He Shoots He Scores

by Tricia Owens

  Messages sent, he hesitated, wondering what was being said about him on social media. He normally let Moira handle most of his social accounts, but that didn’t mean he didn’t scroll through twitter and Reddit every once in a while to get a feel for how he was being perceived by the public. He had an image to uphold that reflected on dozens of organizations.

  Taking a deep breath, he took the plunge. At first, all he found were posts about the various winners, especially about Magnusson. The blond Swede was terribly photogenic and Neil was guilty of pausing on a shot or two from the red carpet to admire him.

  But then he stumbled across the fan and blogger posts and the shine wore off quickly. As he’d feared, people had noticed his absence. Speculation had begun spreading that Neil was angry about the Stanley Cup Finals, that he hated Adrian Magnusson, that he was jealous, that he feared he was washed-up, that he was too stuck-up to offer congratulations...on and on, the ideas often contradicting each other.

  Neil breathed a sigh of relief. Most of the speculation reflected badly on him, but it was nothing that anyone would take seriously once he showed up smiling beside Magnusson at some point in the future. What mattered more to him was that no one had suggested that he and the Knighthawks winger had left the event together.

  Or that Neil was in Magnusson’s room, sitting on his bed, waiting for his return.

  “And why am I doing that?” he asked himself. He looked down at his bare feet. Instead of feeling resentful of Magnusson for taking one of his shoes, he felt a small bit of excitement. The ball was out of Neil’s court. He had no choice but to hang out here and sure, he’d only be torturing himself by socializing with a man he found wildly attractive but who didn’t return the feeling, but it would be something. A tidbit to tide him over for however long it needed to.

  The rest of my career, unfortunately.

  Tonight better be some tidbit.

  Fully accepting that he would now spend at least an hour or two here, he slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom. He sighed once he got a look at himself in the mirror. Then again, what did he expect after the disaster at the show? He should count himself fortunate that he could stand without barfing. Grimacing at the reminder, he used one of the complimentary toothbrushes to clean out his mouth and spent a few moments trying to make himself look less like someone recovering from a hangover.

  He used Magnusson’s hairbrush to try to fix his own hair. It was crossing a boundary, but Neil told himself this little indulgence didn’t hurt anyone. Yet as he was dragging the brush through his hair, a wave of melancholy washed through him. Sharing brushes was the act of a lover. A boyfriend. He was neither. He set the brush down exactly as he’d found it, ignoring a pang of longing.

  He was just exiting the bathroom when the suite door opened and Magnusson returned, empty-handed.

  “What happened to the munchies?” Neil did his best to hide his disappointment. Obviously, Magnusson had come to his senses and realized what a dumb idea this was. The two of them weren’t even friends. Why would they spend an evening together?

  “Munchies are coming,” Magnusson said, torpedoing Neil’s depression. “I had to visit the front desk first and switch out the credit card for this room. The team was paying for it and I don’t want them seeing a bill for what I’m about to order.”

  Heart pounding with renewed excitement, Neil did his best to play it cool. “What are you about to order? And give me back my shoe.”

  “Nuh uh.” Magnusson held it above his head, daring Neil to jump at it like a child playing keep-away. “And if you’ll relax, I’ll make the order. Chill, Shannon. That’s the point of this, remember?”

  Is that the point? Neil took a seat on the edge of the bed, skeptical of why Magnusson was so determined to do this. What was the Swede getting out of this?

  Stop being suspicious, a voice in his head chided. It’s not supposed to be your first reaction whenever something good happens to you, Neil.

  Biting his tongue, he folded his hands in his lap and watched as Magnusson, still holding Neil’s shoe beneath one arm, picked up the room phone. Magnusson warmly greeted whoever answered the other end of the line.

  “Hello! How are you...I’m doing fine, thanks. It’s a great night, in fact, and about to get even better. This is Adrian Magnusson in room 1024. I’d like to order a few things delivered to me, please...Uh, huh. Okay, you ready? I want to make sure you get everything because my friend here is a pretty picky person and he needs everything to be just right.”

  Neil sighed at the most involved room service call he had ever heard anyone make. Then his eyebrows lifted as Magnusson rattled off a large order that seemed to encompass half of the menu, not that either of them had bothered to look at it.

  “Will all that be possible?” Magnusson finally thought to ask. “I just figured you guys—okay, yes, that’s great. I knew I could count on you. Ha-ha, well, this is a great hotel, so of course the service would be great. Are you going to be the one delivering to us? Right, well, that makes sense—”

  “Is this guy for real?” Neil muttered with a groan. He palmed his face, not caring that Magnusson saw him do it. If anything, the Chicago winger grinned even wider, as though he’d been hoping to get such a reaction out of Neil.

  By the time Magnusson finally hung up, his voice threatened to break with laughter. “You should see your face,” he said, giving in and chuckling. “You look like a cat that had its food bowl taken away from it.”

  “From the sound of your order, I’m a cat that’s about to be stuffed full of crap.”

  “Crap? I wouldn’t call two shellfish platters crap, Shannon. And what about the appetizer sampler? You know you love fried zucchini.”

  “You also ordered a tub of popcorn. Who in the hell is going to eat popcorn after all that?”

  Magnusson shrugged his shoulders and casually tossed Neil’s shoe to join its partner near the bathroom door. “Variety is the spice of life, Shannon. Can I call you Neil?”

  “No.”

  Magnusson smiled. “I knew you’d say that. I might have been counting on it, actually. It’s funny.”

  Neil felt himself bristling and forced his shoulders to relax. “What’s funny?”

  “You. The way you are. The way I am. This crazy game,” he added, quickly looking away. He saw the remote for the TV and grabbed it. “It’s all funny, that’s all. Hey, you didn’t pick something for us to watch?”

  “Because I honestly don’t care.”

  “Oh, no. You don’t want to leave the door wide open like that.” Looking gleeful, like a kid about to string toilet paper over a house, Magnusson leaned forward to better scrutinize the pay-per-view options.

  Neil didn’t want to find him endearing. It was already bad enough that he wanted to jump the other man’s bones. Unsettled, he propped the pillows against the headboard and carefully leaned back, trying for relaxed but not too relaxed.

  “What about your manicurist girlfriend?” he asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be with her?”

  “Her sister is my manicurist,” Magnusson corrected. “And I’m not all that interested in her. Bringing her to this was supposed to be a favor, not an obligation.”

  “You said if you didn’t sleep with her, you’d lose your manicurist.”

  “Guess I’m in the market for a new manicurist.” Magnusson didn’t sound concerned. He glanced back at Neil on the bed. “Flattered? Your company is worth more than great nails.”

  Flustered by the oddly searching look he was being given, Neil waved off the comment. “You’re a hockey player. You probably don’t have all of your teeth. Who’s going to care whether you have a manicure?”

  Magnusson’s grin was knowing. “I think you can tell that I have all my teeth. And there’s nothing wrong with taking pride in my appearance. It’s earned me an endorsement or two. But then, why am I justifying myself to you? You’re the king of endorsements. Don’t tell me you don’t care about how good-looking you are.”

&n
bsp; Neil’s brow creased at the comment, but he didn’t get the chance to address it because a knock came at the door.

  “That was quick.” Magnusson jumped to his feet. “Must be the alcohol.”

  It was, and it was a lot. The wheeled cart that the waiter left behind was laden with an iced bottle of champagne, bottles of vodka, gin, and rum, and an assortment of carafes containing mixers. A second ice bucket held bottled beers.

  “Who else is coming here?” Neil blurted, incredulous.

  Looking slightly abashed, Magnusson grabbed the champagne bottle and began peeling off the metal foil cap. “Now that it’s here, it’s a bit much, isn’t it? I wasn’t sure what you like, so I tried to cover all the bases...”

  It was an unexpectedly thoughtful admission, especially coming from a rival, and Neil didn’t know what to make of it. Unnerved, he joined Magnusson at the cart and picked up a champagne flute.

  “Just keep it coming,” he heard himself say. “I’m not as picky as you think, Magnusson.”

  Magnusson’s bright, enthusiastic grin gave Neil heart palpitations. This was about to be a huge mistake; he was sure of it.

  ~~~~~

  Neil was drunk. He could tell not because he felt woozy or out of control but because it was taking every ounce of willpower to appear in control, when normally it was his default setting. He couldn’t recall how many shots and cocktails he’d had because Magnusson had forced him to match him drink for drink and apparently Swedish men were impervious to alcohol. Even though most of the bottles that had been on the cart were now either empty or nearly so, Magnusson was calling for another shot. Neil was positive that if drank one more drop, he’d pass out instantly.

  “Shut. Up,” he said, spacing the words out carefully in hopes that they’d carry more weight. “No more shots.”

  “Where’s that athletic metabolism at?”

  “Drowning in alcohol. Seriously, Magnu—Magnissss—seriously, no more.”

  Pouting, Magnusson left the cart empty-handed and fell back into his chair. He’d given Neil the bed, where he sort of half sprawled, half lounged. Or at least he liked to think he lounged. There was a strong chance that if his hand wasn’t propping his head up, he’d probably be facedown on the bed. Again.

  “You’re not as bad as I was expecting,” Magnusson said, staring at the television. They’d settled, after much arguing, over a shoot ‘em up thriller. Thankfully, Magnusson hadn’t pushed for porn. Neil would have walked out if he had, and then he would have missed all this...fun. Neil snickered.

  Magnusson grinned over at him. “You think it’s funny?”

  “I know you think this is funny. You think everything is funny. You smile and laugh like a damn clown.”

  That only encouraged the blond winger to grin wider. He should have looked goofy, but Neil had trouble seeing him that way.

  “Shouldn’t take life seriously,” Magnusson said, wagging a finger at Neil, which Neil stared at because the man had a huge hand and thick fingers. “You and me—we play a game for a living. How amazing is that?”

  “Pretty amazing,” Neil agreed. He held up the cast on his arm. “Which is why this sucks and your teammate sucks and you suck by association.”

  “Sorry, Stanley Cup says we don’t suck. It’s sorta like the Sorta Hat.”

  “Sorting Hat.”

  “What I said. It knows the truth.” Magnusson tapped himself on the chest. “It knows I’m gonna make a gazillion dollars this summer. Guaranteed.”

  “You probably will, yeah. Lucky son of a bitch.”

  “Not lucky. Good.” Magnusson laughed at the glare Neil sent him, which wasn’t much of a glare, just a bleary narrowing of the eyes. “You trying to look tough, Shannon? I’d drill you into the walls.”

  Neil’s balls twitched at the boast, picturing a different scenario than Magnusson had meant. “You couldn’t drill me,” he said stupidly, a part of him finding a dark satisfaction in pushing the envelope.

  “I think I could.” Magnusson stared at him with that same weird intensity he’d shown glimpses of when they’d both been sober. He seemed unable to turn it off now that he was drunk. “You don’t think I could nail you, Shannon?”

  Neil had to roll onto his stomach to hide what was happening in his pants. “Whatever.”

  If Magnusson continued to stare at him like that, Neil was going to start humping the mattress. Fortunately—kind of—Magnusson pulled his gaze away to stare blankly at the TV again.

  “What’s your type, Shannon? What do you like? Tits or ass?”

  Danger. This is dangerous. Don’t do it, Neil. Don’t—

  “You first.”

  “Ass,” Magnusson said immediately. “No question. The rounder the better. I love taking a big handful and burying my face in there, and just—” He looked over at Neil and his face reddened. “You know?”

  Neil felt his face burning, too, and his cock throbbed. “Yeah,” he said a bit hoarsely.

  He had to look away when he saw Magnusson reach down to adjust the fit of his pants. Neil sympathized, since his own trousers were cutting off the circulation to everywhere but his dick.

  “So, ass for you, too?” Magnusson asked, burning him alive with those bright blue eyes of his.

  “I-I like them meaty,” Neil said, to avoid admitting that he preferred dick most of all. A big dick and a guy who knew how to fuck him with it. He bet Magnusson had a huge one.

  “Lots of cushion? Or more built?”

  Neil cleared his throat. “Athletic. I guess.”

  “Me, too.” Magnusson’s expression turned dreamy. “Nothing like a good wrestling match before I get my way.” He laughed, almost self-consciously.

  Neil was beginning to think he would need to excuse himself soon to jerk one off in the bathroom. The visual of wrestling with Magnusson was something directly from a fantasy.

  “So, like your assistant?” Neil asked, even though he didn’t want to hear the answer if the answer wasn’t him. “She was a hockey player, wasn’t she?”

  “Darla is incredible. I love her. Not my type, though. I prefer brunettes.”

  The air in the room seemed suddenly tense, or maybe it was only Neil having trouble with being drunk and horny and thinking how he filled all of Adrian Magnusson’s requirements except for being the wrong gender. That was a big ‘except.’

  He was hard and he wanted to do something about it. He was pretty sure the other winger was, too, judging by how Magnusson kept reaching down to fiddle with his junk. Suggesting that they both whip it out and jerk off together, as though they were in high school, was out of the question. But Neil still wanted to do it. He wanted to ask Magnusson to wrap that huge hand of his around Neil’s cock and show off his stick handling.

  “You stopped texting me,” Magnusson muttered.

  Neil, distracted by fantasy, struggled to catch up.

  “After I sent that text about being naked with the Cup,” Magnusson clarified, gazing at Neil from beneath blond lashes. “You didn’t respond again.”

  Neil remembered the text. He also remembered it making him slightly angry and very frustrated, because it felt like a taunt even though Magnusson hadn’t meant anything sexual by it.

  “I’m not good at texts,” he mumbled.

  “I like keeping in touch,” Magnusson admitted. “And I thought it would be fun, texting you. We’re always being pitted against each other by the fans and the media. Funny if they got it all wrong, yeah?”

  “We’re not really friends, though,” Neil said, regretting it immediately when the light dimmed behind the other winger’s eyes. “I mean, we don’t know each other that well,” he hastened to add. “This is the first time we’ve said more than a few words to each other.”

  “We should be a secret.” Magnusson’s face, normally animated, became still. “You and me.”

  You’re already mine, Neil thought. He knew Magnusson meant only friendship, but a person could dream, and Neil was good at entertaining dreams.
r />   “We are a secret,” he declared with drunken boldness. Let Magnusson think he meant it innocently. It didn’t matter.

  Emotion moved across the Swede’s face, something wistful. Something stronger. Magnusson was strangely intense when he was drunk. It made Neil nervous, as though anything could happen, good or bad.

  Then Magnusson grinned, and the tension snapped.

  “I’m glad you yakked today, Shannon.”

  Neil sighed, his arousal deflating. “Bite me, Magnusson.”

  “Don’t say something like that around a Swedish lion.” Magnusson abruptly stood up and strode to the bathroom. “I’m going to shower.”

  He left the door open and Neil could see him clearly in the mirror’s reflection, clumsily undressing. Neil opened his mouth to yell at him to shut the door. But then the tight yellow dress shirt came off, and the undershirt beneath it—and Neil forgot what he was going to say.

  Damn, he’s built. He stared openly, unable to look away as the other man struggled with his tight pants until he finally managed to yank and kick his way free of them. His thighs were indeed tree trunks, his calves chiseled. And his ass—Magnusson wore a thong beneath his pants. Neil choked.

  Magnusson heard him. His blue eyes flashed up to the mirror, wide with shock. He hadn’t realized Neil could see him. But instead of blushing as Neil expected, Magnusson’s expression grew intent again. Holding Neil’s captive gaze, he reached back and slapped himself loudly on one ass cheek.

  Face burning, caught out, Neil couldn’t move. He knew he was at the mercy of what Magnusson did next. Blue eyes hot in the mirror, Magnusson shucked the flimsy piece of black material, letting it drop to his feet. His huge cock slapped against his lower belly. Neil swallowed down a moan at the sight of it.

  Still smirking, Magnusson stepped left toward the shower and disappeared from view.

  ~~~~~

  Adrian woke up and wished he were dead.

  “Oh, my god,” he groaned, pressing his forearm tight to his eyes. Someone was pounding on the walls, the sound bouncing unmercifully around his bruised skull. “Stop. Please stop.”