Page 13 of Stubborn Puckboy (Puckboys #9)

TWELVE

Colby

“It’s your first long road trip with the team,” Ackerman says as we check over the video gear we’re packing up. “Are you sure you can handle it?”

Ever since he caught Novi and me in that locked closet, he’s been somewhat overprotective of me. He thinks Novi followed me in there to make me uncomfortable or say something homophobic, and no matter how many times I tell him nothing like that happened, he’s still looking out for me.

I love my new boss for wanting to defend and stand up for me, but he has it all wrong, and I wish he’d trust my word.

But I get it. If that is what was actually happening, I wouldn’t want to say anything because if they have to choose between a veteran player and a new assistant coach, the franchise will always pick the player.

I wrap a cable around my hand so it can fit in its spot in the hard case. “I’ve got this.”

Ten days on the road with the team. With Novi. Totally got this and in no way have been fantasizing about finding myself in Novi’s room in the middle of the night.

I can’t be sure if it’s pure will, stubbornness, or fate that has kept us from hooking up, but we can’t keep going the way we are. Every time I see him, my body lights up, and I get tunnel vision.

I should probably take Ackerman up on his offer for him to go on the road while I work the cutting room in LA because I don’t know how much longer I can hold myself back. If how Novi acted in the storage closet is any indication, I’d say he’s as close to breaking as I am.

I’ve contemplated suggesting we should get it out of our systems, but I’m not that naive.

Sure, there’s a chance we could hook up, get rid of all that building sexual frustration, and then remain friends, but the smarter part of my brain is telling me that if I get the chance to have Novi in my bed, I’ll never want to let him out of it.

“If anything happens on the road, I hope that you’ll tell me about it.”

Ackerman snaps me out of yet another fantasy about someone I shouldn’t even be thinking about, and because I’m so lost in my head over Novi, at first, I think he’s saying I should tell him if Novi and I hook up.

It takes a moment for me to remember Ackerman is worried about Novi for a whole other reason.

“Seriously,” I say. “Novi and I are fine. I appreciate you looking out for me, but like I told you, he saw me slip into the storage room. We used to play in the AHL together, and he followed me to say hi. That was all it was.”

“When I walked in, he was blocking the doorway,” Ackerman says.

And I wasn’t complaining. “He was standing in the doorway because he thought he would be smart enough to unbreak the lock. Hockey players, am I right? If it was that simple, we would’ve done it by now.”

Ackerman finally releases his pursed lips to show a small smile. “True. And okay, if you’re telling me everything is fine between you two and he wasn’t harassing you, I’ll leave it alone.”

“Thank you.”

“But if he did ever?—”

“I’d come right to you,” I promise.

Even though I don’t anticipate having those kinds of issues with Novi.

No, if I were ever having to go to my boss to talk about a situation with Novi, it would be that my teenagery crush on him from a billion years ago has made me do something stupid like put my career on the line for a quick orgasm.

I don’t want Radimir Novicov to be my downfall, but at this point, it might be too late to stop it.

By the time I get all the footage from tonight’s game cut and emailed to the individual players, Ackerman, and the rest of the coaching staff, it’s late.

Whether it’s because I’m in a foreign environment and still sinking into my role, or I have a small case of ADND: Attention Deficit Novi Disorder, I’m finally able to drag my ass back to the hotel.

Luckily, we have a back-to-back, so I don’t have to pack up the equipment and can walk out those arena doors with nothing more than my own personal laptop.

The arena is empty. Long gone are the players, fans, and really, anyone outside of cleaning staff, and because of that, I’ll be able to order a ride without much of a wait, but first, I need to figure out what hotel I’m staying at.

It’s difficult when on the road to remember each and every hotel on the itinerary.

If I hadn’t spent hours watching Dallas footage and trying to find weaknesses in their exceptional playing tonight, I’d probably forget which city I’m even in, and we’re not even halfway into this road trip.

I pull up the email the PR department sent out with all the information on it and then order a ride share. There’s one a few minutes away, so while I wait, I open my messages, hoping there’ll be one from Novi but knowing there won’t be.

It’s silly of me to even check, but ever since he cornered me to ask why I’ve been avoiding him, I’ve second-guessed my decision to keep my distance.

At the same time, it’s not like he has reached out to me.

I’m assuming he got spooked with how close we were to being caught—not that we were doing anything——and he doesn’t want to risk being seen with me.

Then again, I also assumed he didn’t want me to reach out last time, and then he cornered me because he thought I was ignoring him.

Why does he have to be so stubbornly confusing?

I don’t want to be the instigator. I don’t want him to feel any pressure from my side. But if I don’t message him, he might think I’m avoiding him or that he’s done something wrong.

By the time my car pulls up, I’m ready to bang my head against a wall.

I don’t like this. I’m all jumbled up inside, being torn between my wants and my career goals while always worrying about Novi’s mental health and his overall safety.

From what Novi has told me, his sister isn’t willing to denounce him if he comes out because she doesn’t agree with the Russian government’s views on homosexuality, but that means she’s forcing Novi to stay in the closet. She might not be scared about the repercussions, but he is.

I can’t put all the blame on his sister though.

Novi’s determined to wait until he retires after next season, as if fading from the spotlight will give him a sense of privacy.

But what if it doesn’t? What if he gets offered a job as a sportscaster— though with his rough English and always messing up phrases, that probably won’t happen, but my point is, what if he falls into another job where he can’t be himself?

There’re so many questions that should have me running for the hills, but all I want is for him to be settled.

It’s as if I can feel every knot of unease in his gut. There’s no question he wants me, like there should be no question for him that the feeling is mutual. But he also knows he should refrain. I know it too.

So as much as I’m tempted to text him and ask where he’s at, I don’t. And I’m not going to.

I’m not.

When I get to the hotel, I force my phone into my pocket and continue to tell myself that I’m not going to text Novi.

The elevator doors open, and I hit my floor. Still not going to text him.

I fish out my keycard and swipe it so I can select the 9 button, all the while refusing to give in to the urge to take out my phone.

But texting isn’t my only way of contacting him. And it seems he has the same idea.

Because when the elevator opens on the ninth floor and I turn toward my room, I find Radimir Novicov walking toward me.

I cock my head. “Not out with the team?”

He pauses in front of me, a mere few feet away. So close but still not where I want him—right against me.

“Nyet. They went drinking.”

I nod in understanding. “And you’re too old to do that and play hockey tomorrow. Got it.”

“Bullshit. I could still drink you over table.”

Goddamn the images that wrong phrasing conjures up.

Novi stares at me expectantly, and for a moment, I begin to suspect he mixes up English phrases on purpose. For entertainment.

I wouldn’t put it past him.

“Where are you off to?” I ask him, cautiously moving closer.

“Bed.”

“But not because you’re old.”

“I am young and beautiful. Very energetic. Lots of stamina.”

And this is why I can’t interact with him. If he doesn’t know what he’s saying, he’s adorable. If he knows exactly what he’s doing, he’s sadistic.

I pat his chest and then curse my hand for doing so. Then I curse my brain for picturing the hard muscles underneath his shirt. “Sure thing. Not old. Can drink me over a table.”

“Isn’t the saying?—”

My eyes widen, and he stops himself.

That son of a bitch does know he’s fucking up his words on purpose.

“I mean, uh, I’m saying, I challenge you,” Novi says.

“Challenge me? To what?”

His lips curve upward. “To a drinking game. We’ll see who’s wearing for worse tomorrow.”

I’m pretty sure he means worse for wear, but I’m not going to play that game anymore. “And what drinking game do you propose?”

“Quarters.”

The way the word falls from his lips has a shiver of anticipation run down my spine. “Are you sure you want to go there again? Remember what happened last time? You got so drunk you forgot who you were for a second.”

Novi steps closer to me, and I breathe in the strong scent of musk coming from his clothes. Or maybe it’s his aftershave. Either way, he smells intoxicating. So intoxicating that when he stares me in the eyes, I get light-headed.

Then he says something that has the power to bring me to my knees. “That’s what I’m counting on.”