Page 7 of Something to Prove (Smithton Bears #2)

TY

Jett popped the tops off of two beer bottles and slid one across the kitchen island to me.

I nodded my thanks, scraping the edges of the label with my thumbnail. “Nice place.”

“Dude, you’ve been here like three times. Housewarming party, summer barbecues ring any bells?” he snarked.

I flipped him off, swiveling on my barstool to check out the layout of the open floor plan of the two-bedroom house my buddy shared with his super-smart physics professor boyfriend.

The farmhouse-style kitchen was adjacent to a large living area decorated in bright colors.

It featured a comfy sectional anchored in front of a brick fireplace with a ginormous flat-screen above the mantel and two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

The shelves were filled with intimidatingly thick textbooks interspersed with dozens of houseplants and framed photos of family and friends.

It was a grown-up house.

So surreal. It hadn’t been that long ago that we were teammates, grinding through classes in between parties and endless hockey practices.

Now, Jett played pro for a developmental team in Syracuse and was working toward his master’s degree.

This house was a huge upgrade from the one-bedroom bachelor pad he’d lived in before he came out.

Excuse me, before he’d been forced out of the closet by Walker fucking Woodrow.

I had so much rage for that guy…and curiosity.

Moreover, I didn’t trust Walker, and that old saying “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer” made a whole lot of sense. I couldn’t do that without letting Jett know what was going on.

“Who waters the plants?” I asked, ignoring his jibe about my memory.

“We both do,” Jett replied, flashing an indulgent grin.

“Malcolm has a green thumb, but I’m getting there too.

I helped bring that one in the corner back to life like a fucking magician.

Her name is Agnes. She was shriveled and had two scrawny leaves last winter, and then we got a hold of her.

We repotted the plant, put her near a window, fed her some special secret elixir and watered her regularly, and boom … she’s a beauty.”

“How do you know it’s a girl?”

“I don’t, but Malcolm on the other hand, knows their Latin names. For real. I think Agnes is short for something like agneminicus maximus.”

I snorted. “You pulled that out of thin fucking air.”

“Yup.” Jett smiled around his beer bottle, setting it on the island with a clang. “What’s up with next year’s superstar rookie?”

I rolled my eyes. “The usual—partying with Langley and the guys, pretending I know shit about algebra while fighting off puck bunnies, and…dodging interview requests from the geek at What’s New, Smithton?”

His gaze narrowed. “The redheaded influencer dude?”

“Yep.”

Jett whistled. “Guy’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”

I nodded in agreement and gave Jett a brief rundown of my recent run-ins with Walker, excluding the scene in the alley.

Trust me, I didn’t want to go there with anyone. I knew Jett wouldn’t have been scandalized by a sketchy hookup with a football player, but I didn’t need anyone reminding me that I had more to lose now than ever.

Lectures about self-control and propriety had been a hot topic with my agent recently. The Jackals had taken a chance signing an out bisexual player. They liked my energy on and off the ice, and they loved my stats. They also needed a PR boost.

Last season, one of their players made the news for trashing a hotel room he shared with two naked women while his pregnant wife was home with their toddler. And another player posted a homophobic drunken tirade online.

The answer…me.

The problem…also me. I had a reputation.

Generally, it was a good one. I was charming, even-tempered, and a lot of fun at a party.

And I was careful. I played by the rules and only bent them when no one was looking. But what worked at Smithton might not fly in the real world, and I had the strange sensation that my actions sort of mattered. Talk about a fuckload of pressure.

I wasn’t sorry I’d come out, but anyone would agree that I wasn’t an exciting bi specimen.

I’d spent a while in the closet, and old habits died hard.

I dated women in public and fucked men in private.

That might never change ’cause at the end of the day, I didn’t want to talk about my sex life or be some kind of bisexual ambassador. I just wanted to play hockey.

I could handle the Walker saga on my own, but damn, I needed to talk to someone or I’d go nuts. Jett was one of my best friends, and he had experience with the public part of being an out athlete.

My friend studied me for a beat. “Listen to Toby and do the interview. And take Walker up on the social media boost while you’re at it.”

“You think so?”

“It’s a no-brainer, Ty. Walker’s good at his job and he feels guilty about fucking up with me and Malcolm, which means he’ll be extra careful to get things right with you.”

“ Hmm . Maybe.”

“If you’re here for my blessing or some shit, you’ve got it,” Jett assured me with a wry grin.

“I’m done being angry, and I have been for a while.

I love my life. I have an amazing boyfriend, good friends, a cool house with lots of plants, a cat who sleeps on my head, and … I get paid to play hockey. Jackpot!”

“Sounds pretty sweet,” I commented, unnerved by a rogue wave of envy.

Weird . I mean, c’mon…I might not have a boyfriend, girlfriend, plants, or a cat, but I was the one going to the AHL.

“It is, and I wouldn’t change a thing. I don’t think about the past, Ty. No regrets, no grudges. I’m out of the equation, so you do you. But my advice is go for it. You have nothing to lose.”

Well…that wasn’t quite true.

At all.

I didn’t trust Walker, but until I was sure he wasn’t playing some underhanded trick, I was going to keep a close eye on him.

No, I could do better than that. My plan to go Sherlock Holmes on Walker’s ass and dig up some dirt on him was already in the works.

Everyone had a skeleton in their closet and the ones who liked to dish other people’s stories usually had something juicy under wraps.

At least that was how it worked on CSI .

Intrepid investigators uncovered crazy shit like gambling debts out the wing-wang, mafia connections, DUIs, spouses in different countries—you get the gist. I didn’t think Walker was half that exciting, but I’d bet there was something.

Two could play the sneaky-little-fucker game.

Commence the Woodrow investigation.

I’d asked a few fellow students and a couple of retail clerks in town for their opinion on Smithton’s affable redhead, and apparently, everyone freaking loved the guy.

Shar, my favorite waitress at Bear Depot, grinned like an infatuated schoolgirl. “Aww, he’s so sweet. Walker might be the most genuinely friendly person in Smithton. And he’s a big tipper!”

Mel and Darya, the baristas at Coffee Cave, gooped all over him too.

“Walker’s the best. If he’s doing your interview, you’re in great shape,” Darya had assured me.

“Absolutely,” Mel had chimed in. “Walker’s a great guy.”

“The best,” Vincento concurred.

“A pleasure to have in class,” Professor Aaronson had commented.

Great . Walker had Smithton convinced that he was a local hero, and I just didn’t buy it. There had to be more to the guy sitting in the stands with his head buried in his cell.

He’d arrived at the rink during our high-tempo drill and chosen an unobtrusive spot in the shadows. But with that hair, it was hard not to be aware of him—even through a brutal practice.

Sweat dripped from my helmet into my eyes faster than I could wipe it away during what felt like ninety minutes of sprint skating. All I could think was that someone must have pissed in Coach Beekman’s Gatorade.

My knees wobbled as I gulped a gallon of water, nodding along to Coach’s spiel about focus.

“Rule number one: protect the puck,” he barked.

“You need eyes on the back of your heads. You get blocked, pushed, laid flat on your ass…so what? You still better know where that damn puck is. This isn’t a foreign concept and it’s not something we need to debate.

It’s Hockey 101. You can’t expect to beat St. Mark this weekend if you let your guards down.

I mean it. Your passes have to be on the money.

None of this flinging shit at the boards and hoping your teammates bail you out. None of this…”

I tuned Coach out. Hey, I respected the hell out of him, but man, I was tired, hungry, and my quads were on fire. I wanted a shower and a double beef burger with fries—regular and sweet potato. Pizza sounded good too. A meat lover’s with extra sausage… mmm , sign me up.

Brady elbowed me. I thought he might have been warning me to pay attention till he angled his chin meaningfully at the stands. “What’s the redhead doing here?”

I shot a glance at Walker, puzzled by the spike in my pulse. “He wants to interview me.”

“No fucking way.” Brady snorted in disbelief and jumped a second later as Coach bellowed his name. “Sir. Yes, sir.”

Coach’s razor-sharp stare wasn’t for the weak of heart, but Brady managed to hold it like a champ before Coach dismissed us for the night.

I snickered at Brady’s audible sigh of relief. “Did you wet your pants, buddy?”

Along with Langley, Brady was one of my closest friends on the team. And he was my roommate.

Brady was a lanky forward with dark-blond hair, blue eyes, and a crooked nose, courtesy of a jab to the face his freshman year at Smithton.

Blood everywhere. I’d witnessed the whole thing and let me tell you, it hadn’t been pretty.

But Brady was. He had boy-next-door good looks and a habit of asking a question with every sentence he uttered.

It could have been annoying, but you got used to it after a while.

“Fuck off.” He peeled his practice jersey off and flopped onto the nearest bench to unlace his skates. “So what’s the deal? I thought you hated that guy.”