Chapter 4: Egotistical Puckboy: Chapter 4

IF THIS WERE any other night, my response to Boston’s invite to go out would have been a solid no, but I didn’t have anywhere near enough time to taunt Ezra on the ice.

I hate that his team won, but neither of us has played a game like that before.

It felt amazing.

Just as amazing as seeing the fire in his eyes. The way he was trying to cover that he was remembering every detail. Because he was. I was too. But I have a better poker face than him.

And all through the press conference, I’m smiling more than I should be for someone on the losing team, but I’m too busy wondering how many drinks it’ll take for me to work my way under Ezra’s skin. I know there’s exactly zero chance of having sex with him again when he’ll have more than enough offers to hook up, but I want to remind him that no matter what, I’ve had him.

He needs to live with the fact he was owned by Anton Hayes.

It’s that memory that has me puffing out my chest as we enter the karaoke bar Diedrich sent us the address to.

It’s always odd playing in Boston. I grew up here but moved away for college. Even back then, Ezra and I were in the same hockey circles—not that he’d know it. Our paths rarely crossed, and I was the quiet kid who was third line and not very good in the beginning. Ezra … well, he hasn’t changed. He has his head so far up his own ass that he doesn’t notice the people around him. I noticed him though. Maybe too much.

O’Ryan breaks off to buy the first round of drinks, and the rest of us head for where the Boston team is making their presence known. Only five of my team came with me, the others, mostly newbies, headed back to the hotel to mourn the loss.

When you’ve played as many games as I have, you understand the old philosophy of “you win some, you lose some.” Except in the playoffs. Then losing is the equivalent of the end of the world.

The bar is already busy, but Boston has picked an area on the high side of the room to take over. I climb the two stairs to get to them and immediately look around.

I’d like to say I’m not searching for Ezra, but that would be horseshit.

It doesn’t take long to spot the back of his head, light brown hair rumpled and sexy, reminding me of how it looked after I had it gripped between my fingers. He’s leaning over the barrier, talking to some guy who might as well have hearts in his eyes.

It’s not surprising to see Ezra flirting with someone. It surprising how fiercely I hate it this time. I usually despise it because he’s comfortable enough to do it so freely and out in the open, but I can’t deny that voice in the back of my head telling me this is different.

I head toward Wagner like he was my sole target all along. He’s close enough that Ezra should hear me the second I say anything, and I plan to take full advantage of that.

“Good game tonight.”

Wagner turns to me. “It was from one of us.” He laughs and pats my shoulder. “You were playing for the wrong team, Hayes.”

“Stop trying to steal my winger,” O’Ryan says as he approaches and hands me a drink.

“Yeah, imagine him and Ez on a team?” Wagner and O’Ryan chuckle at the thought that makes my stomach clench. A few of the guys saw our coaches in the bar together last night after the team flew in, and there have been rumors about a trade circling ever since. I’m praying my name is kept out of it, but I suspect it’s all speculation.

As someone who was always unnoticed on my teams until I clawed my way into the spotlight in college, the thought of being traded stings. Logically, I know it’s part of the game and that it doesn’t mean you’re a terrible player, but it’s the feeling of being so easily replaceable that screws with my head.

I’m an egotistical bastard on purpose these days, because there’s still that voice constantly reminding me I have to fight to be good enough, and I’ve worked out that if I fake confidence, I begin to feel it. I wear my ego like a mask, covering up that somewhere deep down, I still believe that being who I truly am won’t cut it in professional sports.

I remind myself our coaches were having drinks, and that doesn’t mean anything. Just like right now. Me having drinks in the same vicinity as Ezra.

Besides, anyone who would put Ezra and me on the same team should not be responsible for decision making.

“I don’t see how it would make any difference which team I was on,” I say. “Except if I was on yours, I’d be showing him up from the same side of the ice.”

I swear I can feel his stare. Knowing I’ve succeeded in getting his attention lights me up. All I need now is for him to bite.

“He dominated tonight,” Wagner says, loyal to a fault.

“Well, we all get lucky sometimes.”

A scoff comes from behind me. Bingo.

“Getting lucky? Like you’d know anything about that,” Ezra says.

“Changing the topic to sex, how unusual for you.”

“Are you slut-shaming me?”

“Just pointing out you have a one-track mind. I’m not shaming you for being a slut but for being you.”

“And yet, that’s my most sought-after quality.” Ezra looks me over. “Haven’t had a complaint yet.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure there’s one coming.”

“You two really don’t like each other, do you?” O’Ryan asks.

Ezra says, “No,” at the same time I respond, “I don’t think about him enough to not like him.”

Normally, that would have been the truth. The only times I really think about Ezra are when I’m facing him on the ice or scowling at yet more ridiculous antics that have him splashed all over the tabloids. For the last few months though, I’ve thought about him far more than I’d admit.

The guy can fuck.

I might have been the one topping him, but I wasn’t doing all the work.

“You realize that only makes sound like an asshole, right?” Ezra’s tone is light, but I can tell I’ve pissed him off. He’s too easy to read.

“For being the one person on earth who doesn’t give you attention? If that’s the case, I can live with being an asshole.” I tip back my drink and finish it in one mouthful. “Anyone else need a refill?”

I glance at Ezra, daring him to ask, but he wisely stays quiet. Wagner and O’Ryan are still going with theirs, so I leave for the bar solo.

It’s pretty obvious why Diedrich chose this place. It’s dark and moody, with the main lights coming from the stage, drowning those daring to do karaoke in a multicolored wash of lights. When I was younger and grew up here, it was called something else. It reminds me of a large cigar lounge, one that’s been updated to still look old but cater to a younger audience.

There’s no dry humping on the dance floor here.

Pity.

I’m buzzing with the need to hook up tonight.

As I’m waiting for my turn to order, I glance back to find Ezra talking to that same man again and narrow my eyes in their direction.

I grab my drink, but as I get back to the table, the emcee’s voice cuts through the room.

“Next up, we have Anton Hayes and Ezra Palaszczuk!”

I glare at the guys. “Which one of you did that?”

They all try to look innocent.

Ezra jumps the small balcony, and my pulse rate spikes as he heads for the stage. He takes a microphone, stands in the spotlight, and then his ice-blue eyes zero in on his target: me.

I’m determined not to look away, so I see the moment his smile starts. “Coming, Hayes? Or are you too scared to go head-to-head off the ice?”

The crowd bursts into “Oohs” and taunts.

I put down my drink. “Bring it.” Even if karaoke isn’t my thing, I’m a mediocre-to-average singer, so at least I won’t embarrass myself up there. There’s no way Ezra’s deep, scratchy voice could carry a note.

I amble my way to the stage and take my own mic. “Queen okay?”

“Only if it’s ‘Don’t Stop Me Now.’” He came up with that way too quickly.

“Fine. Deal.” Who doesn’t know the words to that one?

I channel some of the confidence I hide behind on the ice and pretend like this is an average night for me.

There’re a few whoops from the direction of our teams, and someone catcalls, but up here the lights are too bright to make out exactly who it’s coming from. It doesn’t matter. They’re traitors. All of them.

Ezra smirks at me—nothing new there—but for some reason, that one look cuts through some of my faux confidence.

Then the music starts, Ezra lifts the microphone to his mouth … and from the first note of “

,” I immediately regret all life decisions leading to this moment.

Ezra. Is. Incredible.

He nails the opening lines, with all the ease of Freddie Mercury himself, and as soon as the beat kicks up, he lets loose. I watch Ezra own the stage, completely stunned and barely remembering to sing along. How didn’t I know this about him? How didn’t I know that he had a voice like sex and the moves to back it up?

He hits the high notes, all high energy, and I shift to ease some of the pressure behind my fly as my dick starts to perk up again. I hate Ezra, but my cock likes this side of him.

He’s so … free. So in the moment. Every decision I make comes with a list of pros and cons attached, even now. I lean into the performance, but not much. Not enough to draw any kind of speculation that Ezra and I are anything more than rivals on the ice. Ezra doesn’t look like he has a concern in the world.

The next chorus, he catches my eye and starts to strut across the stage toward me. The lights, his messy hair, the unbuttoned shirt, and that sexy fucking strut … I’m close to giving in and watching him, but like hell am I going to let Ezra beat me at anything.

So when Ezra turns and presses his back to my chest, arm thrown back around my neck, and starts grinding up against me, I grab his hip and reposition the microphone so my lips graze his ear as I sing. His ass fits perfectly up against my cock, and there’s no way he can’t feel my erection rubbing against him. The only thing stopping me from pulling away is the complete confidence that he’ll be hard too.

I’d wanted to show him up, but when he lets go of me to take center stage again, the filthy look he throws back at me makes it obvious I failed to do anything other than stroke his ego.

By the end of the song, all eyes are on him as he builds and builds, nailing every note, thrusting his hips to the beat in a way that keeps drawing my attention to his ass. The music finally slows, and Ezra makes his way back toward me, singing through those last few notes, until we’re face-to-face, noses almost brushing as we finish the song.

He holds my gaze like he’s waiting for me to back down, and even with a voice that incredible, I refuse. He already looks cockier than I’ve ever seen him before.

Which is saying something.

But after that, he has a reason to be.

The bar goes nuts with applause, and when he turns to take a bow, I pretend to good-naturedly applaud him along with everyone else before exiting the stage.

I catch Ezra’s eye and make sure he sees me duck down the hall leading toward the bathrooms, because after I don’t trust myself to face him in front of our teams.

I’m vaguely worried he’ll find the guy from before and ignore me, but Ezra rarely gives up a chance to gloat, and after that, he’s going to be preening like a goddamn peacock.

The sane reaction would be to put distance between us, but there’s this need building in my gut to take all that energy he had on display and redirect it toward myself. After that performance, I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone in this bar wants him. Which makes me more desperate for him to follow me.

Sure enough, barely two minutes later, he rounds the corner, huge grin stretched across his smug face.

“I thought that was supposed to be a duet?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“Yet as usual, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity to be a complete show-off.”

“Tell me I was great.”

“I will never say those words. Ever.”

“Lucky I don’t need your validation, then. Too bad for you the slapped-monkey look on your face gave you away.”

It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. “Humble as ever, Palaszczuk.”

“Who needs humble when I can sing like that?” He advances on me, and when I step back, I hit the wall. “Admit you thought that was hot.”

There’s no way I can deny it. “Fine. That was sexy as fuck. My dick couldn’t decide what it liked better: hearing you sing or the way you moan when you’re impaled on it.”

His tongue darts out to lick his lips. “You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?”

“The way someone might remember a nightmare,” I answer dryly.

Ezra laughs. Presses closer. If anyone needs to piss, it’s going to be very hard to explain this away.

“We should do it again,” he suggests.

“No.”

“You hate that you find me so hot, don’t you?” He leans in, presses his nose to the soft skin under my ear, and inhales. “Maybe I could do you this time.”

I grab him and flip us so he’s the one pressed up against the wall. “I’m gay, and you’re hot. That doesn’t necessarily mean I want you.”

“Again,” he taunts. “But you do, don’t you?”

God I want to shut his mouth up. Instead of getting angry though, I meet him at his game. “I told you last time, Ez.” I drop my voice. “If you want me to fuck you, you’re going to have to beg.”

“No way in hell that will happen.”

I step back and shrug, acting like my cock isn’t rock hard and weeping at my stubbornness. “Fine by me.” I turn and walk away. “You know my terms.”

I leave the hallway to the sound of him cursing.