Two Man Advantage

by Samantha Wayland

  Garrick couldn’t look away. He hoped like hell his face didn’t show any of what he was thinking.

  Rhian had the body of a god. And it was only fitting, since he had the face of an angel.

  Full lips, long dark lashes tipped with gold to match his blond curls, and cobalt eyes accented by crow’s feet radiating from the corners. Though not real crow’s feet. Not like Garrick’s, which had started to deepen in the past few years. Rhian’s had likely always been there, a genetic blessing, since at the tender age of twenty-four, he hadn’t gone enough miles to actually warrant wrinkles.

  Unlike Garrick, who was practically old enough to be Rhian’s father. Okay, maybe ten years wasn’t quite sufficient an age gap for that, but right then it felt damn close. He’d never given Rhian’s age a moment’s thought in the past year. Not until now, when he couldn’t seem to break their locked gazes. Now seemed like a good time to remember how young his friend was.

  Garrick swallowed the drool pooling in his mouth and tried hard not to look like he wanted to grab the front of Rhian’s shirt in both hands and haul him close enough to kiss.

  What the hell had Savannah done to him?

  Rhian finally blinked. His brows lowered. Garrick tore his eyes away and stared at the seat in front of him.

  Shit.

  Desperate for a diversion, he turned back to Tim across the aisle, who was offering to remedy Garrick’s lack of love life by introducing him to some women.

  Garrick tried to appear suitably appalled. “Dude, with your taste in women, I’d rather be celibate.”

  Hoots of laughter erupted around them and Garrick took a moment to collect himself while several of the guys offered their own obscene suggestions.

  Rhian’s thigh bumped his, their knees knocking. Garrick swallowed hard then turned toward his friend.

  Rhian studied Garrick’s face with a narrow gaze.

  “What’s up?” Garrick asked, trying to brazen out his misstep. For Christ’s sake, he’d been ogling the most straight-laced guy he’d ever met. The good news was Rhian probably couldn’t even compute a man looking at him like that for what it was.

  He refused to pull his leg away from Rhian’s. They’d probably sat like this a hundred times before. He just couldn’t remember it. Maybe because until Savannah had filled his head with crazy ideas, it hadn’t mattered.

  It doesn’t matter now, he reminded himself sternly.

  After what felt like an eternity, Rhian shrugged and looked forward. “Nothing. Sorry.”

  Garrick didn’t know what to make of that. Or that Rhian didn’t join back into the conversation sailing over their seats.

  Or pull his thigh away from Garrick’s.

  Garrick seriously regretted putting his bag in the overhead compartment. He could have used one of those folders on his lap right about now. Instead, he shoved his hands in his coat pockets and tugged the leather down over his hips—and the erection he couldn’t control to save his life.

  If Rhian wanted to sit and stare out the window at nothing, that was fine with Garrick. He could use a few minutes to himself.

  Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes, intending to rest them for just a moment. They weren’t a mile outside Moncton before he passed out.

  Chapter Four

  Rhian barely noticed the incredible views from the Confederation Bridge as the bus drove onto PEI. He’d spent most of the trip staring out the window. Now, while everyone else on the bus was doing just that, he gave in to what he’d wanted to be doing all along.

  Staring at Garrick.

  He’d fallen asleep not long after they’d gotten underway. He’d looked tired, but Rhian was surprised he was still out cold. Conversation had flowed around them the entire trip, people had bumped into his seat, and one section of the highway had been so badly pitted with potholes it had rattled Rhian’s teeth. Garrick slept on.

  He looked different this way and it took Rhian a while to figure out why. Then he laughed to himself. This was the first time he’d seen Garrick when he wasn’t talking, laughing, or wearing his game face. For once he looked peaceful.

  And as always, handsome.

  Garrick’s soft brown eyes were closed, and his big contagious smile was in hibernation, but the cheekbones, the soft curling hair at his collar, and the first strands of gray at the temple were familiar. Beautiful.

  Rhian tore his gaze away, staring down at where his thigh ran the length of Garrick’s, and sighed.

  Once upon a time, he’d been more…flexible in his choice of lovers, but he’d put all that behind him once he’d started in the junior leagues. He’d had one ticket out of Chicago, and he hadn’t been willing to do anything that would fuck it up. Having sex with men would have fucked it up. Could still fuck it up.

  He had to stay focused on his goal. Hockey. The NHL. He had to keep his nose clean and his reputation sterling. Focus on the game.

  Which was a damn shame, since when Garrick stared at him like he had earlier, Rhian wanted to fall to his knees and...well, there were any number of things he’d like to do once he got there. Starting with beg.

  Garrick sat on the edge of his bed in another anonymous hotel room, this one in Charlottetown on Prince Edward Island, and stared at the mini-bar.

  He’d spent the last hour going through a metric ton of paperwork, ending with the report from Mark. Now the contents of that folder were shoved back into his briefcase and he was determined to drink himself half-blind. They had to be at the rink early tomorrow morning and Garrick thought a pounding headache and roiling stomach at practice was the least punishment he deserved.

  Fuck. He knew what he needed to do. He knew the right thing for the team was to trade away Justin Dubois—the friend he’d shared a locker room, laughter, and beers with for the past six years. But he couldn’t do it, which made him feel like a failure and a coward.

  Twisting open the nip of Jack Daniels, he threw it back with hardly a gasp of regret for his stomach lining.

  He recalled the easy banter on the bus that morning. Justin had told a story about his five year old, Mandy, and how much she loved school. In Moncton. Where she’d lived her whole life. But then, maybe Mandy would grow to like Grand Forks, North Dakota. And maybe someday Uncle Garrick would forgive himself for sending her there or wherever the hell they ended up.

  God, what had made him think he wanted to own a hockey team? Particularly this hockey team. His hockey team.

  He was one stupid motherfucker.

  The nip of Smirnoff went down with enough trouble that Garrick acknowledged, in hindsight, he should have used the twelve dollar bottle of orange juice to ease its way. He almost never drank hard alcohol and now he was getting a pretty clear memory of why.

  He eyed the nip of Seagram’s Gin and decided he wasn’t suicidal. Gin made him crazy.

  Two other nips, two tiny bottles of wine, one of champagne, and two mini cans of beer were all that was left in the fridge. When a man was six and a half feet tall and carrying around over two hundred and twenty pounds, that was not going to cut it.

  Fortunately, the hotel had a bar.

  The rest of the mini-bar’s contents would make excellent night caps once the bartenders cut him off, so he slammed the fridge shut, scooped his room key from his desk, and headed out. He resisted giving the pile of folders the finger on his way past, as that would have lacked dignity.

  Thirty seconds later he was in the lobby and making a beeline for the bar.

  He would have made it, too, if he hadn’t seen Rhian in a corner of the lobby, talking to another man. The conversation didn’t appear friendly.

  Changing course, Garrick put himself in Rhian’s line of sight.

  Rhian spotted Garrick hovering beyond the next cluster of chairs and couches and gave a tiny shake of his head. Garrick would understand. They’d communicated on the ice with far less.

  Rhian returned his full focus to the man standing before him.

  Steve.

  “What the fuck are
you doing here?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

  “I came to see you play,” Steve said, as if it were perfectly understandable.

  “You drove all the way from Moncton to watch me play?” Rhian asked, incredulous.

  “I came all the way from Chicago, man. That’s why I’m up here freezing my nuts off.”

  In some alternate universe, Rhian would be flattered. But Rhian lived in reality. Unlike Steve, apparently. “Look, I don’t know what you think is going on here, but—”

  “Hey, man, don’t get your panties in a bunch. I just came to hang out. We can party—”

  “No,” Rhian said vehemently. “We cannot party. There is no party.”

  “But—”

  “I saw Deena.”

  Steve blinked and his face scrunched up. “So?”

  Rhian clenched his hands into fists to keep them from wrapping around Steve’s neck. “So what the fuck did you do, Steve?”

  Steve’s blank look gave Rhian pause. Maybe it hadn’t been Steve?

  “She had a black eye…” Rhian prompted, watching Steve’s face closely to gauge his reaction.

  “Oh, yeah. That.” Steve waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever.”

  Years of practice at burying his emotions was the only reason Rhian could keep his anger in check. He stepped forward and shoved his face close to Steve’s.

  “Go home.”

  “What?”

  “Go back to Chicago. Get the fuck out of here.” Rhian couldn’t possibly be any clearer. He met Steve’s narrow gaze, glare for glare.

  “You son of a bitch,” Steve ground out. “You’re going to keep it all for yourself, aren’t you? You’re too important to remember the rest of us?”

  Important? The rest of who?

  “Look, I don’t know if you think I’m living a lavish lifestyle up here in the boonies and you can come up here and be some hanger-on, but this isn’t the NHL,” Rhian said through clenched teeth. He didn’t bother to mention that he wouldn’t be living that lifestyle even if it was the goddamn NHL.

  “You’ll get there soon,” Steve said with absolute conviction.

  Rhian wanted to laugh. Even he didn’t have that much confidence, and it was his dream.

  “And what? You’ll be my entourage?”

  The corner of Steve’s mouth kicked up. “Hey, yeah. I like that.”

  Rhian ached to remove the smile from Steve’s face with his fist. Instead he ground his teeth together until he could spit out his response. “No. Fucking. Way.”

  Steve’s face turned red and contorted with rage. “Unbelievable,” he said, his voice reduced to a rough whisper.

  Rhian couldn’t imagine which part of this bizarre scenario Steve found hard to believe. The whole fucking thing seemed preposterous to him.

  He held perfectly still and waited for Steve’s next move. It was as likely to be a tackle as a punch. Rhian hoped he could subdue Steve and get him out of the building before anyone started asking questions.

  Then he remembered Garrick watching them and grimaced. There would already be questions. That alone had Rhian drawing himself up to his full height until he towered over Steve, their chests almost touching.

  Steve retreated a step and Rhian followed, staring him down until Steve spun and stalked out of the hotel, his normally pale face and neck mottled crimson.

  Rhian hoped the fucker kept going until he got all the way back to Illinois.

  The moment the doors slid shut, Rhian looked at Garrick and nodded his thanks. He hadn’t wanted the back-up, but he appreciated it. Garrick arched a single eyebrow, and Rhian shook his head, waving Garrick off with the hand he could barely uncurl from a fist.

  Garrick held his gaze a moment longer, then turned and strode into the hotel bar.

  Rhian collapsed into a chair and dropped his head into his hands. It took a few minutes to get steady. He’d give his right arm to go up to his room and shut out the world, but he couldn’t.

  He had to give Garrick some kind of explanation.

  And he’d just sit here alone until he could come up with one.

  Garrick couldn’t decide what was worse—being dismissed by Rhian when the guy clearly could use a friend, or that the strange confrontation he’d witnessed in the lobby had completely sobered him up.

  There was a cure for the second problem, at least, and he was going to get right on that.

  Cutting a wide path around the familiar faces in the lounge, he stalked to the bar and planted his ass on a stool. He searched the rows of bottles behind the bartender until his eyes caught on the beer taps.

  “Moosehead, please.”

  As the bartender moved away, the shadow of a smile drifted across Garrick’s face. Moosehead was Savannah’s favorite beer. That small, albeit tenuous, connection made him feel a little better.

  So would drinking a lot of them, really fast.

  He thanked the bartender and slugged back half the pint, trying to focus on his drink and not on the paperwork waiting for him upstairs. He kept his back to the room. Sitting with anyone on the team was only going to make it worse. He needed a distraction, damn it, not another reminder of that he was a complete asshole.

  Movement in the mirror above the bar caught his eye and he looked at the reflection of the lobby behind him. Then he thought of Rhian. And Savannah’s crazy offer.

  Now there was a distraction.

  And another reason to drink. In the blink of an eye, his first beer was gone, and he signaled to the bartender for a refill.

  It had been a very long time since he’d considered being with a man, and while the attraction still simmered under the surface, years of strictly enforced self-programming had suppressed those desires quite effectively. Until now. Until Savannah had opened the Pandora’s Box of his desires. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him.

  Garrick stared down at his beer and snorted, imagining telling his good friend and teammate that he wanted a piece of his ass. Actually, he wanted every glorious well-toned inch of it. Was there a worse fucking nightmare than how Rhian would react if Garrick propositioned him?

  As if on cue, Rhian walked into the bar and made his way toward Garrick. Perfect.

  Garrick wanted to laugh.

  And smash his head on the bar.

  Hard.

  Chapter Five

  Rhian strode toward Garrick, determined to offer a limited version of the truth about what had happened in the lobby then retreat to his room.

  He smiled and said hi to the guys as he passed, not stopping until Alexei and Mike waved him over. He went to their table, telling himself he wasn’t chickening out. Just delaying the inevitable a little.

  Alexei Belov was the team’s resident crazy Russian, a reputation he gleefully lived up to at any opportunity. His pranks and ridiculous jokes—coupled with a thick accent that rendered most of the punch lines almost indecipherable—were often at the expense of his teammates, but no one minded. He made them laugh and never picked on anyone who couldn’t take the ribbing or fire back. That he was a damn fine goalie also meant he got a lot of latitude from management, even the time the locker room and all of its inhabitants had ended up covered in shaving cream and BENGAY.

  Alexei’s best friend, Mike Erdo, sat next to him. A defenseman like Rhian, he was Alexei’s polar opposite. Diplomatic where Alexei was brash. Gentle where his friend was more like the proverbial bull in a china shop.

  Other than Garrick, Rhian spent the most time with these two. Standing at their table, one eye on Garrick to make sure he didn’t go anywhere, Rhian realized he would miss them, too, when the time came to move on.

  Given that Rhian had zero experience with this kind of shit, he hadn’t the foggiest idea how he would go about telling either of them that he wanted to stay in touch. Stay friends. Not that he was going anywhere right then, but eventually…

  He glanced back at the bar—again. Garrick was slumped on his stool, looking more dejected than Rhian had ever seen him. He hat
ed seeing his friend like that and wished like hell he had a clue what to do about it.

  He imagined hugging Garrick. Then he swallowed hard at what the mere thought of pressing his body against Garrick did to his libido.

  “Are we keeping you from something?” Alexei asked.

  “What? Ah…no. Sorry.” He took a deep breath. “I need to talk to Garrick about something.”

  Mike’s smile was slow and terrifying.

  Holy shit. Had something given him away?

  Mike jumped in his seat, his smile disappearing as he bent over to rub his shin under the table.

  “You go see Garrick,” Alexei said with a big smile. “He looks like he could use a friend. We see you tomorrow.”

  Rhian nodded, acting as nonchalant as humanly possible. “Yeah, sure. See you guys in the morning.”

  Walking away, he tried to appear as though the hounds of hell and all his secrets weren’t nipping at his heels. Plastering on a big smile, he approached the bar and slapped Garrick on the shoulder in an incredibly manly and totally heterosexual greeting.

  The effect was ruined when Garrick met his gaze. Everything in Rhian stilled. Shifted. For the second time that day, he was pinned under the weight of Garrick’s stare. He didn’t move, his ass half on the bar stool, half suspended in air.

  Fuck. What the hell is this?

  Rhian blinked, wondering if he imagined Garrick’s amber eyes deepening to warm chocolate.

  He sat slowly, his smile fading. His mind was playing tricks on him. This was Garrick. Beautiful, hard-bodied, straight Garrick.

  Rhian tore his gaze away and shook his head to clear it.

  Garrick turned back to the TV, his undivided attention on the curling tournament, his expression grim. He chugged the rest of his beer and set the glass back on the bar with a loud crack.

  Something was wrong, but Rhian had no idea what. And still he wished he could help. Fix it.

  This friendship shit was confusing as hell.

  All thoughts of getting drunk fled. Garrick needed to leave the bar.