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Three years ago they’d drafted Nico Kirschbaum, a first-round pick who was supposed to be the new Hockey Jesus or something, but so far it hadn’t done them any good.
Jesus, he hoped this wasn’t some kind of horrifying romcom setup gone wrong. Nico’s dick would shrivel up and fall off if he found out the GM traded a right-handed defenseman to get him laid. Nico also had a right hand. It operated fine. At least now that the bone had healed.
“Um,” he said. Why did he have to run into the guy who was hopefully not his team-approved gigolo while he was naked? He didn’t deserve this.
Wright didn’t need to know that his mere presence pissed Nico off, made his skin feel hot and his shoulders twitchy. Nobody needed to know that.
He clapped a hand on the head of Kirschbaum—apparently the Kolya in question; damn Russian nickname conventions—and ruffled his hair.
Between recurrent insomnia and what his dad called “sleep terrors”—a fancy way of saying that he’d sometimes wake up terrified, heart racing, for no reason—Ryan was usually two hours of sleep under par every night.
Even if the flash of loneliness he could’ve sworn he caught in the man’s eyes matched his own.
Just a little more practice and he’d be back playing like he knew he could. Maybe then he could go out with the guys and feel like he deserved to be there.
Kitty—he was Kitty to everyone on the team except Kirschbaum, who called him Misha—gave
Why did he perpetually remind Ryan of Charlie Brown right before Lucy pulled away the football?
You couldn’t hate a guy who was obviously trying his best and floundering—one who so obviously needed a hug.
He was handsome and smart, fluent in three languages, two of which were notoriously difficult. And his work ethic made the most fanatical of Ryan’s former Voyageurs teammates look positively lazy.
Sometimes a boy just needed to watch cars go fast and then explode.
“Nico, if you don’t come out, I’m going to come in. I haven’t been in a closet since 2007. Don’t make me do that.”
Nico looked like he’d spent the past three hours repeating to himself every mean thing anyone had ever said about him until he believed them all.
You’re one of the most gifted hockey players I’ve ever seen, and it is frankly painful to watch you struggle.
Nico had given a fraction of an inch; Ryan was going to run five miles. They were friends now. Or at least, they could be.
Even better than the play, though, was Nico colliding with Lefty and yelling. Lefty looked stunned by his sudden six-foot-two barnacle, but he accepted the celebration and yelled back. Mucker didn’t hesitate, simply skated into them and bopped them both on the helmet.
So…. Ryan annoyed Nico and then he played good hockey. Twice.
He picked a bag of peanuts like a good pro athlete and then, after a glance over his shoulder, a Mars bar, looking like a naughty child. Ryan wanted to buy him a case of Mars bars.
“I’ve got a roll in my bag.” He jerked his thumb toward his hotel room door. “If you want…?” If you want to come into my room and take your shirt off. Ryan could’ve smacked himself.
Ryan’s brain got stuck on the mental image of Nico frowning over a chess board, shirtless.
Ryan couldn’t help himself. He reached out and gently caught Nico under the chin with a forefinger. Nico startled and looked him in the eye. “Here’s looking at you, kid,” Ryan said with his best Bogart rhythm. Then he gave Nico two gentle slaps on the cheek and sent him off.
“Hey. Good job.” Nico grinned, already flying high on the appreciation of his teammates. “Thanks.”
“What Nico is trying to say”—the warm, masculine scent of his soap wafted up to Nico’s nose—“is that he’s young and rich and could suffocate a man with his ass. So picking up is a breeze.”
Nico might eat, sleep, and live the game, but even he knew you had to step away sometimes… like playing chess with your teammate using a silly phone app and wiping the floor with him every time.
Nico pretended the wave of warmth that went through him was satisfaction at cheering up a friend and had nothing to do with Ryan in particular. He had the feeling he was going to get used to lying to himself, but for the time being, he was content with that fact.
Nico was already sitting at the table with their chess set from home.
THEIR—? HOME????
“What are you—” Nico asked, and then Ryan was yelping because Nico had stood up under his shoulder and now had Ryan in a fireman’s carry. Chess pieces scattered everywhere.
“We can stop on the way for coffee.” Ryan almost said I love you, but settled for “Best landlord ever.”
He faked right, held on…. And squeaked a backhand high gloveside. Fucking. Finally.
“So if Kirschbaum is Grouch, that makes you, what? Elmo? Cookie Monster?” “Well I’m definitely no Big Bird,” he joked. “Nah, you know, it’s really more of a Bert-and-Ernie situation. Nico is Bert, obviously.” He gestured to his face. “It’s the eyebrows.”
This does bring new meaning to the phrase “scoring position”…
She also sent him a gif of Ernie shaking around, clearly excited, and Bert looking long-suffering.
“If it isn’t Bert and Ernie!” Greenie shouted and waved them into the locker room. “Everyone’s favorite ‘roommates.’” He did air quotes.
Nico could keep pretending that he hadn’t noticed how much Ryan touched him. He could keep pretending he didn’t see the way Ryan looked at him, half speculation, half pure heat. He could keep pretending that he didn’t want to touch back, that he wasn’t looking back.
He raised his hand and tilted Ryan’s face up toward him. Ryan licked his lips. “If I got this wrong…,” he said. Ryan surged up and pulled Nico’s head down into a kiss.
He might not exactly have seen this coming, but he wasn’t going to look a gift orgasm in the dick.
“Besides, I… I like you. I’d rather keep doing it and say nothing.”
Misha threatened, holding out his hands. “Give me my baby.” “This is our baby. Get your own,” Baltierra chirped back,
The baby was named Reyna, and she was Misha’s goddaughter.
Martin shook his head. “I can’t believe you think you’re one to go to for advice, Mr. Didn’t Know I Was Bi Until I Was Twenty-Two.”
“I’ve been thinking about that second goal for hours.” Nico’s voice was a little strained. “Which room is yours?”
“Hold that thought, babe.” The endearment slipped out, and Nico shivered a little.
But Nico snorted and did as Ryan suggested. “Such a good boyfriend,” he teased, sounding sleep-warm and fond. Oh God, Ryan was in trouble.
Ira hummed softly and said something in Russian, Nico smiled and answered, slightly pink in the cheeks. Ira turned to Ryan and patted his hand. “Good friend.”
Nico’s mother laughed and said something in Russian. Then she poured a bunch of rum over the wine pot and lit it on fire. Nico’s mom was metal as fuck.
a portable white noise machine, a T-shirt with chess pieces picked out and labeled in white, except the queen, which was rainbow and labeled with me, and a year’s premium subscription to Chess.com so he could practice and finally beat his sister. Or literally anyone.
Nico watched him for several long seconds. Then he leaned forward and gently kissed him on the lips. Short, sweet, affectionate. Coupley. “Thanks.”
It shouldn’t have hit Ryan so hard, one simple word and a bare second of contact. But he still found himself sitting there longer than he should, fighting the urge to bring his hand to his mouth and the realization that he’d fallen so much faster than he thought he could.
