Page 8

Leo

“What the actual fuck?” Mason bellows, dressed in his base layer and still unshowered.

Benz has disappeared in the locker room. Mason’s anger floods my system. There is no excuse for my attraction to his best friend.

“I helped him with his anxiety or panic attack. I’m not sure what that was,” I say casually, hiding the fact that my body still buzzes from Caleb.

He glares, and I hope the rift doesn’t affect their friendship. Since there isn’t an acceptable explanation for why Caleb responds to me, I change the subject.

“You had a great game.” I reach out to squeeze his shoulder, but he backs away. “What did Grayson say? Are you okay?” My gaze travels the length of him as if I can spot an injury. He should be my primary focus.

“I’m fine,” he says with an annoyed expression, and the uncomfortable silence stretches between us. “I’m going to shower.” He turns away, and I’m helpless to stop him.

The hallway’s empty, and the distance between Mason and me grows both metaphorically and literally. I should have tried harder to connect.

Benz’s issue should be much easier to solve. His anxiety likely results from insecurity or fear of disappointing others. He needs to be built up and feel in control. More structure in his life will help him.

The pressroom has media wall to wall, everyone looking for a new angle on this team’s story. This is unfamiliar territory with players openly in relationships with other men. Online trolls use vile language, and the media wants to cash in on any story they can find.

This is what I fear for myself…and Caleb, if he comes out. Instead of my accomplishments, people will speculate on my sexuality and dissect every relationship with my teammates and friends.

Benz takes his seat after ducking into the locker room to take off his pads and scans the room to confirm I’m here.

He skated into the goal without hesitation when called upon and played flawlessly, ignoring the mental warfare the other team tried to play with insults. I heard them even after the game ended. He’s earned my respect as a player and a man.

All the verbal jabs stopped short of slurs, but the players can read between the lines, and the refs didn’t do a good enough job of curtailing their behavior.

Finn steps up to the mic. “Our players won’t comment on what was said during the game.

You are more than welcome to ask the other team if they have the guts to verbalize their trash talk outside of the rink.

Please ask other questions, or we will end this session.

” Finn leaves no room for argument, and the media wisely changes their tactics.

Benz’s green eyes stay trained on me, turning my skin hot and itchy. It’s disconcerting but not unpleasant. I have no right to enjoy his stare. Those feelings have to be locked down.

He answers the questions robotically, as if he’s reading from a script without his trademark smile and boyish charm. He’s a people person but not today. Today, his body language suggests he’d rather be almost anywhere but here.

It’s appealing, the thought of being his shelter and protecting him from life’s harshness. He’s a rare gem in a sport of self-centered men. I would know because I’m one of them.

Their allotted time is almost over, and Mason steps into the room and stands next to me before he realizes I’m here. He flinches but stays put after attracting the attention of a few reporters.

One blogger, from a site known more for its celebrity gossip than sports, raises his hand and turns to Mason when called upon. “What did your dad say about the game? Did he give you any advice on your missed shot in the second period or how to handle the hits?”

Mason’s lip curls in fury, and his jaw clenches, glancing between me and the blogger. The NHL prides itself on the tradition of hockey families. Although it’s a natural curiosity, the questions can get tedious.

Finn grabs a mic. “Mason Griffin is not on the list for media access. Please direct your questions to the panel.” Finn waves his hand at the table of players and a coach.

Mason lets out a disgusted sound as he stalks out. Reporters shout questions at his back and then at me.

“What advice have you offered Mason?”

“Are you proud of your son?”

“How does it feel to be associated with a different team?”

I ignore the questions and motion to the panel, but Finn takes charge. “Your time has ended. Thanks for coming, and we’ll see you next game.”

Not liking Caleb’s nervously shifting eyes, I push my way to him and forge us a path out of the room. His arm is warm under my palm, and my fingers tingle from the contact.

“You did a good job. Make sure you drink lots of water and eat a big meal tonight.” My words surprise me and him as well. I have no business telling him what to do.

I’m even more surprised when I hear him say softly, “Yes, sir.”

My blood stirs, and that feeling under my skin pushes out as if it needs more. As if it’s demanding more. But I’m unsure how to get it.

Mason reappears and drags Benz into the locker room, and I refuse to analyze my craving for more .

There’s no answer when I knock on Mason’s door, but I hear the TV and pound louder. Sitting home, I watched the highlights, which showcased Mason’s injury when I could slow the speed. I brought supplies and food, hoping to show him I care and to make amends.

Coming here is a risk I’m willing to take.

A blurry-eyed Benz answers in fuzzy pants with cartoon characters and a dog T-shirt that says I’d Rather Be Sleeping .

“Ummm, hello?” He runs a hand over his face as if he’s unsure I’m real.

“Can I come in? I brought food and some supplies to help with the aches and pains.” It occurs to me I’ve never been to their apartment.

Benz steps aside, and I catch his sweet amber and patchouli scent. His body radiates sleepy heat, and it’s hard to resist getting closer.

“Mason’s sleeping.”

“Okay.” I set the duffle on the floor and the food on their coffee table.

The space is cramped with a galley kitchen, a sofa, and a coffee table, and it has views of the building next door.

The furniture’s basic, low end, easy to discard if they move.

It’s claustrophobic with hardly any space to walk around. The large TV dominates the room.

Benz must read my mind.

“It’s not much, but we like the location and can afford it if one of us gets traded.” He shrugs.

That’s a smart financial decision, but they could afford a better place after their rookie year.

“Let’s hear it.” Mason stands in his bedroom doorway with his arms folded over his chest.

“I brought a few medical supplies and food.” I gesture to the bags on the table. Most hockey players eat mountains of food after a game.

“We ate.” He doesn’t move.

“I can always eat.” Benz opens the bags and sets out the food containers, then groans. “I love these potatoes. They’re the best in the city.” He beckons Mason over and offers me a shy smile. “You gotta have some.”

There’s an odd sense of pride in buying something Benz loves. Mason sits next to him with their shoulders and legs touching. Their familiarity irks me. It’s ridiculous.

I busy myself with unloading the duffle, a heating pad, cream for sore muscles, and pain relievers. “You can never have enough disposable ice and heat. Did Gray give you any instructions for your injury?”

“Nope, all good.” He picks up a potato and pops it in his mouth.

Benz’s eyebrows rise in surprise at Mason’s answer, but he doesn’t say anything. Mason doesn’t want me to know the seriousness of whatever ails him.

I direct my attention to Benz. “You did well in the press conference, considering.”

Mason snorts.

“What?” I ask.

“Another backhanded compliment. Are you capable of saying anything nice without negating it with a condition? We fucking killed it, playing a great game, and Caleb gave them exactly what they asked. Period. End of story.” He stomps to his room.

I replay my words, which hadn’t come out as I intended.

“You have to understand, everything he does is measured by you. He’s never in his life been asked questions based on his opinion of his performance. They want to know your thoughts.” Benz yawns and stretches, showing tempting skin.

“I can’t control that,” I say defensively.

“No, but you could be his dad instead of his critic.” He stands. “I’m going to bed.” He turns off the TV and picks up the food containers, putting them in the fridge.

My parents, my father in particular, put pressure on me to succeed.

They used me to pull the family out of poverty.

I supported them and put my siblings through college.

I swore I’d give my son a better life so he wouldn’t know what it meant to be hungry or go without basic necessities.

I never considered fatherhood beyond financial support.

I’m not sure how to be a dad to my adult son.

Benz has his back to me, but it’s important to confirm I’ve earned enough of his trust that he doesn’t want a trade.

Nervously, I clear my throat. “Again, I’d like to apologize for suggesting you need medication. It was insensitive and none of my business. Your methods work for you, and I should not have said that. I’m sorry.”

Caleb turns to face me with his eyebrows scrunched. He shrugs, and that makes it worse because this man has such low expectations for how he’s treated.

“I hope we can start over. They didn’t bring me in because you’re not performing well.” I tell him part of the truth.

He cocks his head in disbelief but doesn’t call me out. “There’s always more to learn and improve, so I’m open to that.”

“And you don’t want to be traded?” I ask, and watch his expression go through the process of understanding why I would ask.

“I want to play for a team that has faith in me.” His voice is strong, but the admission exposes his insecurity.

The one thing I won’t do is lie to him. “My goal is to help you succeed.” It’s what Mason wants, but beyond that, Benz draws me in when I should back away. “The other day was my fault. I was embarrassed and angry at myself, and I handled it badly.” I wrongly got caught up in his lust.

I take a step toward him with his best interest in mind, professionally.

“Let me help you be the best goalie. In my experience, adding structure to your personal life, such as a nutrition plan, mealtimes, and set bedtimes can increase mental health and overall success.” It’s less a decision, more of a compulsion to be part of his exemplary career.

“I’m willing to give it a try.” He swallows and fidgets.

“Next practice, we’ll work out a schedule, and you can text me for accountability.” It’s best if I ignore my attraction and his sweet responsiveness.

Except, no matter how many times I tell myself Caleb is off-limits, I can’t stop wanting him.

“Consider this your bed check,” I say, unsure if I’m crossing a line.

“I’m into the personal treatment.”

An image flashes through my mind of going to his room and showing him how personal I can get.