He Shoots He Scores

by Tricia Owens

  Shannon could get away with it, too, he thought, and felt a grin pull at his lips at the fantasy of the sexiest guy in the league—in his opinion and in the mind of many, many others—coming out as gay. If such a miracle ever occurred, wild horses wouldn’t be able to keep Adrian in the closet.

  But Neil Shannon was the poster boy for red-blooded American hockey. Captain of the U.S. Hockey team, perennial All-Star, founder of two charities—Shannon’s reputation was so clean it squeaked. A guy like that was straighter than a hockey rink’s blue line. But, oh, what a joy it would be to turn him to the Dark side.

  No boners at the Stanley Cup parade, Maggy.

  Laughing at himself, he pushed forward to join his teammates in posing with the Cup again. The crowd began chanting his nickname: Ma-ggy! Ma-ggy!

  No one needed to twist his arm to step to the front and heave the shiny trophy into the air once more. As the crowd roared and thousands of cameras snapped his photo, Adrian let out a whoop and absorbed the momentous occasion that hundreds of players would give their left nut to experience.

  You only won because I wasn’t playing.

  “Maybe,” Adrian murmured to himself before posing with his lips pressed to the surface of the Cup. Let’s make a date for next year, Shannon, and find out for sure.

  ~~~~~

  “Pretty sure Erik just puked in the Cup.”

  Adrian groaned and slid lower in the booth he shared with some of his teammates. While their booth was located in the VIP section of the exclusive nightclub, that didn’t prevent fans from snapping photos of them from the dance floor below. It was sort of the point of the club’s layout, that the celebrities were in view, but beyond reach.

  “Someone find out, please,” Adrian muttered as he reached for his Scotch and water. “Make sure no one gets a photo of that.”

  “Johnny’s with him,” said Matthew, Adrian’s closest friend on the team and one of their trainers. Matthew elbowed the man next to him. “Right? Johnny’s still with him?”

  Their goalie nodded, but he looked dazed, like maybe he’d ingested more than booze tonight. Adrian wouldn’t blame him under the circumstances, but it was a risk he’d never take. One surprise unscheduled blood test and your season could be over.

  Then again, we’ve won it all. We can afford to take our feet off the pedal for a little while.

  He wasn’t a fan of that way of thinking, however. It wasn’t the thinking of a champion. Winning the Cup was awesome, but it was more impressive to win it two years in a row. Or five. That proved domination.

  He smiled a little against the rim of his glass as he looked down at the dancefloor. Many of his teammates were out there, grinding with female fans, or were elsewhere in the VIP section getting stupid drunk. Not everyone on the team was here, however.

  “Hey, did Marky and Bogey head out?” Adrian asked his friend.

  Tommy sucked on a slice of lime before nodding. “Both their families flew out to Hawaii this morning. And I think Shubi and Jonesey went places, too. Nova Scotia, I think.”

  “And Budapest.”

  “Right, that’s it. None of them had the balls to hang with us,” Tommy said with a tequila-loosened laugh. “They’re missing out, eh?”

  “For sure.”

  Despite his enthusiastic response, fatigue was beginning to drag at Adrian’s eyelids. It had been a long day. Hell, a long week. He’d given so many interviews that they’d begun to jumble together. He hadn’t said anything new in days; every answer was a repeat of one he’d given previously to other reporters and interviewers. He’d become a robot, and it was sapping some of his enjoyment of this great achievement. It was good to get out tonight for Erik’s turn at hosting the Cup, but all the hype had definitely begun to catch up.

  “Check this out.” Tommy pulled out his phone and began thumbing through his address book, endlessly scrolling. “I must’ve picked up a hundred numbers in the last two days alone. I’m going to score so much pussy my dick is gonna fall off.”

  “You’re not telling them you’re a player, are you?” Adrian teased.

  Tommy laughed and toasted him with an empty shot glass. “Not in so many words, but half of these chicks were drunk and didn’t care. All that mattered was that I got to touch the Cup. Okay, and admittedly, I might have told a few that I’m personal friends with the great Adrian Magnusson.”

  “You dirty dog.”

  “Mama didn’t raise no fool.”

  Grinning, Adrian finished off his drink. “Just don’t pick up anything. Like the plague.”

  “Double wrapping at all times, Maggy. Like I said, Mama didn’t raise no fool. How ‘bout you? You must be drowning in chicks.”

  “Something like that,” Adrian said with a wink.

  “You’re smart,” Tommy said as he looked down at the dancefloor. “The other guys are playing with fire with all their side pieces. Someone’s gonna find out something, one of these days.”

  “Probably. Let’s hope the team’s PR will be able to keep a lid on it. Don’t want my reputation tarnished.” Adrian couldn’t hide his amusement over the fact that it was his own secret that was the real danger to the team and its players, not the risk of girlfriends and mistresses discovering the existence of each other. He smacked Tommy in the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Move out. I’m gonna hit the toilet.”

  Once out of the booth and on his feet, he had to pause a couple of seconds as the copious amount of alcohol he’d been drinking threatened to tip him over. He recovered quickly, though, thanks to a fast metabolism and a well-muscled body. He felt lots of eyes on him as he made his way through the VIP space. He had to pause numerous times for handshakes and congratulatory pats on the back. It took him nearly ten minutes to reach the hallway holding the private restrooms.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one in need. Another man, dressed in a blazer with an open-throated shirt, sent him a commiserating smile as Adrian came up behind him.

  “Only problem with these large, mini-suite restrooms,” the man said. “You get five people in them doing blow, rather than taking a piss.”

  Adrian grinned and pulled out his phone to pass the time. Still no texts from Neil Shannon. He mourned the fun they could have had if the Colorado winger would just play along.

  Maybe he needs a little push.

  Even knowing that it was a terrible idea while he was drunk didn’t stop Adrian from opening up their messages so he could write a new text.

  Guess what I just did?

  Filled the Cup with Swedish licorice. The salty kind.

  He hadn’t done anything of the sort because it was Erik’s turn with the trophy, but it sounded funny since Adrian was aware that most Americans thought salmiak was disgusting. That just proved how uneducated Americans were. Super salty licorice was a goddamn national treasure.

  Grinning, he sent another message.

  Later, I’m going to fill it full of champagne and pour it over my naked body. Wish you were here, Shannon?

  An inner voice screamed at him not to push Send, but like a car sliding on black ice, he couldn’t stop his thumb from pressing the button. The message was gone, zinging its way into Shannon’s texts.

  Hopefully into his fantasies, too.

  Oh, hell. He was way drunker than he’d realized. Panicking slightly, he shoved his phone back into the pocket of his slacks. The action caught the attention of the man ahead of him.

  “You look familiar,” the man said, with a crooked smile. His eyes rounded slightly, as though he’d realized what he’d said. Adrian’s radar went ping! “Ha-ha, that sounded like a pick-up line. Swear it wasn’t.”

  Adrian, humming with a restlessness he hadn’t felt in a while—the booze, the victory, and the reckless text to Shannon probably helping—lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. He hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his pants and reclined against the wall. “Wouldn’t matter if it was.”

  The guy stared at him, but not with the recognition that Adrian was
used to. This guy didn’t watch hockey, had no idea that Adrian was the most famous guy in the NHL right now. He was staring because his radar had pinged, too.

  Adrian gave him a quick once-over and liked what he saw. “Name’s James.”

  The man hesitated, but that only gave him away further. With a wary smile, he took Adrian’s hand and shook it. “William.”

  “Who’re you here with, William?”

  The man visibly swallowed and then swiped one palm down his pant leg. “No one. I mean—I came with friends. But that’s it. You?”

  If there was a lesson Adrian had learned from being a closeted athlete, it was that to get over unobtainable crushes, you satisfied yourself with the obtainable.

  “So far I’m here alone, William. But I’m hoping that’ll change before the night is over.”

  Even in the dim club lighting, William’s flush was evident. Adrian grinned knowingly. To the victor went the spoils, and he was claiming his share.

  Chapter 2

  Healing, much to Neil’s frustration, was going to take time. He’d been told by the doctors and other players who’d experienced them that head injuries were odd. Each one was different, and so was the recovery time. A guy could take a huge hit, get knocked out, and be back to playing in a week. Another guy could trip and fall with no head contact at all and be out for months with a concussion.

  “I’m sure mine will be quick,” he’d told his teammates and his parents. “As soon as I regained consciousness, I was mostly fine.”

  He didn’t tell anyone about the weird spaciness he occasionally encountered that made him feel like the ceiling rose fifty feet above his head. Nor did he admit to anyone that sometimes he’d read an article and be unable to recall what a word like ‘circumstances’ meant until a few minutes or even hours later. The problems were minor and didn’t affect his ability to play hockey. He expected them to disappear eventually, just as the headaches had after the second week.

  Besides, he had to appear that he had it all together because in three days’ time was the NHL Awards. He and Adrian Magnusson were among the finalists for two of the top awards: MVP and Best Player of the League. Even if Neil didn’t win either award, he wasn’t about to let Magnusson forget that Neil had challenged him every step of the way, injured or not.

  “What if something happens?” his sister Moira asked him as she dug through his closet.

  He finished buttoning up his dress shirt, a task which had taken far too long with his off-hand, and frowned at his right sleeve. The shirt was special ordered and featured snaps at the cuffs to accommodate his cast. “This arm looks like a loaf of bread. And what’s going to happen?”

  “Lots could.”

  “Like what?” he asked as she began tossing his scarves onto the bed beside him. “I’m going to be sitting in the audience and then hopefully standing on stage accepting an award. Or two.”

  “I know you’ve said you’re completely fine, but I’ve read about head injuries and how tricky they are. Plus, I know you. You won’t admit anything’s wrong until you’re in a coma. You could forget the name of your team and thank the Chicago Knighthawks instead.”

  “I’d need a lobotomy before I did that,” he muttered.

  “I’m just saying, be careful.” She emerged with mystery garments in her arms. “I’ve figured out your suit problem.”

  “Cut off one sleeve?”

  “No, you’re not going to wear one at all. You’re going to wear a vest.”

  “Fine by me.” He looked over the scarves she’d chosen. “Which color?”

  She snorted. “Why are you asking me? You’re the gay with the fabulous fashion sense.”

  She was the only person who knew about him. She’d suspected his sexuality since they were in high school. When he’d finally broached the subject with her in his freshman year of college, she’d rolled her eyes and said only, “Duh.”

  She lived north of Denver with her new husband, but she’d moved in with Neil two days ago so she could, in her words, “Make sure you can wipe your butt with your left hand.”

  Fortunately for them both, he didn’t require her help with that or much else. Though he would need her assistance when it came to teaching him how to tie his tie one-handed. Even if he were straight, he’d never wear a clip-on.

  “If you were coming with me,” he said, “I’d match my scarf to the color of your dress.”

  She chewed on her lip. They weren’t twins—he was older by two years—but they looked like they could be. Today, her dark hair was pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail and she wore her ‘real’ pair of glasses, not the turquoise cat-eyes she wore to look quirky.

  “I wish I could, Neil. But there’s just no way I can get out of work. I used up all my vacation time on a little something I like to call a honeymoon.”

  “You should have put it off. You knew I’d be nominated.”

  “Right. My honeymoon could have waited. In fact, I probably should have put off getting married until after you retire, that way I’d always be free to be your date to any and every public event.”

  “If you were a good sister, you would have.” He dodged the wadded-up tie she threw at his head. “Guess I’ll pick blue. To match my eyes. Pick up an endorsement or two.”

  “That’s so mercenary of you, but yes, blue looks amazing on us. In that case, how about the light gray vest with a white shirt and white tie? Monochromatic with a splash of color will be sexy.”

  He stood up and shrugged into the vest she held out for him. With her help he switched out his sling for the blue scarf and then checked out the result in his bedroom mirror.

  “Like a snack,” she said, leering. “Too bad no one’s gonna nibble on you at the show. You’ll have to get your kicks on the Strip.”

  “Not happening.”

  “What? The event is in Vegas. You have to hook up, Neil. I demand it.”

  “People would know me there. There’ll be a lot of hockey fans in town.”

  “Do you realize how big Las Vegas is? Trust me, you can have as many anonymous hook-ups as you want there. You just gotta want it.” She looked him up and down, dubious. “Or did that knock to your head kill your weenie? I’ve read that can happen, you know.”

  “I think it’s time you moved out,” he said. “Your husband must miss you.”

  “I’m actually pretty serious,” Moira said as she helped him out of the outfit and sling. “Best way to get over losing the Cup is to find some beefcake to bang the bad memories out of your head.”

  “You sound like my pimp.”

  “You sound like a virgin. Let’s be real here.”

  The room swayed. Neil quickly sat down on the bed and then checked to see if Moira had noticed. She hadn’t.

  “I don’t need to get laid,” he told her. “It’s the last thing on my mind lately.”

  “The problem is that you already have too much on your mind, Neil. The Finals, your injuries, and because of the short summer your training camp will be coming up earlier than normal—I can tell you’re getting worked up over everything. You’ll be crapping diamonds soon.”

  He rubbed at his head, but quickly caught himself and stopped. “A lot’s happened,” he agreed with a sigh.

  The bed dipped. Moira rested her head on his shoulder. “I worry about you. You’re so independent. You don’t like to rely on anyone, but sometimes you need to. Sometimes it’s okay to let someone else carry the weight.”

  “Now you sound like you’re trying to marry me off.”

  “Will you ever, do you think? Is that something you want?”

  He ran his fingers over his cast. Only Moira had signed it. She’d done it while he was asleep on the couch, and of course she’d doodled a penis with googly eyes attached to the scrotum. He’d mostly avoided his teammates except by phone. He was afraid one of them would notice that he wasn’t one hundred percent yet. He didn’t trust any of them not to squeal on him or try to talk ‘sense’ into him, and he realized that it was
as Moira said—he wasn’t willing to place anything of importance in the hands of anyone else. Not his career, not his health, and according to her, not his heart. But being a professional athlete with as many responsibilities as he carried—responsibilities that affected his teammates, the organization, his charities, and any fan who looked up to him—meant he couldn’t be careless. Moira thought he was alone, but in truth, he was constantly surrounded by the expectations of thousands.

  “Everyone wants to be happy,” he said quietly. “I’m no different. But if I ever find someone I want to marry, it won’t happen for years. Not until I’ve finished my career.”

  “Please tell me you won’t abstain until then. You’re too hot to waste your best years on your hand.”

  “Sometimes, I wish you were a lady.”

  “No, you don’t. Then you’d be bored.” She patted his knee. “I had a funny thought last night. Want to hear it?”

  “Not reall—”

  “I was thinking about Adrian Magnusson. He was on TV, doing a guest spot as a weatherman.”

  “Was he awkward?” Neil crossed his fingers.

  “Actually, he wasn’t bad. He’d make a good commentator if he wanted to do that later. He’s got a lot of charisma.”

  “You mean he smiles like a buffoon.”

  “Anyway, my funny thought was that you and he would be smokin’ together.”

  He pushed her off the bed.

  “Hey!” she complained from the floor.

  “Never again say something so despicable. He’s the enemy, Moira. He’s also the biggest airhead you’ve ever seen.”

  “All that matters is whether he knows how to use those big thighs and that plump, juicy—”

  Neil closed his eyes. “Leave before I murder-suicide us.”

  “You can’t tell me you’ve never thought about him.”

  He opened his eyes to glare at her. “If I attempted to flirt with any guy in the league my career would be over.”

  Her smile faded. “You’ve said that before, but do you honestly believe it can’t change?”