He Shoots He Scores

by Tricia Owens

  “I’m not playing this off,” Shannon gritted, his fingers still clenched tight in his hair. “It comes and goes. It’ll go away any second now.”

  “Does your doctor know?”

  Shannon abruptly lifted his head. In the weak lighting, Adrian could see the pain in his eyes. “No,” he growled, “and don’t you dare tell anyone, do you hear me?” He cringed, as though even the anemic light was too much, and dropped his forehead to his knees again. “It’ll go away,” he mumbled. “I’m fine.”

  Adrian swallowed, his heart beating faster for no reason that he could name. Shannon didn’t want him here. That was clear. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave a fellow player on the floor like this, groaning in the dark.

  “The date that I brought to this thing,” he heard himself say, “is the sister of my manicurist. If I don’t put out later, I’m going to have to find someone new to do my nails.”

  As soon as the words left his lips, he wanted to smack himself. What in the hell was he saying?

  Beside him, Shannon offered a strained laugh. “You’re an embarrassment to the league, Magnusson.”

  Adrian broke into a grin. “Says the guy who just turned up double goose eggs at the awards. You can swing by my place later if you want to take a photo with my trophies.”

  “Fuck you. Besides, you—you want to keep your manicurist happy, remember? You’ll be busy.”

  I’d rather bend you over than her, Adrian thought, and grinned to himself in the dark.

  “Wish I had a sister,” he said. “You’re smart to bring family to these events. She couldn’t make it this time?”

  “No.”

  Adrian’s gaze moved over him, taking in the broad shoulders that stretched the white dress shirt. Adrian’s eyes had nearly fallen out of his head when he’d first spotted Shannon in his vest and blue sling. He was handsome enough to make even a handicap look sexy. And now that Adrian was as close as he’d ever been to him, he could smell Shannon’s cologne: cedar, with a hint of black pepper.

  Why have you never shown up at these things with a real date? he wanted to ask. Are you and your sister that close, or—?

  But the conjecture was a waste of brainpower. Neil Shannon was not gay and using his sister as a beard. He was the league’s perfect gentleman who possessed great family values. And seeing him suffering like this strained all of Adrian’s self-control.

  He grabbed the corner of a speaker and used it to pull himself up since his pants were too tight to allow him to get his feet under him. He didn’t know how Shannon was going to get up since his pants were tight, too. Don’t think about how tight his pants are if you don’t want to spring a boner.

  “You’re not staying here,” Adrian stated.

  “Mag—”

  “Shut up, Shannon.” He shifted around and grabbed the man by his left arm since the cast on his right rendered it mostly immobile. “If you don’t want to see a doctor, you’ll rest up somewhere other than on the dirty floor of a storage room. This is an embarrassment.”

  Ignoring Shannon’s curses, Adrian hauled him to his feet. Shannon immediately swayed forward, collapsing against Adrian’s chest.

  “Whoa.” Adrian gingerly placed his hands on the winger’s hips. “Can you walk?”

  Eyes clenched shut, Shannon bent his head. “I can’t open my eyes. It makes me—I just can’t.”

  Adrian thought quickly, aware that the press room was filled with media people who were waiting to photograph and interview him with his trophies. The event organizer was going to be pissed, but Adrian figured he had earned enough currency to play prima donna for once in his life.

  “Keep your head down and I’ll get you somewhere private,” he declared. “I’m not letting you stay here.”

  “Mag—” Shannon seemed to lose his will to resist and leaned into Adrian. The pain must be intense for him to rely on his rival. Or else he wasn’t aware of what he was doing. “Hurry,” he ground out. “Or I’m gonna puke.”

  Glad for them both that Shannon wasn’t a burly enforcer type, Adrian slung Shannon’s good arm over his shoulders and supported him around the waist, half-dragging him to the door. A quick peek outside showed the coast clear. He couldn’t tell if Shannon’s handler could see them, but she’d be on their side, anyway. He guided Shannon into the hall and then hurried them to the back of the stage, where he’d found the exit into the casino’s employee corridor.

  No one looked twice at them as Adrian followed the signs that took them through a set of double doors and onto the casino floor. He was relieved to see that they’d come out near the hotel elevators. A few guests noticed them, but their attention didn’t linger. Shannon probably seemed like just another tourist who’d had too much to drink. As soon as an elevator car showed up, Adrian guided them inside and punched the number for his floor.

  Taking his hockey crush up to his room was asking for trouble, but Adrian was on a hot streak lately. A good player knew when to push it.

  Chapter 3

  Neil turned his face against the pillow and murmured with relief when the action wasn’t accompanied by nauseating vertigo. It felt like he’d been released from a prison of pain.

  “Thank god,” he groaned.

  “You can call me Adrian, it’s fine.”

  His eyes snapped open. He lay on his stomach on a bed in what looked to be a room in Mandalay Bay. It was identical to his own room in the hotel.

  What wasn’t identical was the other man in the room: Adrian Magnusson, who sat sprawled in a chair near the bed, studying the phone in his hand. Neil’s phone.

  “What are you—” Neil pushed himself up, but didn’t get very far with one arm in a cast. “Why the hell do you have my phone? Give me that!”

  “Your sister just called,” Magnusson informed him before leaning forward and setting the phone on the small table beside him. “And someone named Kylie? Your girlfriend?” He appeared inordinately interested in the answer.

  “My handler,” Neil snapped, “and how the hell do you know who my sister is?”

  “Shannon, everyone knows your sister. You take her to every public event. You two were interviewed for that Hockey Night in Canada Mother’s Day special.” Magnusson grinned. “Your mother must be so proud of the two of you.”

  Mortified to feel heat in his cheeks, Neil used his good arm to sit upright and swing his legs around. His bare feet landed on carpet. He blinked, then looked down at himself and found his tie missing and the top buttons of his dress shirt opened.

  “You undressed me?” he blurted.

  The Swede’s eyes widened. He looked more shocked than Neil felt. Then he gave a strained laugh and waved a hand over Neil’s body.

  “If that’s your idea of undressing, I feel sorry for your girlfriend,” he said. “Sorry for taking liberties, but you were in pretty rough shape. That was the most I could do to help make you comfortable.”

  Snippets of memory jumped into Neil’s head—staggering into the room blind, besieged by pain and vertigo...strong arms supporting him as he puked into the toilet...cool relief as his shoes were removed and a cold washcloth pressed to his forehead. Shame washed through him. Magnusson had done more than he’d needed to, and he’d done it without them being friends.

  “I’m sorry,” Neil said, gaze averted. “You didn’t need to put up with me for all that, but I’m grateful that you did.” He squinted up at the other man. “Why did you?”

  Magnusson grinned. “You’re looking at me like I stole your wallet. No need for suspicion, Shannon. You’d help me out the same if our positions had been reversed. It’s no problem. Players stick together.”

  Neil looked away guiltily. He wasn’t so sure he would have gone to the same effort for his rival’s sake. He probably would have scrambled to find the guy’s handler so she could take care of him.

  “So, does that happen often?”

  Neil frowned at him. “No. Hardly ever. But that was...bad.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “I was hop
ing I was over them.”

  “Does your doctor give you something for them, or—”

  “He doesn’t know.” At the look of surprise Magnusson shot him, Neil glared. “I’m not naive. The team could put me on the shelf for the season if they feel I’m not up to snuff. No one wants the league coming down on them for ignoring concussion protocols.”

  “And maybe those protocols exist for your protection,” Magnusson pointed out. “You’re messed up, Shannon. Someone needs to know.”

  “It will go away,” Neil gritted out.

  Magnusson studied him for a few moments but thankfully didn’t argue with him. He got up and walked across the room to the mini-fridge. He’d shed his suit jacket and tie. His pants drew taut over his backside as he bent at the waist to pull a bottle of water out of the fridge.

  “Catch.”

  Neil caught the bottle. “Thanks. Mouth takes like a sewer.”

  “That’ll happen when you puke your guts out.”

  Talk about humiliating. “Yeah. About that—”

  “Forgotten,” Magnusson said carelessly. He picked up the TV remote from the dresser before resuming his seat in the chair near the bed. “So, what kind of porn are you into?”

  Neil dropped his bottle of water. It rolled across the carpet to the other man’s feet. Magnusson picked it up and tossed it back with a small smile. “It’s okay,” he assured Neil. “I can keep a secret.” He mimed zipping his lips shut.

  “That’s irrelevant,” Neil sputtered. “I’m not watching porn with you if that’s what you’re suggesting.” He looked hastily at the alarm clock on the nightstand. “We’re supposed to be at the afterparty. Jesus, has it been two hours?”

  “You were feeling pretty shitty. I expected you to stay passed out until the morning.”

  Neil froze with the bottle halfway to his lips. “And you were going to stay here until then?”

  “It’s my room?” Magnusson’s reply held laughter in it. “Don’t worry, Shannon. Your virtue would have remained intact. I would have requested a rollaway bed.”

  Neil imagined Adrian Magnusson violating his virtue and had to suppress a shiver. Now is not the time, you moron. He gulped the water down, hiding behind the bottle as he checked out the other winger as he turned on the TV and began navigating through the onscreen menu.

  Magnusson’s garish, plaid jacket hung in the open closet, no longer providing a barrier to Neil’s wandering eyes. The Swede’s pale-yellow shirt pulled taut across his shoulders and gathered in ripples around his biceps. Neil knew the stats on Magnusson and had skated against him on the ice plenty of times. But seeing him up close and dressed casually provided a different picture than what the numbers stated. Adrian Magnusson was grade A beefcake, which was uncommon among hockey players. Their sport relied heavily on speed, cardiovascular endurance, and agility. Players tended to have leaner upper bodies with thick thighs and powerful glutes—that juicy booty that Moira had tried to sell Neil on. Magnusson had that ass, yes, and an equally built upper body to match.

  “You’re huge,” Neil blurted without thinking. “Were you ever pressured to be an enforcer?”

  When Magnusson looked over, a pale eyebrow raised in amusement, Neil wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

  “I am big,” the Swede said with obvious pride, “but I’ve always been more than muscle. I’ve been a shooter since I was a kid. Not a sniper, but I’d rather take a shot at the net than at another player. No coach wanted to waste me as a bruiser when I could put the puck in the back of the net pretty consistently.”

  “According to today’s results, they were right.”

  It was a shaky olive branch, but Magnusson seemed happy to accept it.

  “Thank you. I probably only beat you out by a vote or two. I might be more surprised than you that I won both awards.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Neil said with a tense shrug. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was thankful he hadn’t won and been thrust into the spotlight right when his head had begun acting up.

  “Well, I sure am,” Magnusson said. “I’m not complaining, of course. I’m a free agent in a few weeks. Winning will only increase my value when the teams come sniffing around.”

  Magnusson’s contract with the Chicago Knighthawks had expired with the ending of their season. It was a tough break for the Knighthawks to have their best player, who’d just led them to the ultimate win, now be available for purchase by any team with the funds to buy him. For Magnusson, the timing couldn’t be better. His value was at an all-time high. He was about to be paid lucratively.

  “You’re not willing to take a hometown discount and stay with your team?” Neil asked, a bit snidely.

  Magnusson ignored the snark. “I love playing in Chicago. I’d love to repeat and bring them the Cup again. If they value me, we’ll talk. But I’m twenty-five. I’m in my prime and I’d like to be paid appropriately. I won’t get another chance at this moment.”

  “No, I don’t blame you for holding out for the highest bidder.” Neil considered his own contract, which was one of the highest in the leagues. It would still fall short of whatever Magnusson ended up commanding this summer. “I’d do the same in your shoes.”

  “You’ve got two years left with the Snowdevils, don’t you? So you’ll get your chance soon enough.”

  Neil was surprised that Magnusson knew that much about him. “I do have two years left,” he said cautiously. “But nothing in this business is permanent, is it?” He ran his fingers across his cast. “My production could fall off. I could be traded tomorrow.”

  His grimaced as Magnusson tipped back his head and let a hearty laugh roll out of his mouth. Wiping his eyes, the Swede glanced at him. “You’re not being traded tomorrow or any day before you become a free agent. And I’m not counting on your numbers falling off. Anyone but you.”

  His blue eyes were warm as they held Neil, as though Magnusson admired him or something. No way did Neil believe that to be true. In fact, he didn’t trust anything that was happening in this room.

  “Where are my shoes?” he demanded, looking around. “I need to go back.”

  “I don’t think you want to go back.” Magnusson faced the TV again and resumed thumbing through the channels. “Everyone’s going to bombard you with questions about where you went and why you didn’t congratulate me. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but that wasn’t a good look for you.”

  Neil sat up straight. “You know why I—”

  “Relax, Shannon. I know. But the press doesn’t, and that’s who’s going to spread the rumors.”

  “Shit.” Neil rubbed at his forehead, praying his headache wouldn’t return. Feeling normal and pain-free was something he was beginning to value alongside good contracts and winning seasons. “This entire trip was a mistake,” he muttered to himself. He should have listened to Moira.

  “Hey, now.” Magnusson pretended to look offended. “It’s not every day that I lock myself in a Las Vegas hotel room with someone. You should feel honored.”

  “Honored. Right. Look, I appreciate your help getting me here, Magnusson, but I’ve got to go.”

  “I’m telling you; it’ll be a mistake. Let it blow over.” Magnusson smiled at having reached the movie listings. “Have a Vegas blowout with me instead. No one will ever believe it.”

  “No one will believe it because it would never happen,” Neil scoffed.

  But the idea appealed to him more than he would have liked. As in, he didn’t want to like it because he knew how much he would like spending the night with Adrian Magnusson in his hotel room.

  It was doubtful that the suggestion was a serious one, though, and Neil resumed looking around for his missing shoes. His tie was around here somewhere, too—

  “I mean it, you know. You should hang out here with me until they all go home. Avoid the drama.”

  Neil avoided looking at the other man. “I’m not hiding out here with you.”

  “Come on, Shannon. Season’s over. You had a roug
h day. You’re in Vegas with the NHL’s best player.” Magnusson grinned at Neil’s inelegant snort. “Take advantage of it and let your hair down. We’ll probably never get this chance again.” Mischief was written all over his face. “Then again, you’ve always struck me as a rigid, uptight guy. Kind of old for twenty-seven. Maybe you’re unable to have the kind of fun I’m talking about.”

  It was bait, plain and simple, but Neil couldn’t help feeling pressured by it, especially the dig about his age. “What’s your idea of fun, then? Watching pay-per-view?”

  “And demolishing the mini-bar. We could cruise the Strip—”

  “No,” Neil said quickly, nervous about his own actions. “I don’t want to be recognized.”

  “Fair enough.” Magnusson abruptly tossed the remote to the bed beside Neil. “Find something we can watch. Nothing heavy. I’ll hook us up with munchies.”

  “With what? Magnusson, I’m not staying.”

  “Yeah, you are.” The winger headed for the door, but paused on the way to swipe something from the floor: one of Neil’s shoes. “Insurance,” he said as he tucked it beneath one arm like it was a football. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back faster than you can skate to the centerline.”

  Neil rolled his eyes as Magnusson, laughing, let himself out of the room.

  As soon as the door shut, he lunged for his phone. It was still locked, which meant Magnusson had only seen message notifications popping up. Neil accessed his texts and groaned beneath his breath at the string of them waiting for him from his handler and sister. He sent a text back to Kylie, apologizing for leaving the event without informing her, and told her he would see her in the morning for their flight home.

  Moira’s messages were shaded with concern—she must have noticed Neil bailing immediately after Magnusson won. Neil apologized to her, too, and assured her that he was handling the losses just fine. For fun, he added, spending rest of night in room with company. now leave me alone. That would tie her in knots of curiosity until he arrived back in Colorado.