make or break a Cup final.

He was on the smaller end—not quite five-foot-eight—but he had speed and agility to burn.

He had grit, too; on his second run through the drill, he slammed Spaulding, one of our huge defensemen, into the boards hard enough to make the crowd gasp.

During another drill, he sent a puck into the back of the net as if our two-time MVP goalie wasn’t even there.

“Holy shit,” my right winger, Houghtaling, said while we caught our breath between drills. “Where did this kid come from?”

I shook my head. “No idea.” I tracked Bells as he zigzagged between a pair of defensemen, protecting the puck all the way. To Hoes, I said, “We do need a left winger on our line.”

Hoes grunted. He and I had been linemates ever since he’d signed in Pittsburgh, and we’d cycled through several left wingers in that time. Our most recent linemate had signed with Vegas during the off season.

Now we had a spicy young winger who clearly wanted a place on the roster so bad he could taste it. Was the second line ambitious for a rookie? Absolutely. But stranger things had happened.

When we’d finished that cycle of drills and were sent to the bench to hydrate, I skated up to Coach. “Hey, have you got anything in mind for Bells?” I found the kid in the crowd and gestured at him. “Number fourteen?”

Coach glanced at Bells, then peered at me from under the bill of his black Rebels baseball cap. “Why? You sniffing around for a winger?”

I shrugged innocently. “I mean, Hoes and I do need one.”

“And you think a rookie belongs on the second line?”

“That’s your call, not mine.” I watched the kid jawing with some of the other prospects, unaware of us discussing his future with the Rebels.

“He’s really fucking good.” Facing Coach again, I said, “Just thinking it wouldn’t hurt to run him through some drills on our line.

If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, but if he gels with us… ” I trailed off into another shrug.

Coach pursed his lips, watching the rookie in question. Then he gave a sharp nod and met my eyes. “Worst-case, he’ll learn a hell of a lot from you and Hoes.” He clapped my shoulder. “You’re good with the kids.”

I laughed. “Uh, I thought I was still one of the kids.”

He rolled his eyes. “Go get a drink, Trev.”

Chuckling, I skated over to the bench to do exactly that. It was still kind of weird to be one of the veterans now. I was barely thirty, for fuck’s sake! But hey, there were worse things than being one of the players who was good with the young guys.

Without thinking about it, I let my gaze drift toward the bleachers, and?—

My boys were still there.

Zach gestured animatedly while Cam nodded along. Zane had Chats’ stick leaning against his shoulder, and he was turning his puck over and over between his hands as he watched all of us on the ice. Apparently realizing I was looking his way, he straightened and waved.

My heart fluttered, and I waved back. Zach joined in. So did Cam.

Bryan was nowhere in sight, having no doubt gone to the other sheet to watch his boyfriend.

I wasn’t proud of my internal fist pump or my silent “Ha ha, fuck you, Bryan!” Hey, I was as petty and vindictive as the next person, and after all our recent bullshit, yeah, I was going to bask in a little petty smugness over this minor victory.

Coach was getting ready to brief us on our next drill, so I pulled my focus back to practice.

But I might’ve kept on grinning for a while.

It didn’t matter how much we stayed conditioned through the off-season—training camp kicked everyone’s asses. And tomorrow morning, we’d be back out there to do it again.

With a groan that might’ve been a little melodramatic, I hauled my ass out of the car as my garage door rumbled shut behind me.

At least I had a Land Rover, which sat up pretty high; if I’d had to climb out of a low sports car right about now, I’d have just sprawled on the cool concrete and stayed there.

Okay, I was being dramatic. I wasn’t that sore. Not like I’d injured anything. Just… that feeling like I’d done a hardcore workout after a week or so of slacking off, even though I hadn’t been slacking off. It was a good kind of tired and sore, but still… tired and sore.

And tomorrow, I’d have to do it all over again.

For now, though, I was home, and I could spend some time with my boys during the relative quiet before the season started.

They were in the living room, sitting on the floor and playing a video game.

“Hey guys.” I draped my hoodie over the back of a kitchen chair. “What’re you playing?”

They excitedly chatted over the top of each other to explain the game to me.

It was some kind of fantasy adventure game, which was their usual jam.

Bryan had forbidden first-person shooters, and I’d agreed, but that had turned out to be a non-issue anyway because the kids just weren’t interested in them.

If it didn’t have swords, dragons, and magic spells, they didn’t want it.

Worked for me.