Page 32 of Tough Guy (Game Changers #3)

Ryan groaned as a ball sailed over his leg and into the back of the net behind him.

“Not as easy as it looks, is it?” Wyatt said gleefully.

Ryan stood up with some effort. He wasn’t used to having giant goaltender pads on his legs. Around him, the kids were laughing and cheering—it had been their idea for Ryan and Wyatt to switch roles for today’s floor hockey match. Ryan had let in about a million goals.

“All right,” Ryan grumbled. “I think I’m done.”

“You’re like the worst goalie I’ve ever seen,” Xander said.

“Yeah, well.” It was the best comeback Ryan could come up with. In truth, he had expected to be better at goaltending. He was a defenseman, after all. It wasn’t that different.

He removed the glove and blocker, and then the mask. His hair was embarrassingly sweaty for a friendly floor hockey game against a bunch of kids.

“What do we do at the end of the game, kids?” Wyatt said loudly.

“Hug the goalie!” the kids all yelled back. And then Ryan was nearly knocked over by a tidal wave of young people hugging anywhere they could reach. Wyatt piled on at the very end. It was ridiculous, and Ryan loved every second of it.

“All right, we’ve gotta get going,” Wyatt announced when Ryan had finally been released. “Ryan has to ice his fractured ego.”

Ryan snorted and shook his head.

“What are you actually doing tonight?” Wyatt asked as they were walking to his car.

“I, uh.” Ryan couldn’t fight his dopey grin. “I have a date.”

Wyatt looked delighted. “Yeah? With that same guy?”

“Yeah.” They got to the car and Ryan said, “His name is Fabian.”

“Fabian, eh? What’s he do?”

“He’s a musician.”

“What, like, in a band?”

Ryan shook his head and opened the car door. When they were both seated he said, “He’s a solo musician. His music is really good. You can buy it online.”

Wyatt backed out of the parking space, then said, “How did you meet him?”

Ryan chewed his lip, unsure of how Wyatt would react to this. “He was actually the son of the family I billeted with. Back in Halifax.”

“No shit? And you just started dating now?”

“We reunited in October. Here in Toronto.”

“That’s cool.” Wyatt pulled out of the parking lot onto the street. “I still talk to my billet family from junior. I lived there for four years, so we got pretty close.”

“I only lived with the Salahs for one season. Then I was traded.”

“Jesus, Pricey. Have you ever played anywhere for more than one season?”

Ryan huffed a laugh. “A couple of places.”

“So where’s your date?”

“Just dinner somewhere. Maybe go for a walk.”

“Well, I hope love can keep you warm. It’s supposed to be freezing tonight.”

Ryan’s stomach flopped. Love. “I’ll wear a hat.”

“You gonna bring him flowers?” Wyatt asked. “Do guys do that?”

Ryan hadn’t thought about it. Should he bring flowers? “We can do that,” he said. “Men can like flowers.”

Wyatt seemed to consider this. “Y’know? I would love to get flowers. Why don’t men ever get flowers?”

“Because the world is stupid.”

“No kidding. Hey, let’s stop at a flower shop and we’ll both impress our sweethearts, huh?”

Ryan smiled. “Okay.”

Fabian sat cross-legged on his bed, staring at his laptop screen. The blinking cursor in the YouTube search box dared him to type the words he had promised himself he wouldn’t.

Nothing good can come from this, he told himself. Then he shook his head and typed Ryan Price fight.

God, there were so many results.

Price Destroys Comeau.

Ryan Price Top Fifteen Fights.

Ryan Price Most Devastating Fights.

Ryan Price Gets Revenge.

Price vs Harvey... brUTAL!

Fabian looked away. He couldn’t click on any of them. He didn’t want to know this side of Ryan.

But it was a side of Ryan. A big side. The only side that most of the world knew, apparently. Shouldn’t Fabian face it?

He took a shaky breath, and clicked on the Top Fifteen Fights video.

It opened with Ryan wearing a red jersey—Fabian wasn’t sure which team it was—and circling another player in a white jersey who was several inches shorter.

Both players had their gloves off, and the shorter guy was removing his helmet.

He gestured to Ryan to do the same, and Ryan smiled at the guy before removing his own helmet and letting it fall to the ice.

It wasn’t a warm smile, and it wasn’t the sweet, shy smile that Fabian loved.

It was a cold, mocking smile that looked all wrong on Ryan’s face.

In the video, Ryan kept circling the other man, waiting and watching, fists raised like a boxer’s in front of his face.

The other player finally lunged at him, and Ryan hit him hard with three quick punches to the side of his face.

The other man was swinging wildly, but almost nothing landed.

A second later, he was on his back, and Ryan was on top of him. Then the refs came and broke it up.

Cut to the next clip where Ryan was wearing an orange jersey.

He was glaring at his opponent, his face showing real anger.

There was no fanfare before this fight; Ryan just grabbed the front of the other guy’s jersey and started punching the guy’s face.

When it was over, the camera showed a close-up of the defeated man’s bloody face, and then Ryan’s bloody hand as he skated to the penalty box.

Fabian closed the window. He couldn’t watch any more of this.

But he had to, didn’t he? He couldn’t pretend this part of Ryan’s life didn’t exist. He couldn’t tuck himself against Ryan’s strong body at night, and kiss his sweet smiles, and shiver under the caress of his enormous hands, without accepting that those hands, and that body, were also used for. ..this.

He couldn’t be with a man if he only allowed himself to see the best parts of him. It wouldn’t be fair to Ryan or to himself. If he was serious about this relationship—and he was—he had to be brave enough to take the rose-colored glasses off.

He tried to psych himself up. He could do this. Maybe he could even try to find it...sexy? He had friends who were very hot for professional wrestling and MMA fighting. This wasn’t any different, was it?

He was about to reopen the browser and watch another video when his phone lit up with a text. Fabian realized his eyes were wet when he tried to read the blurry message. He quickly wiped them.

Ryan: Hey. I’m here. Early. Sorry.

He checked the time and saw that Ryan was almost an hour early for their date. Fabian wasn’t ready at all.

Fabian: You’re outside?

Ryan: Yes.

Fabian closed his laptop and rushed to the door.

He probably looked like shit—no makeup, eyes red, and he was wearing pajama pants and an oversized white T-shirt.

When he opened the front door and found Ryan standing outside, holding a bouquet of flowers, he didn’t care.

He cupped a hand over his mouth and felt fresh tears stinging his eyes.

This couldn’t be the same person he’d just watched in that video.

“Hi,” Ryan said shyly. “I thought you might like these.”

Fabian threw himself into his strong arms, careful not to crush the flowers.

Ryan chuckled. “Miss me?”

Fabian’s reply was a slow nod against the wool fabric of Ryan’s coat. Ryan kissed the top of his head and said, “Everything okay?”

“I just really needed to see you. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad I’m here too.”

Fabian stepped back, and took the flowers—a luxurious bouquet of lilies and roses that, like his apartment, was a bold mix of reds and purples. “They’re beautiful. Thank you. Come inside.”

When they were inside the apartment, Fabian asked, “How was your trip?”

“Not bad. We won both games.”

“Congratulations.” Fabian glanced furtively at Ryan’s hands as he was hanging his coat on a hook by the door. They didn’t seem to have any recent bruises on them. He couldn’t shake the image of how bloody his hand had been in the video after he’d punched another man’s face in.

When Ryan shot him a puzzled look, Fabian realized he’d been standing, frozen, holding the flowers.

He snapped out of it. “I have a vase I can put these in.” He laughed, and he could hear how forced it sounded.

“It will be excited to be of use again. It’s been a while since anyone has given me flowers. ”

“Fabian?”

“Where did I put it?” Fabian’s voice was trembling. He swallowed. “Oh, here it is.” He reached up and pulled it off a shelf over his sink.

“Did something happen?”

“Nope. No, I’m fine. I—” The vase fell to the floor with a spectacular crash. “Shit!”

Ryan was there, pulling Fabian away from the broken glass. “Sit on the bed,” he instructed.

“I have to clean it up. Fuck, I can’t believe how clumsy I am.”

“You’re not.” Ryan wrapped a hand gently around Fabian’s wrist and lifted his hand. “Look, you’re shaking.”

“I’m just cold. It’s always freezing in here.”

“Sit down.” Ryan’s voice was firm and steady. Fabian sat. “I’ll clean that up. And then you’ll tell me what’s wrong, okay?”

Fabian wasn’t used to Ryan taking control of a situation, and Ryan acting out of character was doing nothing to help how rattled he felt.

He watched as Ryan cleaned up the glass, hoping to god that Ryan didn’t cut himself because Fabian didn’t think he could take the sight of blood on those hands right now.

When the mess was cleaned up, Ryan crouched on the floor in front of him. “What’s wrong?”

Fabian didn’t know what to say. Should he admit that he’d been purposely watching videos of Ryan’s fights?

He knew Ryan wouldn’t like that. And if he did tell him, and Ryan learned that the reason for Fabian’s anguish was that he was horrified by what he’d seen—by what Ryan did on a regular basis—how would that make Ryan feel? Like a monster, probably.

Ryan wasn’t a monster. No matter what Fabian had felt when he’d watched those fights, he knew that for certain.

So he didn’t tell him. Instead, he sank to the floor, into Ryan’s lap, and nuzzled his neck. “I want you,” he murmured.