by Tricia Owens
“You don’t know locker rooms the way I do, Moira. I will never try anything. With anyone.”
The gravity of his response seemed to finally sink into her. Her lips puckered into a moue of disappointment. “It’s stupid. We’re not in the Dark Ages.”
He smiled bitterly. “Try telling that to hockey players. They’re some of the most conservative athletes around. If I find someone, it won’t happen until much later. Just accept it as I have, and please don’t bother me about it.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. You know I’m only trying to help you find what I have with Dan.”
“I know.” He held up his cast and pointed at the dick drawing. “For now, I’m satisfied with this.”
She groaned. “I’m still buying you lube for your trip.”
~~~~~
Neil was the only member of the Snowdevils in the running for an award, but he didn’t travel to the event alone. One of the team’s handlers, a young woman named Kylie who’d worked with him before at several publicity events, accompanied him. She booked their hotel rooms and arranged their transportation to Mandalay Bay where the event was held. She would find him food if he needed it and run any errands he required. All press requests would go through her and she was by his side as they stood in the staging area of the casino, waiting for the red carpet to begin. She wasn’t his friend and she took their roles in the organization seriously. That made her perfectly professional and respectful but left him pretty much on his own despite her near constant presence at his side.
The other finalists were there with their team representatives or personal assistants, too. Most had also brought along wives or girlfriends. Neil felt conspicuous being partner-less at the event, but he at least took comfort from the knowledge that no one would question why he didn’t have a date. Not to his face, anyway. None of the other players wanted to know the truth about his solo status and he didn’t blame them. Ignorance protected them all.
Being alone didn’t prevent the other players from coming up to him and asking about the progress of his recovery. Many of them he had played with either in the juniors or through the frequent trades that happened in the pro league. Others he knew through doing summer training or camps together. Neil’s trainer had him working alongside the top players from four other teams, so it was inevitable that he’d become friends with them. He’d never trained or played alongside Adrian Magnusson, though, yet that didn’t stop the big Swede from seeking Neil out in the staging area.
The second Neil spied the other winger’s flowing blond hair coming toward him, the muscles along his spine clenched up tight. He turned quickly to Kylie and asked, “Is there a restroom nearby?”
“Yes, it’s right over here.” She walked ahead, leading the way.
“Shannon!”
The Swede’s voice was deep and clear. Everyone in the area heard him, which meant Neil couldn’t pretend he hadn’t. Gritting his teeth, he pulled to a stop, noting that Kylie seemed to be the only one hard of hearing. She’d disappeared into the crowd, leaving him to face his rival alone.
The last time he’d seen Chicago’s best player had been in game six, right before Neil was knocked out of the game. Magnusson had shaved his so-blond-it-was-invisible playoff beard in the weeks since, but the hair on his head was still long. It curled gloriously above the shoulders of his navy plaid suit. Hockey players, for as conservative as they were, had a strange predilection for wearing skintight, often flamboyant suits. Magnusson wasn’t the only one in plaid today, but he might look the best in it.
Not that Neil noticed.
“Magnusson,” he said in greeting, conscious of several eyes on them. It was sort of a big deal for the two best players of the two best teams of the year to meet post-Finals. Fortunately, the members of the media were out waiting at the red carpet. Neil’s less than thrilled smile wouldn’t end up on all the major networks tonight.
He flinched away, but not quickly enough to avoid Magnusson’s hand coming down on his left shoulder.
“How long?” Magnusson asked, frowning down at the arm cast.
“Five more weeks.”
“Great. Plenty of time for summer conditioning.”
Neil nodded stiffly, conscious of the large hand on his shoulder and the warmth of it seeping through his vest and dress shirt. “I’ll be ready for camp.” He cleared his throat. “Congratulations, by the way.”
Magnusson’s blue eyes were arresting. Ringed by a darker shade, they made you want to stare at them, which Neil did not want to do. He didn’t want to stare at any part of the star winger because staring too long might give him away. Magnusson was a walking wet dream. He was a man’s man, six-foot-three and nearly two hundred and twenty-pounds. Especially when he wore suits like he did now, his body turned heads. Moira wasn’t wrong about the thick thighs and the juicy booty.
What was especially annoying to Neil was that Magnusson wasn’t an ugly bruiser. His face was strong, his jaw and forehead broad, but his eyes sparkled, and his nose was almost—but not quite—cute, with a little upturn at the tip. Worse was his smile, which stretched from ear to ear, showing off his perfect teeth. For as physically impressive as he was, Adrian Magnusson was just as much a human golden retriever, eager for company and seemingly always in a good mood.
It was unnatural, in Neil’s opinion. He didn’t trust it.
“That matchup against you guys was the hardest we faced,” Magnusson said, grinning on cue and squeezing Neil’s shoulder. He didn’t stop there. He began massaging Neil’s shoulder as though he did it all the time. As though Neil was okay with it. “It could have gone either way.”
“If I’d still been playing, it would have gone our way,” Neil said tightly.
Magnusson tipped back his head and laughed. It wasn’t a laugh of mockery over what Neil had said. He appeared to think it was a great comment.
“You could be right,” he said, after he’d calmed down. His eyes were bright with humor. “We’ll find out next year, I hope. I’m ready for another faceoff if you are. I love to compete against the best, and that’s you, Shannon.”
The way he said his last name triggered a memory: “You got this, Shannon. You got this.”
Neil's eyes widened. Magnusson was the player who had shouted the encouragement as he had been stretchered off the ice, half out of his mind.
How humiliating.
He stepped back, moving his shoulder out from beneath the taller man’s hand. “We’ll see how the year goes. Good luck tonight.”
“You think you’re beating me, or will I sweep both awards?”
Magnusson’s teasing smile made Neil dizzy. He looked away, but the motion increased his dizziness. He stood stock still, afraid to move, afraid he’d lose his balance right there in front of everyone.
“Hey, you okay?”
“Your girlfriend,” Neil choked out. “She’s waving for you.”
“She’s not my—” Magnusson broke off as he turned to look.
Without saying goodbye, Neil strode quickly away from him, following the direction that Kylie had taken.
He was able to avoid Magnusson for the twenty minutes before the red carpet opened. Once it did, the controlled mania of fans and media demanded all his attention. Neil loved his fans, not because they were his fans, but because they loved the sport like he did. He had no problem spending nearly forty-five minutes signing as many jerseys, shirts, and pucks that were held out to him as he could, while sheepishly apologizing for his shaky, left-handed scrawl. The fans’ well-wishes for his recovery and their supportive comments about his career and his team lifted his spirits the way nothing had since the end of his season. Only minutes into the event, his smile and pleasure at being there became genuine.
After posing for final press-exclusive shots, he was seated in the theatre. While he was placed in the same row as Adrian Magnusson and the other finalists with the best chances of winning, Neil’s seat was on the other side of the center aisle, putting a good ten feet between him
and his rival. It allowed him to avoid looking at Magnusson’s date, a busty redhead who leaned on his arm, periodically stroking his chest.
The event began, opening with a painful montage recap of the seven games of the Finals. Neil allowed his gaze to go out of focus, so it appeared that he was watching the highlights of his team losing to Magnusson’s while not actually seeing anything. If he wanted replays, he could find them in crystal clarity in his head. After those excruciating minutes, the first award was announced, for best player in the league as voted by the other players. Neil and Magnusson were both contenders.
Neil told himself not to be nervous, but he was. Winning one of these awards had sounded like a pity gift two weeks ago, but now he found himself anxious to win at least one to ease the sting of losing out on the Cup. He watched his highlight reel on the large screen behind the stage, asking himself if he’d given enough during the season. He kept his face blank as he watched the other players’ reels.
“The award goes to...Adrian Magnusson of the Chicago Knighthawks.”
Neil slapped his free hand against his thigh in applause and managed to pull up half a smile when Magnusson unexpectedly clapped him on the shoulder as he was exiting his row. Fans in the upper levels whistled and screamed for the handsome winger and he acknowledged them with a wave and a fist pump. He looked like a movie star on the stage. Neil was sure he wasn’t the only one reluctantly dazzled by him.
Magnusson did him a favor by keeping his acceptance speech short and sweet. He mentioned Neil and the other finalists in the expected lip service, thanked the fans, his team, and the league, and finished up.
The other awards also passed relatively quickly, with most of the expected winners claiming their absurdly huge trophies. Then it was time for a tribute to an older, former league star. Neil and the other players in attendance were guided to stand on stage and applaud the guest of honor and then remain in place for the announcement of the final award, the most valuable player to his team, the Hart Trophy.
The lights on stage were bright and filled Neil’s vision with halos. He kept his gaze aimed at the edge of the stage, at the feet of the front row of audience members, but a low throb began to pulse behind his eyes. The highlight reels of the finalists began playing above him. He hoped the audience facing him was looking at the screen and not at him.
The guest of honor stepped up to the podium to make the presentation. Neil held his breath, suddenly terrified.
“The Hart Trophy goes to...Adrian Magnusson.”
The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Neil was glad he couldn’t clap with one arm in a sling, because it had suddenly become important that he use his good arm to maintain his balance. The ceiling of the theatre had begun to rise, and the stage was beginning to tilt.
Hurry, he thought at Magnusson as the Swede stepped up to accept the award. Just spit it out and end this.
Neil’s shirt stuck to his back with sweat and he could feel it beading on his forehead. He couldn’t lift his eyes from the stage because when he did, the audience seemed to have fallen into a massive chasm that would soon swallow him, too.
Hurry!
His eyes watered from the lights and from sheer panic. He couldn’t fall in front of everyone, in front of the cameras. He just couldn’t.
Applause filled his ears. Magnusson had finished. The lights dimmed as the broadcast went to commercial. Everyone on stage moved forward to offer the winner their congratulations. Not Neil. He stumbled to the nearest wing, uncaring if he came off looking like a sore loser. Walking in a straight line felt like taking a sobriety test after downing a bottle of Scotch. He knocked his shoulder into someone standing near the curtains, mumbled an apology to them, but didn’t stop. He heard Kylie asking if he was okay.
“’fine,” he slurred, waving distractedly. He needed to get out of sight, needed to hide—he saw an unmarked door down a passageway and didn’t care where it led. He fumbled it open and fell inside.
~~~~~
He’d won them both. Adrian was honestly amazed, since he was certain Neil Shannon would take the Hart. In fact, it bothered him somewhat, as though the voting had been rigged. He felt like he had a solidly objective handle on his own abilities, and while he would agree that he was top tier, this year Shannon had turned it up a notch in the last quarter of the season in a preview of his play in the Finals.
Being surprised didn’t lesson the honor of winning, though, and Adrian soaked up the adulation while reminding himself that the award was for last season’s performance. He couldn’t afford to rest on his laurels, especially if they were debatable. He’d have to keep up the effort for the upcoming season if he didn’t want to be a has-been. Shannon would probably be gunning even harder, too.
Speaking of...Adrian looked over the darkened stage, his height allowing him to see above the heads of some of the players congratulating him. He was bemused at not spotting Shannon anywhere. The dark-haired man should have been there, too, waiting to offer congrats to him, no matter how brief. The guy might not be the friendliest, but Adrian didn’t question his class. It was strange that he was absent.
Did it have anything to do with the winger’s odd behavior in the staging area before the red-carpet event? Adrian had shrugged and taken it as Shannon brushing him off—they were far from friends—but now he wasn’t so sure.
The show director began ushering them off the stage. The broadcast was due to return from the commercial break.
“Hey, Darla,” Adrian called to his team handler, flashing her a smile. “Is this too heavy for you to carry to the press room for me? I need to hit the toilet real quick.”
She was a former college hockey player and scoffed at his question. “That thing weighs less than my purse. Hand it over.”
He shifted the trophy to her. “Thank you. Tell them I’ll be right over.”
“Take your time. You’re officially the best player in the league. They’ll wait as long as they need to.”
He liked Darla. She always had his back. He noticed Shannon’s handler, a more diminutive young woman, standing uncertainly in the wing and made a beeline for her.
“Hi,” he said with a smile, gaining a shy one from her in return. “I’m looking for Neil. Is he around?”
Her smile tightened and he recognized the protective light that entered her eyes. “He’ll be right back if you want to wait, Mr. Magnusson.”
“Hey, just call me, Adrian. Mr. Magnusson is my father.”
She nodded, her smile loosening slightly. She tried to be subtle, but he noticed her glance a couple of times down a narrow hallway. Adrian took the unwitting hint.
“I’ll go check on him,” he said pleasantly and headed down the tight space before she could call him back.
He didn’t know where the hall led. It seemed like something the stagehands would use, not a space meant for the general public to see or traverse. Why would Shannon go down here?
Adrian walked the length of it, ending up all the way behind the stage at an exit. He pushed open the door and peered into another employee corridor. A small, simple sign said Casino with an arrow to the left and Employee Dining Room with an arrow to the right. There was no sign of his rival.
Had he misread the handler’s interest in this area? His curiosity increasing, he backtracked, and this time he noticed the door handle in the wall. He’d missed it the first time since the door itself blended in nearly seamlessly. With no hint as to what it could open to, he tried the handle. It turned easily, admitting him into a shadowed room.
“Close it!”
The command startled him into obeying. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust since the only light seeped in from beneath and around the edges of the door behind him. He was in a storage room. Sound system equipment—huge speakers, subwoofers, microphone stands, and piles upon piles of power cords—were shoved up against the walls, leaving only a small square of empty space in the middle of the room. It wasn’t empty, though. Adrian recognized the gray vest and
white shirt of Neil Shannon.
“Hey!” Adrian exclaimed as he quickly kneeled beside the other man who sat with his forehead resting on his drawn-up knees. “Shannon, are you okay?”
“Go away,” the man ordered, his voice muffled by the arms around his head. “I’m fine.”
“Should I get your handler?”
“I said I’m fine!”
Adrian stared, shocked at his outburst.
Shannon threaded the fingers of his left hand through his hair. “Magnusson,” he said in a calmer, controlled voice. “I’m just taking a breather. You can go. I’ll be out in a minute.”
His fingers were shaking.
Hockey players were tough. Adrian had played alongside guys who’d lost half a dozen teeth in a hit or separated their shoulders and remained on the ice. Unless he’d broken bones in major limbs or ripped tendons or ligaments in a knee, a hockey player wasn’t going to admit to hurting.
Adrian had to respect that Shannon didn’t want anyone fawning over him, but this situation didn’t sit right with him. This wasn’t a game, where showing weakness invited opposing players to target you.
“Is it your head?” he asked carefully.
“Go, Magnusson.” Shannon released a shaky breath. “Go celebrate your wins.”
Adrian gaped. “Screw my—”
Shannon’s fingers clenched in his hair and he let out a low, almost angry-sounding groan. Adrian inhaled sharply. Since winning the Cup, he’d done nothing but celebrate and enjoy the adulation of the press and his fans. His life had been incredible and only rarely had he spared a thought for what his recovering rival might be going through. Adrian wasn’t clueless about head injuries. He’d been concussed when he’d played in the Swedish leagues when he was younger. Fortunately for him, a couple of days’ worth of headaches had been his only penance. But he knew the dangers of concussions and how insidious the side effects could be. Shannon might be on the verge of improving, or he might never feel ‘normal’ again.
“This is bullshit,” Adrian muttered. His pants were so tight he could barely bend his knees. He pretty much just collapsed to the floor beside the other man and even then, he could tell the blood was being cut off to his thighs, not to mention his balls were being crushed. “Don’t be an idiot, Shannon. Your head’s messed up. You shouldn’t play this off.”