by Amy Aislin
By now, he should’ve been used to hanging out with professional hockey players—his youngest brother played for Vermont—but there was something about meeting them and conversing with them and generally breathing the same air that spoke to every one of Dakota’s childhood fantasies.
Speaking of childhood fantasies, he had a four-year-old son who’d disappeared into the crowd ten minutes ago, Sharpie in one hand, Toronto jersey in the other. Dakota sought out Andy’s dark head while pretending to pay attention to the conversation he’d somehow become a part of, but there were too many large bodies.
Through no fault of his own, he’d ended up in a conversation with two of the team’s communications interns. As a thirty-four-year-old, divorced, full-time, single dad with a mortgage, preschool costs, a son whose current hobby was 3D puzzles, and an ex-wife whose participation in their lives had been almost nonexistent since the divorce three years ago, he didn’t exactly relate to early twenty-somethings. Especially early twenty-somethings who spent their Friday evenings grabbing a drink with men or women they’d met via dating apps and their Saturday nights in dance clubs with too loud music, too many people, and too expensive drinks.
Hell, he wouldn’t have related to them when he was a young twenty-something himself. He’d always been a “stay at home with a good book” kind of guy. If he was feeling particularly extroverted, he’d headed to his best friend’s to play video games and drink cheap beer he’d outgrown before he’d hit thirty.
Excusing himself, he navigated around tables, groups of conversing people, and running children, none of them his.
With the pre-event networking hour over, dinner eaten, speeches heard, and videos thanking donors and highlighting successes aired, the evening had turned into a dance party. They had a private party room at the Drake Hotel, the trendiest hotel you ever did see, with a large dance floor in the center upon which half the attendees were currently dancing to the live band’s cover of “Mr. Vain.” Servers cleared off the tables of any last remaining dishes, and a large crowd had formed at the bar where experienced bartenders twirled and slung bottles, putting on a show to match the room’s decor—Art Deco, low ceilings, dim lighting. Dressed in a black suit paired with a pale blue shirt and red tie, Dakota felt out of place among the players’ designer suits and the glitz and glamor that was the Drake.
A circuit of the outer perimeter of the room didn’t yield an Andy Cotton, but he did spot his broad-shouldered cousin—Dakota’s plus one—speaking with a few of the players, Lacroix, Staples, and Barnes. Of course, Calder would be right in the middle of the action.
Dakota caught his eye and mouthed, Andy?
Calder looked over his shoulder, then sent Dakota a thumbs up. Taking that to mean that Andy was having a good time and didn’t need him and trusting Calder to keep an eye on him, Dakota headed for the bar.
“A glass of the Oban 14, please,” he said to the bartender who, surprisingly, came right over.
“Ice?”
Dakota wanted to nurse it, so . . . “No, thanks.”
Maybe he’d been mistaken for one of the players. Dakota wasn’t a fool—he knew what he looked like. Add his good genetics to his six-two height and he could pass for one of the players, if only his shoulders were wider and his thighs thicker.
As much as he was enjoying himself, his mouth was dry from the many conversations he’d held in the last couple of hours and his energy was starting to wilt. Thanking the bartender for his scotch, he turned and found yet another crowd, this one surrounding the table the sheet cakes had been brought out on. Each cake was decorated like a hockey rink, complete with the team’s logo at center ice, red and blue lines, face-off circles, and goal creases. There were even little edible nets on each end made of fondant and two tiny plastic blue-and-white hockey players in a face-off.
“I don’t want to cut into it,” he heard someone mutter as he walked by. “It’s too nice.”
Dakota smirked to himself. He didn’t need to see the cake; he’d decorated the damn thing.
Needing a few minutes to recharge his introverted batteries, he removed himself from the festivities and found the corner that was always the quietest at these kinds of things—the coatroom.
Set into an alcove near the front, the coatroom was actually a series of four separate rooms lined with winter coats and boots. At the back of each was a mirrored wall and, sandwiching it, benches. Dakota chose one at random and sat, effectively hidden from view unless someone came all the way to the back. With the buffer of coats and walls, the music wasn’t as loud, and he could finally hear himself think.
The party was a nice buffer from the day-to-day grind of an office job he’d somehow fallen into before Andy was born. It wasn’t the bakery Dakota and Calder—the cake decorator and the baker, respectively—had once dreamed about, but it was meaningful work with predictable hours, giving him a work-life balance many people dreamed of and providing stability for Andy. At the end of the day, his son’s happiness was all that mattered.
If that dream poked at the back of his brain when he was planning his next telephone or mail fundraising campaign, or calculating the ROI of the last one, or comparing revenue versus costs, or monitoring his KPI reports for year-over-year donor counts, donor retention and response rates, and average monthly donor gifts, it’d just have to wait until he had a bigger nest egg saved up. A new business venture wasn’t something he was willing to risk if it would leave him in debt up to his eyeballs. Making sure Andy had food to eat, a roof over his head, and a solid foundation on which to grow was his number one priority. Number two, actually. Number one was ensuring Andy knew he had one parent who loved the crap out of him.
The second parent, well. She’d decided she didn’t want to be a mom shortly after Andy was born. Still wanted to be part of Andy’s life, just not raise him. Although, if her interpretation of “I still want to be in his life” meant making the trip from nearby Hamilton to visit Andy only a handful of times a year and ignoring Dakota’s texts about her next visit, then she was doing great. Personally, Dakota thought she should be all in or all out. Her frequent cancellations and rare visits with Andy were just confusing the poor kid.
Leaning his forearms on his knees, drink in one hand, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, surprised to find a missed text from Calder. He’d attached a photo of Andy posing with Taylor Cunningham.
Man, he was cute—Andy, not Cunningham—in his brand-new midnight blue suit, dark brown hair parted to the side. Andy had lost the jacket at some point—Dakota made a mental note to track it down before they left—leaving him in dress pants and a white shirt topped with a vest and matching blue bowtie. His smile was so wide as he held up his signed jersey; Dakota couldn’t help but smile back.
And the other guy was cute too, he had to admit. Taylor Cunningham’s wheat-blond hair was done in one of those stylish haircuts—shorter on the sides, longer on top—that managed to meet somewhere between unapproachable superstar and I woke up like this. Wide-set eyes roughly the same shade as his hair, a small forehead, eyebrows that arrowed almost into the bridge of a pert nose, pale lips, and a smooth jaw. What made Dakota take a second, longer look was the “just call me Tay” smile caught in a laugh that hit his eyes. Something that said Tay would be everybody’s best friend. That he wanted to be everybody’s best friend. But, then, there was also something in that boyish face that spoke to Dakota in a different way, made him want to ruffle his hair before kissing him silly. It was the same feeling he got every time he’d bumped into Tay in the Foundation’s offices.
Laughing softly under his breath, Dakota shook his head, mildly amused with himself. Okay, so maybe Taylor Cunningham was a level past cute and up to attractive, but in a way that was boyish and sweet. Which wasn’t something Dakota was normally attracted to, so he didn’t know why he was giving the picture a second glance except that it had been a long time since his dick had seen any action other than his own hand.
Voices outside the room ha
d him sitting up. Was his refuge about to be invaded?
“I’ve got to get more cash out of my wallet,” someone said from the next room over. “Fucking Xappa’s milking this for all he’s worth.”
“Shoulda put a cap on it,” someone else said.
“Lesson learned.”
There was the sound of hangers squeaking across metal bars, then a curse as one of them appeared to trip over something.
“Where the fuck’s my coat?”
“Dunno.” That one sounded wholly unconcerned. “Try another room. I’m gonna get more cake. See you out there.”
Footsteps retreated. Seconds later, a second set followed, only to detour into Dakota’s room.
And speak of the damn devil. Taylor Cunningham, in the flesh, cheeks flushed from dancing or drinking, maybe both, hair side-parted similarly to Andy’s. Even his suit was almost the same blue as Andy’s, something Dakota had missed in the photo.
Upon seeing Dakota, Tay stood straighter, taller, shoulders pulled back. “Oh, hey.” In person, Tay’s smile flashed brighter. He raked Dakota up and down, lingering on his lips, the exposed column of his throat, the way his pants stretched taut over his crotch, something flaring behind his eyes.
Well, hey there. Into men and apparently not afraid to show it. Dakota returned the look, taking in Tay’s smooth jaw, the cut of his unbuttoned suit jacket fitted to his wide shoulders, the stretch of his shirt over a chest that appeared firm, and the suit pants that hugged long legs.
Tay leaned against the nearest support column, a smirk playing about his lips that made his eyes gleam, and shoved his hands in his pockets, pulling the material across his groin. “Sorry. Didn’t see you there.”
“No problem.” Dakota blanked his cell phone screen. Tay didn’t need to see him ogling his photo.
Seeming to shake himself out of it, Tay went back to going through the coats. “You know what’s annoying?” he asked. “Everyone’s coat is the same color. How am I ever supposed to find mine?”
It was very much a sea of black, blue, and gray.
“Next year, I’m buying a red one.”
You’d look good in red. Dakota sipped his scotch, swallowing the words. “Do you have a distinctly patterned scarf maybe?”
“It’s fucking blue like everything else. That’s a good idea, though.” Giving up, he sank onto the bench across from Dakota, popping up again a second later. “We need cake. I’ll be right back. Wish me luck that I don’t bump into Xappa.”
He was gone before Dakota could wish him luck or tell him he didn’t want cake. Dakota snorted a small laugh and shook his head. Had he ever been that . . . youthfully exuberant? He didn’t think so. As the oldest of five boys, he’d always been level-headed and sensible. Still was. Tay’s energy was electric in comparison. Let him have it, though. Dakota would much rather spend an evening decorating his cakes or spending time with Andy or catching the game on TV.
Less than a minute later, Tay was back, bearing a plated slice of cake in each hand and a bottle of water tucked into his armpit.
“Thanks.” Dakota forked a bite into his mouth; it’d be rude not to after Tay had gone to the trouble. The marble cake was moist and rich, just like all of Calder’s cakes. “Xappa?”
Tay grinned. “Successfully avoided.”
“What do you owe him money for?”
“I don’t. I owe him drinks as payment for taking over the streamers when we decorated earlier.”
Dakota moved fondant off his cake before taking another small bite, unsure what taking over the streamers meant. “I didn’t realize you decorated.”
Mouth full, Tay nodded. Swallowing, he said, “The whole team pitched in. We all get to stay late and take it down too. At least, those of us not roaring drunk. I’m half afraid a couple of the guys will sleep through family skate tomorrow even though it’s in the afternoon.” He shoved another forkful of cake into his mouth without seeming to pause for breath. “Will I see you there?”
“Mm-hmm. With Andy and Calder. My son and my cousin,” Dakota explained, although it turned out he didn’t need to; Tay was already nodding.
“I met them earlier. Took a photo with your kid. He’s adorable.”
“He is. But then, I’m biased.”
Tay chuckled and uncapped his water bottle. Took a sip.
Forcing his gaze off his bobbing Adam’s apple, Dakota said, “Thanks for that, by the way. The photo. Andy’s a huge fan.”
“And you’re not?” Tay’s smirk was teasing.
“No, I am.” Setting his plate aside, cake barely touched, Dakota picked up his beverage. A small swallow had Tay’s gaze focusing on his lips again. “Which is why I don’t feel bad telling you that you guys have been playing like crap the last few games.”
“Ugh.” Tay slumped. “I know. I think the upcoming trade deadline has all of us on edge and playing for shit.”
“Can’t be easy knowing your whole life and career can change at the whim of what someone else wants or needs.”
“Yes.” Tay blinked at him, the hand holding his plate at torso-level dropping to his lap. “Yes, exactly. You get it.”
“My brother plays for the NHL, in Vermont.”
Another blink, slower, Tay’s brow furrowing in a way that was not cute; damn Dakota’s under-utilized libido.
“The Vermont Trailblazers?” Tay said. “Owen Cotton’s your brother?”
Dakota nodded.
“Huh. Cool. We were drafted the same year.” Tay poked at something on his plate.
“It’s fondant,” Dakota informed him.
“It’s not very good.”
That startled a laugh out of him. “No, it’s generally used for decorating, but it doesn’t taste great.”
“Why use it at all then?”
“It’s like play dough, easily pliable so you can make things with it. Like those nets on the cake.”
“I saw those.” Tay was still poking the fondant. “They’re edible?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“How d’you know?”
“’Cause I made it. Or decorated it, I should say. Calder made the cake.”
Tay’s head jerked up. “Shut the fuck up. You decorated that?” A pause, then, “Do you take custom orders?”
Raising a brow at him, Dakota sipped his scotch.
“I’m serious. We’re celebrating my mom’s sixtieth birthday in a few weeks. Big party, lots of people. I’m in charge of the cake.”
“If you’re serious, then here.” Out of his pocket, Dakota pulled out a slim case and extracted a business card for his and Calder’s custom cake business. “Get in touch and we’ll talk.” Their fingers brushed when Tay took the card, sending a zing up Dakota’s arm.
Was it bad that he wanted Tay to get in touch for a different reason altogether? It was strange that he was attracted to someone eleven years his junior. Dakota quickly scratched out any thought of Tay being boyish—he was all broad shoulders, playful grin, and flirty eyes. All man, and Dakota wanted him.
In bed. He didn’t have time for anything else or the inclination. Not to mention that he didn’t plan on introducing anyone into Andy’s life who might not stick around. Andy already had a mother whose job took her to the far corners of the world on the regular. He didn’t need someone else like that in his life.
Tay took the card. “Thanks, I’ll—”
“Tay!”
The shout came from outside their room, making them both jump.
“Shit,” Tay muttered. He drew his legs onto the bench and tucked himself into the corner. How he managed to curl his bulk into a tiny ball was a minor miracle. “You haven’t seen me,” he whisper-shouted to Dakota.
Dakota swallowed a laugh.
“Tay!” Xappa entered the room, pausing halfway in when he spotted Dakota. “Oh. Hey, have you seen Tay? Taylor Cunningham?”
Dakota shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Motherfucker.” Xappa stomped out.
Across from Dakota, Tay was s
ilently laughing, shoulders shaking so much he almost dropped his cake. Unable to do anything else, Dakota laughed along with him.
The attraction? It wasn’t one-sided. Tay would bet his not inconsiderable NHL contract on it.
Twenty minutes after Dakota sent Xappa away, Tay sat on the same bench as Dakota. They both leaned back against opposite walls, facing each other, one leg bent onto the bench. It hiked their pant legs up, exposing their socks. Dakota, striped black and gray. Tay, a bright purple dotted with blue bowties to match his suit.
Dakota held his drink on one knee. Next to Tay were two empty cake plates—Tay had eaten both his and Dakota’s, and while his taste buds thanked him for it, his stomach did not.
He wasn’t sure why he’d gone back into the party to grab the cakes in the first place. An uncharacteristic bout of nerves had hit when he’d first spotted Dakota sitting here, and he’d bolted like a child running away from confrontation. Getting cake had given him an extra minute to compose himself. This was what he’d wanted for so long—time alone with Dakota so they could talk and get to know each other.
Tay rubbed his stomach and asked Dakota how he’d gotten into cake decorating.
“It was a gag gift from one of my brothers when I was in high school. A three-hour cake decorating lesson.” Dakota tilted his head back against the wall, lips gently curved upward. “Something to get me out of the house for a few hours. I was brooding after a bad breakup. Little did he know I’d take to it.”
With his head at that angle, it exposed his long neck and the underside of his jaw, a dark evening shadow growing in. Tay bit his lip against the urge to invade Dakota’s space and stick his nose in that neck, inhale Dakota’s earthy cologne, nibble at his jaw, working his way up to Dakota’s pink lips. Just the thought made his stomach clench with desire.
Dakota Cotton looked exactly like the thirty-something professional he was. His black suit with black pinstripes was fitted and sleek, showcasing strong shoulders that tapered to a trim waist and legs that went on for days. The crisp, light blue shirt and red tie with thin black pinstripes, along with his black hair slicked back into a short pompadour, brought out his skin tone, a warm honey three shades darker than Tay’s own winter-white skin that matched his palest pencil crayons. A high forehead that dipped down from a straight hairline, deep-set eyes the shade of an overcast sky, a prominent nose, and an angled jawline covered in the same dark shadow as his neck.