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Apparently, the cure to toxic masculinity is to show them how it feels to be talked about like a piece of meat. You’re welcome, ladies.
Maybe I should search gay bars in the area and go fuck all this depression out. Because drowning myself in sex is the mature and logical response.
I swear I’m one broken nose away from being … unattractive. That would be a travesty for all gaykind.
If there’s anything I hate more than Anton Hayes, it’s how good-looking he is.
I take it back. The third worst thing is being cornered by Philly fans. Second worst thing is being saved by someone I hate. But the worst thing by far is realizing that for years I’ve thought the tension between Anton and me came from a place of resentment. It turns out it’s because I want to fuck Anton Hayes. I did not see that coming.
This is what I get for interfering. An Ezra so far past drunk that even my conscience won’t let me leave him here.
Ezra has always rubbed me the wrong way, and now, for the first time ever, he’s finally rubbing me exactly the way I need.
Who knew the key to success was ignoring your own biases?
He needs to live with the fact he was owned by Anton Hayes.
Whether it’s hate, lust, or the primal need to fuck and fight, whatever Anton and I have just got a whole lot more complicated.
Sure, Ezra and I will get along. The day he gets a personality transplant.
My alarm goes off at dark o’clock so I can get my ass to the fucking animal shelter to do this charity shit because fucking Anton Hayes is a fucking fuck fuck asshole fuck.
Mornings should be illegal. Unless I’m climbing into bed instead of out of it.
I like giving people hope in a world that has so much wrong with it.
“Hey, I can be a decent human being and be full of shit at the same time, thank you very much. It’s called multitasking.”
I’ve made a decision. A decision that really shouldn’t have taken me five hours to come up with: I’ll wait and see what happens. I never claimed to be a genius.
It makes me insanely happy to be the focus of his attention.
People. Relationships. Love. I don’t want any of it. Except when he leans over and presses a kiss to the top of my head, I’m starting to suspect that I really, really do.
The impossible has happened. I like Ezra as a person.
Ezra blinks at me innocently, and it makes me equal parts amused and stabby.
“You’re trying to get me jealous.” “You look so sexy when you’re trying not to deck someone.” “Why do I always need to remind you who you belong to?”
“Nope.” He pinches my chin and leans in, dark eyes locked with mine. “No joking. You are an awesome person, Ez. And while we do this thing, you’re also my person. If anyone says that shit to you, they get to face both of us.”
His pouty face is pouty. I poke his cheek. “Are you sulking?” “She thought you were hot.” “And?” “And? You’re mine.”
I’m a simple man. Food, sex, sleep, and hockey. That’s all I need.
Anton confuses me in the best possible way. Or the worst. It could be either. Or both. I’m a confused mess, and it’s all Anton’s fault.
“You’re not a fuckboy, but you act like one because deep down you don’t want to feel the rejection your parents inflicted on you your whole life. You treat people as disposable so they can’t do it to you first.”
“Sorry. I’m not laughing,” he says … through laughter.
I told myself I wouldn’t fall for him. I lied.
Both of my parents love to brag about their NHL-playing son, but neither of them wants to be an active part of my life.
I’m worthy of healthy relationships. It is possible to love me.
What do you do when your lifelong dream comes true? You create new dreams.
Boyfriends who win Stanley Cups together stay together. That’s my superstition. And I’m sticking to it.
