Page 16 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

That’s probably the voice he uses to seduce the men who kiss him.

I scowl. “I want nothing to do with you.”

Cal blinks. Hurt drifts into his eyes, and I almost feel bad, but then I remember I’m not supposed to be looking at hiseyes anyway. I mean, who cares if his eyes look sad? He’s not suffering. Not really.

He’s playing with my emotions, just like in the old days.

“You have a two-week suspension,” Cal says. “Don’t you want to talk about it?”

I focus on the floor. Not on his stupid face. Not on his stupid lips that are soft and succulent and tempted me a decade ago. Not on his stupid brown eyes that are probably rounding in a stupid manner. Not on his stupid black lashes that are way too long and should have clued me in way back then. Not on his...

“Jason?” Cal’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and heat prickles the back of my neck like Cal can tell what I was thinking about. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

“Right.”

His gaze remains skeptical.

I suck in some air. “All the same, I’m busy. Can’t be helped.” I glance down and notice my gym bag. I haul it over my shoulder. “In fact, I’m leaving.”

Because if I stay, I’ll say something stupid.

CHAPTER SIX

Cal

Jason is broody and revoltingly attractive, with scowling eyes, sharp cheekbones flushed pink from anger, and the type of blond hair found only on certain Swedish supermodels. My cock, wholly unprepared for such beauty, pulses with blood like it thinks I’ve just put on an X-rated film in a fertility clinic, and I’ve been personally assigned to repopulate the city.

“Root canals,” I blurt.

Jason’s eyes flash. “What?”

Fuck. I said that out loud.

“Just good to think about one,” I say. “In case either of us needs an appointment.”

He pushes a finger at my chest. “Do you need a root canal, Cal?”

“It might be more pleasant,” I mutter.

Jason sneers.

At one time, Jason was my friend. We didn’t live nearby, but I still would have told anyone that I met someone awesome at hockey camp and that his name was Jason. In fact, I did tell my sister Tessa, which was embarrassing after I had to tell her that Jason left camp early after our kiss.

How could I not have noticed how homophobic he was? My chest aches for sixteen-year-old me, who saw Jason as not only everything I wanted in a friend, but everything I wanted in someone more, someone important.

God, I was ridiculous.

Jason’s gaze is fixed on the thick carpeted floor which someone probably vacuums once a day on the off chance aresident drops a crumb. The pattern is elaborate and elegant, like we’re at the Fairmont, and not a place people actually live in.

“You can look at me,” I say.

Jason’s gaze snaps back to me, and his face is pale, as if it physically hurts him to be around me. Is that what he’s putting his teammates through? The ones in gay relationships? The ones who decided to come out and proudly declare themselves in love with someone from the same-sex, even though no one on any other NHL team is out?

This article is important. People should know how difficult it is for professional athletes to be out. Most gay and bisexual people around the world are still closeted. In some places, same-sex relationships are still a capital offense.

People pretend they’re not interested in the people they’re interested in. They pretend they don’t love who they love. They deny themselves the full spectrum of the human experience, telling themselves that love is something unimportant.

Because even the ones who sneak around with men, who give in to their desires, who try to repress and repress and repress and fail, can’t be considered to have a real relationship. Anonymous stolen blowjobs and handjobs do not equal a partner at your side.