Common Goal (Game Changers, #4)

by Rachel Reid

“I can’t believe I’m engaged!” “I don’t know what you see in that guy,” Kyle said dryly. Kip sighed dramatically. “I know. But a man reaches a certain age, sometimes he has to settle, y’know?” “Twenty-eight. Is that the age you mean?” “I don’t want to be a spinster.” “It’s kind of you to marry that gorgeous millionaire athlete.” “I know,” Kip said solemnly. “I’m very brave.”

“Maybe you’ll meet your future husband tonight,” Kip suggested playfully. “Uh-huh. I’ll see you later.” Kyle shoved his laptop into his backpack and slung the bag over his shoulder. “Your dream man might be there! Keep an open mind.” My dream man will definitely be there. That’s kind of the problem.

He supposed he could use the party tonight as inspiration to finally, and firmly, close the door on this pointless crush on Kip Grady. Kyle had volunteered to work the bar tonight, mostly because it would give him something to do other than listen to his heart shrivel and die while Kip and Scott smooshed their perfect faces together.

Tonight the Kingfisher was celebrating the engagement of two gay men, yet was packed with straight dudes. Hockey players, mostly. Extremely attractive hockey players. And their wives. Water, water everywhere...

“Having fun?” Kyle’s co-worker, Aram, playfully bumped his hip as he reached for a pint glass. “Could be having more fun if any of these boys knew how to flirt,” Kyle grumbled. “I know. What a waste, right? This place is full of tens, and they’re all worthless.” “Counterfeit tens,” Kyle agreed.

His dark eyes fixed on Kyle’s, his gaze confident and unwavering. Oof. If Kyle had one weakness—and he didn’t; he had many—it was confident, attractive older men. Also, confident, attractive younger men. Also, men.

“I’m Eric.” He extended his hand, and Kyle shook it. “I know who you are.” Kyle’s tone was teasing and flirty, because it was pretty much always teasing and flirty. “You’re the one who hides that handsome face behind a mask all the time.” He expected Eric the heterosexual goaltender to lean away and make an excuse to leave. Or maybe just leave. But instead, his lips quirked up and he said, “That’s how it stays so handsome.”

While Kyle was losing himself in Eric’s handsome face, Kip darted behind the bar, bumping up against Kyle. He grabbed a pint glass and started pouring himself a beer, but Kyle stopped him. “Get out of here. You’re drunk.” Kip rolled his eyes dramatically. “Fine. You pour it.” When Kyle handed him the beer that he absolutely did not need, Kip leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Love you.” Kyle’s shoulders stiffened. “Love you too,” he said quietly. His gaze followed Kip helplessly as he walked away with his drink.

Kyle managed a small smile. See, Kyle? There’s no reason to be sad. You have a beautiful, married straight man to keep you company.

“I’ve always been interested in it, since I was a kid. I had this illustrated children’s book of Greek myths that I read a zillion times.” He laughed. “When I got older I learned that the real versions of those myths were a lot more violent. And horny.”

“So. Mocktails,” Kyle said, breaking the tension probably only he felt. He clapped his hands together. “Do you have any allergies?” “Cats,” Eric said. Kyle frowned. “Oh. I’ll have to change the recipe then.”

Do you want a bagel?” “Only if they aren’t—” “They aren’t the jalapeno kind, you baby. Are sesame seeds too spicy for you?” “I like spicy food. Just not first thing in the morning. Do we have cinnamon raisin?” “No, because those are disgusting.

“I saw you talking to Eric ‘Dream Daddy’ Bennett last night.” “Oh, you mean the straight man with a wedding ring on his finger? Yes, it was very promising. I expect him to call on me any moment now.” “Straight, old, and married. Isn’t that exactly your type?” Kyle flicked a sesame seed at her. “I also like them gay, young, and engaged. I’m very open-minded.”

“Getting drunk alone. Always a sign of emotional stability.”

“Nice save,” Rozanov said calmly as he skated by. “Plenty more where that came from.” Rozanov turned back and grinned. “I doubt it. You are a hundred years old. I could hear your bones creak.” “That’s not what your girlfriend said.” Eric was instantly embarrassed by his immature comeback. But Rozanov was laughing. “I’ll have to ask her about it,”

“The dress code is a stupid rule anyway.” Eric shook his head, smiling. “When did you turn into such a rebel?” “Probably when Kip ranted for twenty minutes once about how professional athletes are only required to wear traditional men’s suits as a way of repressing creativity and of enforcing gender norms.”

“I think someone else might be joining us tonight.” “Oh? Who?” “Rozanov. He texted me after the game. Asked what I was doing tonight, and I told him.” Eric was stunned. “Ilya Rozanov wants to hang out with you tonight? At a gay bar?” Scott shrugged. “Apparently.” “That guy is so weird.”

Eric wanted to be sure, and he didn’t want Scott to guess that Eric was at the bar to ogle Kyle. Unfortunately, Rozanov seemed a lot more observant. A lot more into giving people shit too.

“You’re in a mood tonight.” “I’m fine. I’m just...hungry. And I probably need to get laid.” “Good thing you work in a bar that has both food and horny men.”

Who’s that guy?” Kip turned to glance at Scott’s table and his eyes went wide. “Holy shit.” “Is that...” “Ilya Rozanov.” Kip blew out a breath. “This night just got a lot more interesting.” “Why? Is he your third or something?” “Hell no. Rozanov is definitely into women. And he kind of hates Scott.” “Is he in a committed relationship?” “Not that I know of.” “Then maybe I’ll see if any part of him might be into men.”

Ilya frigging Rozanov. Rozanov was sitting calmly, observing the room with the same bemused little smile that infuriated his opponents on the ice. It had to be practiced, because it was a masterpiece. A smile that simultaneously said I am figuring out exactly how to torture you and I don’t care about you at all. “So,” Eric said. “You’re here.” “Yes,” Ilya agreed. “Is there a reason for that, or...” “This place is cozy.” The way Ilya said it—the way he said everything—made it hard to tell if he was making fun of Eric.

Ilya nodded in the direction of Kyle, who was now behind the bar. “Lots to look at.” Eric clenched his jaw. How the fuck was Rozanov so perceptive?

“Good evening, boys. Kip, when you’ve finished the lap dance, your booth in the corner needs another round.” Kip slid out of Scott’s lap, cheeks pink. “It wasn’t a lap dance!” “Hunter probably thought it was,” Ilya quipped. Scott glared at him. “Fuck off, Rozanov. I know what a lap dance is.”

Ilya, this is my friend Kyle.” Ilya reached across the table and shook Kyle’s hand. “Kyle.” He held his hand for, Eric felt, longer than necessary. “What can I get you, sexy?” Kyle asked in that effortlessly flirtatious tone of his.

“I would like a Scott Hunter. Please.” Scott groaned. “Just bring him a beer, Kyle. He’s being an asshole.” “Have you had it?” Ilya asked Eric. “No.” “I want to try it. And bring one for Bennett.” Eric caught Kyle’s gaze and shook his head. “I don’t—” “I can make one without alcohol,” Kyle offered. Ilya looked delighted. “Yes! A virgin Scott Hunter.” “Jesus fucking Christ,” Scott grumbled.

Eric did not like anything that Ilya was implying. “He seems to like you,” he volleyed back, hating that it was true. Ilya shook his head. “This table is a mess.” “What do you mean?” Ilya leaned forward, uncomfortably close to Eric. “You want to fuck Kyle. Kyle wants to fuck Hunter’s boyfriend, but maybe also you, since Hunter and his boyfriend do not see anyone but each other.”

“Shush. I mean it.” Ilya pressed his lips together, but his eyes danced and Eric really wasn’t sure if he was going to keep quiet or not. His stomach clenched at the possibility of having his two biggest secrets revealed right now by Ilya goddamned Rozanov. But Ilya didn’t say a word,

“One naughty Scott Hunter,” he said as he placed a blue cocktail in front of Ilya. “And one nice Scott Hunter.” He placed an identical drink in front of Eric, then darted away before Eric could even thank him. Ilya lifted his glass. “Should we drink to Scott Hunter and his future husband?” “I think we drank enough to that last week,” Scott said sheepishly. “To love, then. And”—he glanced at Eric—“to being brave.”

I need a beer or something to get this taste out of my mouth.” “I once watched you drink three Cherry Cokes at an All-Star weekend lunch, so don’t pretend you don’t like sweet drinks.” Ilya looked a little stunned by Eric’s snark. Then he grinned. “I did not know you were so interested in me.” “I’m not. At all. It was a shocking amount of Cherry Coke for a pro athlete to consume. It was memorable.” “You know,” Ilya said with a weird little smile. “You were not the only one to think so that day.” He took another sip of his drink, and made a disgusted face. “Where is Kyle? Or the other one, Hunter’s guy.” Eric sighed. “Stay here. I’ll get you a beer.” Ilya’s smirk was far too knowing. “Yes. You go talk to Kyle. Would you like me to hold your wedding ring?”

it had been over a year of celibacy. Even with his relatively quiet libido, he was feeling the ache. The need for human touch—a kiss, a caress, anything. Someone to travel with or, hell, watch a movie with. Someone to visit galleries and museums with. Someone with a bewitching smile and faded denim eyes. Eric spent a few more minutes with his painting, pleased that he’d been able to obtain at least one beautiful thing he’d desired this week.

If someone wants to tell me who the right man is, I will happily ensnare him.” She put both hands on his shoulders and stared hard into his eyes. “Not. Kip.” “I’m trying, okay? I’m...almost over him.”

“There’s a bar downstairs. And a stocked beer fridge.” Kyle followed him to the stairs. “Why do you have a bar and a beer fridge if you don’t drink?” “Because all of my friends are hockey players.” “Except the ones who are art dealers?” “The non-hockey friends are a small and very separate group. Tonight it’s just hockey and hockey-adjacent, I’m afraid.”

So was Jalo a dick to you? I can beat him up. It might take a few days of punching him, but eventually he would feel it. I think.”

“I’m going to die alone.” “You’re not. You’re going to die during a threesome with Oscar Isaac and Michael B. Jordan.” “That’s really nice of you to say.”

You haven’t had sex since, um...” “My wife left me? No.” Kyle knew it was none of his business, but he couldn’t help himself. “And that was...” “Over a year ago.” “Wow. That’s, um...are you okay?” Eric chuckled. “I’m okay.” “How are you not, like, vibrating with pent-up arousal?” Eric stared at him with that sexy bemused smile on his face. “Vibrating with pent-up arousal?” “Yeah! I’d be... I mean, it’s been a couple of weeks for me and I basically want to fuck this yogurt.” “Please don’t.

Like...you don’t know how to have sexy times with a man?” “I don’t even know how to find a man to have sexy times with.” Kyle grinned broadly. “I’m no expert—actually, that’s a lie. I totally am—but I think you could probably walk into a gay bar and walk out with, like, five very willing men. You’ve seen yourself, right?” Eric shook his head, but he was smiling. “Do I whistle or something to announce my presence?” “Yes. Or, if you can do one of those hog calls?” “Oh god,” Eric said, laughing. “Yuck.”

“I’ve always been nervous on skis,” Eric said, trying to lighten things. “I can’t imagine flying down a mountain at top speed.” Kyle laughed. “So having pucks fired at you is fine, but skiing is scary?” “Rinks are flat.”

Nice guy. Great kisser.” Eric gave a startled laugh. “Do you kiss all of your friends?” Kyle narrowed his eyes as if he was thinking hard about it. “Most of them, I think.” Eric took a sip of his soda instead of replying. “What? Hockey players kiss each other all the time. I’ve seen it,” Kyle teased. “Not on the mouths usually.” “Shame.”

“You look hot, by the way. I like the shirt.” “Oh.” Eric resisted the urge to pick at it. “Thanks. You look good too.” “On a scale of one to kill me, how uncomfortable are you right now?” He smiled. “Hovering near kill me.”

I’m not making fun of you, I promise. I’m just...interested.” “Interested in how nuts I am.” Eric smiled. “It gets worse. Would you believe that I talk to my goalposts?” Kyle’s eyes went wide with delight. “Seriously?” “Dead serious.” “That seems so...out of character? What do you tell your goalposts?” “I thank them when they stop a puck that got by me. I complain about other players to them.” Eric shrugged. “It’s a lonely job sometimes, being a goalie.”

The thing he kept getting stuck on was that he wasn’t sure what it meant, that he wanted to have sex with Kyle. He knew it was a simple logic problem: Eric Bennett only likes having sex with people he has feelings for. Eric Bennett wants to have sex with Kyle. Therefore... And that right there was why he couldn’t have sex with Kyle. Unless he could. Fucking hell.

How had Scott managed to say the words at the time? Eric felt like they were lodged in his throat, thick and impossible to budge. He took a slow breath, jiggled the words loose, and said, “I’m not...straight.” Scott’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re gay?” “No. I’m bisexual,

Hell, it was nice having Rozanov there.” “Why was Rozanov there, anyway? I never really figured it out.” “Oh, he wanted to talk to me about his charity. You know, the one he started with Shane Hollander?” “I still can’t believe that’s a real thing, but yes.” “They have these summer hockey camps and he asked if I might like to be a coach at one.” Scott laughed. “I could tell it killed him to ask me.” “Why you? I mean, I know why someone would want you to be a coach at a hockey camp, but why would Rozanov want you there?” “I’m not sure, exactly. But he mentioned that the camps are inclusive. He actually used the words safe space, which almost knocked me off my chair. How many hockey players do you know who use that term?” “You mean in a non-mocking way? Very few.”

Rozanov might be the only straight instructor. I mean, possibly straight. I don’t actually know.” Eric nodded, then realized what Scott had just said. “Wait. Shane Hollander isn’t straight?” Scott stared at him. “He’s gay. You didn’t know that?”

I thought most of the league knew by now. He doesn’t mind people knowing, but he doesn’t want to come out in a big public way.” “You mean he doesn’t want to kiss his boyfriend on live television after winning the Stanley Cup?”

“I’ve been thinking about starting my own charity, but maybe I should talk to Rozanov and Hollander about joining forces with them.” Rozanov and Hollander. The two rivals’ names still sounded weird next to each other. “Who knew Rozanov had such a big heart?” Eric said. Scott smiled. “I had a hunch. I think he might secretly be a big softy.” “He does a damn good job of hiding it.” “He sure does.

Eric loved playing against Toronto because he hated Dallas Kent. Toronto’s star forward had loads of talent but was one of the biggest assholes Eric had ever met. He was obnoxious like Ilya Rozanov, but without any of the charm. Because for all of the talk about what a bad boy Rozanov was, he’d never, to Eric’s knowledge, used slurs on or off the ice, or posted sexist or homophobic jokes on Twitter. Rozanov had a reputation as a ladies man, but he always seemed to treat women—and talk about them—with respect. Basically the opposite of Dallas fucking Kent.

Kent might also be quieter tonight because he knew slurs weren’t going to fly with Scott Hunter’s team. If he dared utter anything even remotely homophobic, the New York Admirals entire roster would come crashing down on him. It hadn’t been a completely smooth road for the team since Scott came out—a few players had felt blindsided and uncomfortable by Scott’s very public announcement—but now, over two years later, there wasn’t a single man on the team who wouldn’t defend their captain.

“Get the fuck off of him!” Scott yelled, grabbing Kent. Kent shook him off, then shoved him, “Don’t fucking touch me, Hunter.” He made a disgusted face, as if Scott were a pile of rotting meat, and tried to knock Scott’s hand away. Scott held tight and pulled him closer. Kent looked horrified, as if Scott was going to kiss him or something. “Let go of me, you—” Kent cut himself off just in time. “You what?” Scott yelled in his face. “You what? Finish your fucking sentence.”

“Here we go, fellas,” Eric told his posts. “I’ll do my job, you do yours.” The shot came from an unexpected angle. Eric had positioned himself to block a low shot from his right-hand side, but the puck was passed at the last second. Eric tried to slide over to stop it, but the shot was high and sailed over his blocker. Ping! That sound, that glorious sound, was Eric’s favorite in the whole universe. The crisp chime of a puck hitting the post and deflecting away from the net was a chorus of angels to a goaltender. If Eric made it to old age, he wanted that sound playing on a loop next to his deathbed as he passed. The disappointed groan of the Toronto crowd that followed the ping was also a pretty excellent sound.