Page 16 of Trick Play (Playing the Field #4)

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

Zeke

Then

Phone in hand, I spin to face Micah. The angle of my camera lips clues him in on my intentions.

Today, we’re visiting the local women’s professional hockey team. Their season is in full swing, but my agent was able to squeeze in a media visit. The Scarlets get a lot of scrutiny, just as any other women’s sports team does, and one reporter had caught what they thought was an intimate moment between two of the players during a goal celebration last game. Jessica, aware of not only my ability to promote queer equality in professional athletes but also my uncanny ability to take the limelight off of other scandals, set me up with the Scarlets’ media team. They scheduled time for me to come in and “train” on the ice with the players.

We’re outside the facility, braving the chilly December air and waiting for our friends to show up, when I go in for a kiss to add to a post later. As if he can read my mind, Micah pivots us so the letters on the front of the building are above our heads and in clear view of the camera. I record the kiss as usual in order to screenshot the best frame to post, so I don’t feel bad when we get a little carried away. I know I’ll be able to grab a picture from the beginning of the recording, but the rest is useless. My arm falls from the air to wrap around his waist, pulling him close against me. Even through our layers of winter clothes, I can feel the heat from his body trying to seduce me into holding him tighter.

“Gross,” a grumpy voice grunts from nearby.

Micah and I pull apart, and my gaze slides over to our new company. It’s Hendrix, looking disheveled and unimpressed by the sun only just peeking over the horizon.

I step forward, mouth opening to preach equality, but Micah’s hand on my chest gives me pause.

“He means the sun,” Micah explains. “Not us.”

Hendrix finally turns to face us, and I roll my lips between my teeth to keep from laughing when I see he’s donned a pair of dark sunglasses. At seven in the morning. During winter. “What?” he grouses, sounding genuinely confused.

“We were kissing,” Micah offers in explanation.

Unbidden, my gaze drifts down to scrutinize Rix’s attire. Micah and I are both dressed appropriately in jackets and reasonable footwear. He even has a turquoise scarf wrapped around his neck. It matches his hair, of course.

His best friend, the clueless bastard, is wearing a pair of red-and-black plaid pajama pants and a long-sleeve dry-fit shirt. There’s a toothpaste stain on his chest, so at least he brushed his teeth. His hair, on the other hand . . .

“Dear God,” Micah mutters, reaching out to finger comb Rix’s waves into some semblance of a hairstyle. The cowlicks at the back of his head put up a good fight, but they’re no match for Micah’s colorful fingernails. Eventually.

“Ow!” Rix complains.

“Hush,” he scolds. “Bend down. I’m too short to see the top. Zeke, will you go get that Rubies hoodie from the car?”

I arch a brow. “The one you told me I couldn’t wear because of the hole?”

“It’s better than this , trust me.”

Thankfully, with enough of Micah’s expertise, we get Hendrix looking reasonably presentable. I know he doesn’t pay attention to social media, so he’d probably never see the press pictures from today, but I can’t have my best friend’s love interest looking a hot mess beside us. I’m a better friend than that.

Speaking of my bestie, I check my phone with a frown. “Where is Tahegin? I figured he’d be here by now. Especially since we were late.”

“We weren’t late,” Micah corrects, cheeks blooming pink. “We got here on time.”

“Yeah, but then we?—”

“Hey!” a new voice shouts, and we all turn to see Tahegin leaning halfway out the front door. “You guys ever going to come inside? Hi, Rix!”

Oh, of course Hendrix gets his own separate greeting. Those two need to get together already.

The three of us make our way to where Gin waits, and I greet him with a super-cool handshake we made up years ago. “How long have you been here? We didn’t see you come in.”

Tahegin gives Micah and me a knowing look. “You two were . . . preoccupied.”

Micah chokes on air.

“Yeah. Like that,” Gin teases.

Oops.

After we’d parked and realized we were early, Micah and I had messed around a bit. One thing led to another, and he ended up leaning over the console to blow me. Considering the time of day, the heavily tinted windows, and the steering wheel covering his bobbing movements, we figured it was safe. If Tahegin saw—and we didn’t notice—who else could have gotten a glimpse?

Next to me, Micah’s breathing speeds up at the thought of having been caught. I slip my arm around his waist and tug him against my side. “It’s okay, bunny,” I murmur in his ear. “I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable, but he only knew it was you because he’s our friend. If anyone else happened to see, they’d only recognize me. I’d never let you be exposed like that to the media.”

“I know, Zeke.” And he should. I’m always careful. Our kisses are never at the beginning of my posts, and to anyone who just happens to be scrolling by, ours looks like every other kiss I give my fans. Only we know what happens after the camera stops rolling. I do it to keep his privacy, considering the last man I was caught kissing for pleasure was the center of media attention for months after. I’m protecting him from that. Protecting him from anyone knowing we’re anything more than friends. Not that we are, I guess. We hook up, but that’s all. It would be enough for the media to go running with wild theories if they knew the extent of us , though.

So, I keep him hidden in plain sight.

Tahegin has already made friends with several of the women’s hockey players since he came in before us. They converge on him as we enter the arena, and I instantly know he’s going to be their favorite football player here. I’m a likeable guy, but Gin is the epitome of sunshine.

Which, by the way, makes his insanely huge crush on Hendrix that much more strange. I mean, the guy literally called the sun gross a few minutes ago. He clearly doesn’t like mornings, Gin’s favorite time of day, and he’s a sourpuss where Gin is never without a smile. Our team has even nicknamed Hendrix “Sour” because of his grumpy attitude, though the play on a Gin Sour is kind of cute, considering everyone is waiting for those two to hook up already.

Hendrix keeps to himself, as usual, inside the arena. Micah dislodges from my side to accompany Rix to the Scarlets’ equipment manager, and they wordlessly join at the hip to try on skates.

Micah is different from both Hendrix and Tahegin. Where those two are on opposite sides of the scale, Micah falls right in the middle. It’s easy to tell when he’s happy and when he’s displeased because he wears his emotions on his face. He’s so genuine, people want to be around him, and he makes them feel seen. He understands when someone is upset, why they’re upset, and he’ll even be upset with them despite the situation not directly affecting him. He’s a kind soul, in that infallible way that uplifts everyone around him. Tahegin makes jokes to lighten the situation; Micah dives headfirst into the deep end and swims you to shore.

Last week, we were at an ice cream shop—despite the chilly weather, Micah wanted a frozen treat, and I couldn’t say no to his big brown eyes and pouty mouth. I’d just finished poking fun at him for choosing a kid’s flavor for his scoop. It was the red, blue, and yellow kind that looked like playdough and I swear only tastes like vanilla. There was a mother and her young son behind us in line, and after the son had asked for the last scoop of that same ice cream, the mother pointed to the empty bin, inquiring if the shop had any more in the back. The employee informed her they were all out, and Micah, without a second thought, asked the employee holding out his ice cream cone to give it to the woman. He’d gone back in line and chosen a strawberry sorbet as if that flavor was the one he wanted all along. That’s the kind of man Micah is.

It’s no surprise that as he takes the ice, the two players skating beside him are the ones who are currently under the media’s eye after their post-goal celebration during their last game. As a professional athlete on a team, I can understand celebrations getting out of hand in the heat of the moment. I also understand that feeling of wanting nothing more than to kiss the object of my affection at that intense, euphoric moment as well. Whether their celebration was friendly or more, it sucks that the media has to turn it into a scandal. We’re all here to play a game and live our lives.

Micah wobbles slightly on the ice, and the two Scarlets catch his elbows. His sheepish smile and laugh are contagious even from across the arena as he says something to them I can’t hear.

I want to be out there with him. Badly. Standing up, I’m about to make my way onto the ice when someone huffs. I look down to find the Scarlets’ equipment manager giving me an unimpressed look. “Do you want to tie these or go out there like this?” he asks in an annoyed voice, and that’s when I realize he was in the middle of tying the skates on my feet.

“Sorry,” I mumble and sit to let him finish.

Once I’m ready to go out there, I find Tahegin waiting at the entrance to the rink. “What’s up?”

Gin blows out a measured breath. “You ever done this before?”

“No, but I could roller-skate as a kid. How hard can this be?” I shrug.

One of the Scarlets players lets out a booming laugh as she whizzes past us on the ice. I swear she’s going, like, eighty miles an hour. They aren’t wearing as much gear as they use during games. No helmets. No mouth guards. No shoulder pads. They have their sticks and gloves, though, so they must be preparing to do something.

Warily, Gin and I step onto the ice, both of us keeping a death grip on the waist-high wall by the players’ bench. We try to get our footing as we move further and further from the entrance, but eventually, our half wall becomes a full one, complete with glass. With nowhere else to go, I turn around to baby step my way back in the direction we came.

“Oh, no you don’t,” a Scarlets player says. Strong hands grip my hips and tug me into open ice before abandoning me.

Alone, I freeze in place, as well as I can on slippery ice, and cast a panicked glance at Tahegin.

Who, of course, now has two professional hockey players teaching him how to stay upright.

Looking around the other pro skaters on the ice, I glimpse Hendrix skating alone, his feet confident and sure as he propels himself across the ice, and Micah surrounded by even more people now. He’s skating on his own with ease and laughing again.

His group passes me, and like the whipped fucker I am, I thoughtlessly move to follow.

And promptly fall ass over tits onto the ice.

My hip smarts, and I groan into the ice. Why would Jessica set this up during the season? What if I break something and lose our chances at making the playoffs? Ugh. Damn it. This ice is no joke.

Someone fists the back of my sweater and jerks me to my feet in one smooth move. I scramble to find purchase on my knife shoes but nearly end up falling again. With a sigh, the person who helped me grabs the back of my sweater again. Though it isn’t the gentlest way to help, they manage to keep me from busting my ass again. Small victories. It’s only once I’m stable that I glance over to find it’s Hendrix helping me. “Oh, hey. Thanks.”

He gives me one of his signature grunts in acknowledgment.

“So,” I begin after a few awkwardly silent minutes of mimicking the way his skates glide over the ice. “I heard about Micah’s parents. Bummer.” Apparently, Micah and Hendrix usually spend Christmas with Micah’s parents, but they’ve come down with a winter cold they haven’t quite shaken yet. I’d invited Micah to join me for Christmas, but I’m not sure where that leaves Hendrix.

Rix makes another sound I can’t decipher.

God, he’s colder than the ice under our feet. How do Micah and Tahegin do this? He doesn’t talk .

“Are you coming to my New Year’s party? Everyone from the team will be there.”

This time, Hendrix looks over at me and nods once, grumbling something that sounds like, “Meeting T.”

Through my wonderful detective skills, I deduce he means that he will be going to my party, where he and Tahegin are meeting up. Good for them. Maybe they’ll?—

“I’ll take it from here, Rix,” Micah’s voice appears from behind us. “Why don’t you go help Tahegin? I think he might need a hand to hold.”

Face blooming pink, Hendrix releases the back of my sweater, flips Micah off, and skates away. In Tahegin’s direction, I notice. When their eyes meet, they both turn into bumbling puddles of goo. It’s adorably disgusting, in the best kind of way.

Micah starts smoothing the wrinkles left by Hendrix’s hand. “The Scarlets are ignoring you.”

“No shit.”

“They think you’re here to sexualize them. They don’t want to be part of a post where they all kiss you.” Oh. They must have told him that while they were all skating together.

“They can all kiss each other if they want,” I offer. “But I think that defeats the purpose of why my agent and their media team set this up.”

“I think they’d rather put you in the net and shoot pucks at you.”

My jaw drops at the thought of frozen rubber flying at my defenseless, already aching body.

“Relax. I talked them out of it. I couldn’t work out a solution to the kissing thing, though. I’m sorry?—”

Just as Micah is very firmly smoothing a kink from my sweater where Hendrix abused it, my skates hit an extra-slippery patch of ice, and I go down. Hard.

“You okay?” Micah asks, crouching down beside where I’m sprawled on the ice. “That fall did not look pretty.”

“Yeah,” I groan, sounding anything but all right. Lying flat on my back, I rest my head on the ice and look at the ceiling. “Just gonna stay here for a minute.”

Micah sheds his glove to dive his fingers into my hair, poking around for any sign of a bump. “Are you hurt?”

“Just my pride.”

He attempts to stifle a laugh but can’t help the way his lips tug into a small grin. “Hang on. Let me find someone to help you up. I think you’re a little above my weight class. No offense.” His gaze searches the ice as he rises to stand on his skates again, all grace and nothing like my flail onto the ice a few moments ago. For once, he towers over me. I cast an appreciative look from his face, outlined in a halo of brilliant light like an angel sent from the heavens, to his slim torso and down his long legs, and that’s when I notice it.

“Micah.”

“Michelle was nice. She might be willing to?—”

“ Micah .”

“Or Hendrix. He’ll be back on this side in a minute.”

“ Bunny .”

My nickname for him finally has him pausing to look at where I still lie on the ice, his head tilted as he waits for me to continue.

“Do all the skates have names on them?” I ask and nod toward his foot.

Peering down, he turns one foot until the blade is visible. There, on the white part that holds the blade to the boot, is a dark ruby-colored engraving with a jersey number and a last name. These must be someone’s old skates or a previous player’s. “Huh. I don’t know.”

“Can you find out for me?”

“Um, sure.” Skating away, he finds Michelle, the first player who approached him earlier and also one of the ones under media scrutiny recently, and asks her about the skate blade. I’m still sprawled on the cold-as-shit ice when he relays that the players’ skates and sticks are engraved like the pair he’s borrowed.

“Ask Michelle if they’ll let me kiss their skates,” I say, and if there’s a tremble to my voice, I’m blaming it on the chill from the ice, not the fact that all of the professional hockey players around us seem to hate me despite the fact I’m only trying help. “Or hockey sticks. Please. I know they don’t like me, but I’m here for a reason.”

I don’t even know these women, and I don’t follow hockey, but even I can tell their chemistry is off. If it’s bad enough that their coaches reached out to my agent, then I know I have to do something. Lying prone on the ice and kissing their feet like they’re royalty is going to have to be good enough for them if they won’t let me use my usual methods.

“I know,” he whispers solemnly, because he genuinely understands, before skating off to make a deal with the Scarlets. He’s the only one, other than my agent, who knows the point of today. The Scarlets think I’m a queer playboy just looking to gain more popularity, but I truly want to help them through this media storm. The players have kept their personal lives secret for a reason. All I want to do is help them maintain that by putting the attention elsewhere. Sure, it comes with the side effect of having to engage with me in some form or fashion, but hopefully, they can see past that and realize the potential that taking pictures with me today has.

Micah does. He sees the truth.

The women agree, a little too readily, to allow me the privilege of kissing their stinky skates and banged-up hockey sticks. They line up, and Micah records as I press my—probably blue-tinted—lips to each and every frozen skate or stick, gritting my teeth when one or two players “accidentally” snow me. When the demeaning display is finally over, Tahegin and Micah silently help my shivering body up off the ice, and we leave without another word spoken.

The Scarlets stare, and I like to think some of them seem abashed at having let me torture and humiliate myself to help them.

Michelle and her confirmed partner-in-secret take each other’s hands, and maybe it’s the bright rink making me see things, but I swear their eyes glimmer with unshed tears.

At least something good may come of this in the end.