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“GO OUT,” my sister says. “Have fun.” She literally pushes me toward the door to our new apartment. “What’s the point of free babysitting if you don’t take advantage?”
“Can I at least put on my coat first?”
“I suppose.” She grabs it out of the narrow coat closet and thrusts it at me with one tattooed arm. “There. Now go. See a movie. Or find a bar. Meet a guy. Have some adult fun, before you forget how.”
An argument forms on the tip of my tongue, but then my seven-year-old daughter, Jordyn, pipes up from the sofa. “Ooh! Aunt Reggie! ‘Love is an Open Door!’”
“Awesome!” my sister agrees. “Let’s hit it!”
The two of them are in the midst of a Frozen sing-along. I enjoy a good Disney movie as much as the next guy. But Frozen has been on heavy rotation in my home for a few years now. Adult fun is a barely recognizable concept at this point.
And half the reason I moved Jordyn to Brooklyn was so she could have more of a relationship with my punk rock sister.
So I do it. I put on my coat, give them a wave, and leave.
Outside, it’s a crisp, February night, although Brooklyn is nowhere near as cold as New Hampshire, where Jordyn and I lived until a few days ago. Another perk of Brooklyn: I don’t need a car here. My new neighborhood is within easy walking distance to everything we need.
At least that’s what the real estate broker promised when she showed me the rental last month. I made the decision to move here in a single day, after accepting a new job working for the Brooklyn Bruisers hockey team.
In the past, I’d done many impulsive things. I used to be a fun, easy-going guy who lived for excitement. But that was the younger me. I used to have a lot less to lose, and fewer people depending on me.
Now, as I walk past the historic brownstones, I’m a little terrified at what I’ve done. New job. New neighborhood. New school for Jordyn.
It’s a lot. And I think I’m already lost. Literally.
I don’t want to look like a tourist, though, so I don’t pull out my phone and check the map. I just keep going, turning corners and walking down every interesting block I encounter.
After a while, the quirky residential buildings give way to shops. I could do some grocery shopping, even though that isn’t what Reggie meant by “adult fun.”
When I turn onto Atlantic, the street becomes more lively. There are people out and about. It’s 8:30 on a Tuesday night, and the restaurants are doing good business. Even if I’ve forgotten how to party, the rest of the people in my new neighborhood haven’t.
Reggie says I’m the oldest twenty-five-year-old she knows. And maybe she’s right. When my phone vibrates a moment later, I pull it out immediately, just in case my sister has an emergency at home.
Stop looking at your phone, Reggie has texted. Go out and have at least half as much fun as we are right now. There’s a photo of her dressed up as Elsa, with my daughter Jordyn as Kristoff, because she is seven years old and determined not to do a single thing the same way that other seven-year-old girls do.
It’s adorable. And the sight of Reggie and Jordyn together makes my heart happy.
We’re going to be fine. Moving here wasn’t a huge mistake, and we’re going to love New York. I take another deep breath and then respond to the text. Cute. But why are you texting me if you don’t want me to look at my phone?
I was just testing you, she says. Now go find a hunky guy and don’t come home until the wee hours of the morning.
Right. Like that’s going to happen. I shove the phone in my pocket and continue on my way.
There was a time in my life when I was exactly the kind of guy who looked at a night out as an adventure. But now I’m the kind of guy who is thrilled to simply wander alone for an hour while my sister babysits.
Atlantic Avenue has a bunch of restaurants, but I can’t seem to make myself go in and ask for a table for one. I wander a little further and end up on Hicks, which is a quieter street. I stop in front of a sports bar that’s not too busy. I could sit at the bar and order some wings.
As I open the door, I notice there’s a hockey game playing on a TV over the bar. And it feels like a sign. In two days, I’m starting my new job with the Brooklyn NHL franchise. I’ve never worked with hockey players before, and I’m kind of nervous about it.
I’ll take all the positive signs I can get.
There are plenty of empty seats at the bar, probably because it’s only Tuesday. So I sit down and order a beer from a kind-looking older gentleman. “Should be a good game tonight,” he says. “We’re favored to beat Boston.”
“Awesome,” I say, as I wait for my beer.
I’m not a Brooklyn fan yet, though. I haven’t started the job. Also, it feels disloyal to Eddie. My husband—he died two years ago—was a Boston fan. Big time.
Growing up, I watched a lot of sports, but hockey wasn’t really on my radar. Then I met Eddie, and watching hockey together was part of our courting ritual. We had three great years together, and then he died in an accident at the age of thirty-two.
People always tell me, “You don’t look old enough to have a seven-year-old daughter.” And they’re mostly right. Eddie was nine years older than I was, and he was already a dad when I met him. I never imagined dating a single father of a toddler. It wasn’t on my bucket list.
But Eddie was special, and I fell hard. We watched a lot of TV together at home, because he had a kid to raise.
And then we had a kid to raise.
And now I have a kid to raise.
I miss him so much. It’s one reason why I applied for a job with the hockey team. Eddie would get a kick out of this, I remember thinking. It was really just a whim.
When they offered me the job, I was floored. Now here I am, on a barstool, hoping I made the right call.
Meanwhile, my beer lands in front of me in a frosty pint glass, and I take a grateful sip. When I glance around the bar, I notice a lot of hockey paraphernalia. There’s a signed Brooklyn Bruisers jersey framed at one end of the bar, and a signed Brooklyn Bombshells jersey at the other.
Eddie would get a kick out of that, too. But he’d still root for Boston.
On the screen, Brooklyn has the puck. But not a lot is happening. Nothing good, anyway. Boston is all over them. This is an away game, and the Boston fans are loud.
Not to contradict the bartender, but I’m not sure Brooklyn feels like winning tonight. I guess time will tell.
Just as I’m having this thought, a guy sits down on the stool beside me. Like, right beside me, even though there’s a whole row of stools available.
It’s been a million years since I was a single guy sitting alone in a bar. But somehow the old reflexes kick in, and I turn my head to check him out. And hello. He is a fine specimen. Broad shoulders. Sandy brown hair and deep brown eyes. And a handsome face with the kind of strong, scruffy jaw that might leave beard burns on my thighs.
Whoa. That fantasy escalated quickly. That’s what happens when your dry spell is two years long.
Just as I remember to keep my tongue in my mouth, the hunk slowly cruises me, too. My pulse quickens, and our gazes lock.
“Hi,” I say, because I’m brilliant like that.
He blinks. I swear his eyes dilate, too.
But that’s when the bartender arrives in front of us, and the guy shuts it down so fast that I might already have whiplash.
“Hey, Pete,” he says, his attention fully on the bartender.
“Evening,” Pete returns with a chuckle. “Here to watch the game?”
“Of course. Can I have a lager and my usual?”
“Any time, kid.” Then he turns to me. “Any interest in a menu?”
“Heck yes,” I say. “Let’s have it.”
The older man slides it onto the bar, and I skim the offerings.
My new friend stays quiet until the bartender moves away. “Sorry to crowd you, but you have one of the best seats in the room.”
I almost make a joke about how nice my seat is. Almost. But I rein it in. “You’re not crowding me,” I say instead, my voice carefully neutral. “Any advice on this menu? Looks pretty standard.”
“Sorry, no.” That perfect, scruffy face says. “I always order the same thing. But the guys tell me the burger and the nachos are about as adventurous as you’re supposed to get.”
“Good tip.” I flag down the bartender again, and order the nachos.
Living large tonight. Chips for dinner!
It’s a start.
OKAY, yup. I probably made that awkward. A really cute guy checked me out, and I panicked.
Guys don’t usually hit on me. Especially not in this bar. His smile, though? Caught me totally off guard. Made me forget for a minute all the reasons why I’m supposed to concentrate on hockey.
Only hockey.
Still, I sneak another look in his direction to try to figure out why he’s so distracting. Dark blond hair. Tight T-shirt reading Hank’s Gym, and muscular arms that have probably spent some serious hours in Hank’s Gym, wherever that is. He’s not bulky, though. Lean muscle, nicely defined chest. Blond hairs down his forearms.
He laughs suddenly, and I feel it in my groin. “Did you see that? Oof. So embarrassing.”
My eyes flick back up to the TV in time for the replay. And, yeah, things are not going well. Castro got stripped of the puck by a Boston D-man, and Silas had to dive for the save.
It’s chaos up there, but my eyes still turn back to their new favorite place. The world is full of attractive, toned men, and I usually don’t bother staring at them. My neighbor is a total hottie, though. And just for a moment, I allow myself to imagine how it might play out: I buy him a drink. We watch the game. And then I invite him over for a little Tuesday night stress relief.
That’s just a fantasy, though. I’m humoring myself, because it’s been a bad day. Honestly, a bad year. And it’s barely February.
The only reason I’m sitting here at all is because the Bruisers left me behind to go play Boston. The medical staff sent me to a specialist today to try to diagnose the pain and swelling I’ve had in my hip.
Luckily, the doctor said it’s just bursitis. But it’s sidelined me at an awkward time. Four weeks ago I was minding my own business in the weight room in Chicago. I’d had a recent string of bad games, and I’d been trying to stay positive and work hard.
But then? In my sweaty T-shirt, I’d been summoned to the GM’s office. And I’d known exactly what was happening. Here we go again, I’d thought as the big boss quickly thanked me for my service and sent me off to pack for a flight to New York that very evening.
I’d been traded. For a third string goalie and a first round draft pick.
Trades happen. You’re not supposed to take it personally. But I do. This was my fourth trade in five years. That’s a very high number.
Getting traded is very disorienting, and super stressful. So it’s no big surprise that I’ve been struggling on the ice in Brooklyn, too. I’m just not used to my teammates yet.
Tweaking my hip was just the latest indignity. So here I sit, watching my own damn team on TV, playing without me. So humiliating. And I can’t even watch this at home, because someone is watching Frozen on the other side of my wall, and singing along at the top of their lungs. I couldn't even hear the damn game.
“Maybe this is the wrong bar to say so,” says the hot guy beside me. “But Brooklyn looks a little shaky tonight.”
My loyalty is a reflex. “Not that shaky.” Except they do look skittish. “My name’s Hudson, by the way,” I add for no good reason.
“I’m Gavin,” he says, offering his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
And, shit. There’s that smile again. Hot like a summer’s day. His eyes are gray, and they crinkle in the corners when he smiles. His handshake is pleasantly firm.
Something crackles between us again. When he holds my gaze a little too long, I can’t seem to make myself look away.
But then he lets go, just as Pete approaches with two plates. “Food, boys.” He slides them onto the bar at the same time, as if we’re dining together.
And I guess we are. After the game, though, I’ll get out of here. I’ll go straight home and watch some video for our upcoming game against Minnesota.
Eyes on the prize, Newgate. I remind myself. Stay the course.
I pick up my fork and cut into my burger patty, which is resting on a bed of salad greens. If my new friend Gavin thinks my
no-carb dinner is weird, he doesn’t say so. He just crunches into a cheesy chip with a sigh of happiness.
It’s a nice sound, too. And my rebellious mind wonders what other sounds I could get him to make.
Yeah, like that’s ever going to happen.
I tuck into my food, and the game picks up speed. Castro has possession of the puck, and my guys try to make some magic.
But the offense falls apart again a few minutes later, and I watch the puck get carried into our defensive zone.
My guys are struggling tonight. The schedule has been brutal. And I’m not there to help.
Then, just as the scoreless first period is winding down, a Boston player trips Castro, who goes down while trying to catch a pass. The puck goes right into the waiting stick of a competitor.
Even worse—the ref doesn’t call the foul.
“Fuck that!” I shout. “Come on, Crikey. Time for payback. Can’t let them get away with it.”
Sure enough, the younger of our two enforcers looks for the first opportunity to pick a fight. The gloves are off before you can say let’s do this.
The bar is quiet tonight. But every pair of eyes turns toward the TV screen.
Gavin shakes his head, though. “I just don’t get the fighting.”
“Yeah? It’s an honor code thing,” I explain. Although I realize this hottie has no idea who I am. “Not a fan of violence?”
“Well, no. But it’s more than that. Here you’ve got twenty-three pampered thoroughbreds. They’ve got the best training money can buy, right?” He’s gesturing at the TV screen, and his big eyes light up as he talks. “They get optimized fitness training. And specialists for every boo-boo. But then it’s like, go ahead and beat the crap out of each other. We'll just get out the gold-plated bandages and stitch you back together again.”
I laugh so hard that I almost choke on my salad. He just called me a pampered thoroughbred, and he looked good doing it.
But I can’t let him get away with it. “You think football is any better?”
“Hell no,” he scoffs. “Football should be illegal. They’re all going to have brain damage at fifty.”
I give up watching the screen and just stare at him instead. “All right. So what sport makes more sense to you?”
“Oh, lots of them. I watch a lot of soccer—their fitness is amazing. Tennis is another favorite. I like endurance sports, too. And ski racing is fun to follow. I’m just a big fan of athletic bodies in motion.” His eyes dip like he’s a little unsure of himself all of a sudden. “Aren’t you?”
“Definitely a fan of that,” I agree. Holy crap, I’m flirting with him. I need to stop, but I don't really want to.
I glance up at the screen instead. And, fuck, I look right in time to see my guys fail to connect a pass. And then it just gets worse as I finish my dinner. We’re down by two at the end of the second period.
Pete comes by to clear away my plate. “Are we having more than one beer tonight?”
“Absolutely,” I surprise myself by saying. “Just a light beer, though. And one of whatever he’s drinking.” I gesture to my neighbor, who’s polishing off his nachos.
“That’s very kind,” Gavin says in a low voice after Pete moves away.
“You’ve had to put up with my cursing. We’re down two goals already.”
“The way I see it, we’re up by two goals.”
I turn on my stool. “A Boston fan? Really? You know you’re in Brooklyn, right?”
The guy shrugs his shoulders. “I’m from New England. And Boston is the better team this year. It’s just the truth.”
Lord. I bite back a laugh. I should probably let him know that he’s spouting hockey wisdom to a professional hockey player. But I think I won’t. It’s more fun this way. And I’m not really in the mood to talk about myself.
Fuck it. Tonight I’m just a frustrated hockey fan. I really need Brooklyn to make it to the playoffs. I just need it a little more desperately than everyone else in this bar.
My guys make a beautiful attempt on goal, thwarted only by excellent goalkeeping from Boston. “Come on guys, let's do it again.”
“They look tired,” he says.
“They had back-to-back games earlier this week. No wonder they look tired.”
I should be there with them, not sitting here like a loser.
“You know what?” Gavin says out of the blue. “I read that Castro used to play left wing.”
“Yeah?” I say noncommittally. It’s true, although I wasn’t on the team then.
“They should switch him back,” my new friend says decisively. “Or else make Drake play center. The first two lines are so lopsided.”
“I like it,” Pete says, passing by with clean glassware. “Good idea.”
I let out a snort. “Maybe you should swing by and give your thoughts to management. The headquarters is right in the neighborhood.”
Instead of getting offended, Gavin gives me a big, open smile that makes me feel like a jerk for taking a bitter tone with him. And he’s so attractive that I feel that smile in my pampered groin.
“How do you feel about the defensive pairings?” I ask, because I can’t help myself.
“I’m underwhelmed,” he says, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. So I take a gulp of beer instead.
Five minutes later, Boston commits another egregious foul, this time against Tank, my fellow defenseman. “Goddamn that cross-check!” I shout at the TV. “Ref! You’re blind!”
And then it gets worse when those fuckers score on us thirty seconds later. Now it’s three to zero. I groan.
“Ouch,” Gavin says, draining his beer.
I set my beer down on the bar, half full. Watching my team lose is honestly excruciating, knowing I’m not there to help.
“Hey—feel like a game of pool?” Gavin asks suddenly. “I think I saw a table in that back room. And this game? It’s all over but the crying.”
“It isn’t,” I argue as a reflex. Because of course I’m going to watch the game all the way to the end. This is literally my job.
But then Boston scores again. And I’m in hell. It hurts to watch, and Coach Worthington is just going to make me watch it again during tomorrow’s video session. “Is that pool game still on offer?” I hear myself ask. “Or even better—ping-pong?”
His gray eyes widen, and he pulls out some cash to settle his check. “I love ping-pong. Lead the way.”
Confession: I am a stud at ping-pong. Most hockey players love it, and most teams have a table somewhere in the practice facility.
Except it turns out that Gavin is good too, so I don’t have to take it too easy on him. He holds his gorgeous body in a loose, wide-legged stance. And he seems to find the ball no matter where I put it.
Watching him parry the ball back to me does nothing to dampen the attraction I feel for him, either. I’d like to take that shapely jaw in hand, testing its lines against my fingertips. And I’d like to run my hands through his wavy blond hair.
The game is fun. Really fun. I win the first game, but just barely.
“You’re pretty good,” he says. And there’s that flirty smile again.
“I’m all right. My backhand is a little awkward tonight.”
“No it isn’t,” he argues. “Your backhand is fine, but the way you unwind it slows you down.”
I bark out a laugh. “Wait, really? What are you, a ping-pong guru?”
He shrugs. “I’ve taught tennis lessons. It’s kind of the same principle. Watch.”
Setting his paddle down, he moves around the table until he’s standing behind me. Then he reaches around my body to grasp my wrist—the one that’s holding the paddle. “So, the way you move your paddle is efficient.” He guides my arm to move into the backhand position.
His grip on my wrist is firm. He doesn’t do anything cheesy—like gratuitously stroking a thumb over my skin. But it doesn't matter. I like that firm grip. I want more of it on my body.
And suddenly I can picture it way too clearly. Those strong hands pulling my T-shirt over my head. And me, kissing that crooked smile off his face.
“…But you turn your body too much at the same time,” he says, briefly tapping one finger against my back. “Square your body to the table the whole time, so that when you leave the backhand position, the angle is still good.”
“Okay,” I say uselessly as he moves my arm again. But I’ve lost my train of thought completely.
“See what I mean?” Gavin asks.
Instead of answering, I turn my head to look over my shoulder at him. His face is just inches away, and his eyes widen slightly. Like he can’t believe I went there.
“You got any other tricks you want to show me?” I ask quietly.
The next few seconds seem to last forever. In the first place, I can’t believe I’m doing this. And Gavin is a little off-kilter, too. He’s clearly interested. But still, he hesitates.
I’m holding my breath now, afraid that he’ll turn me down. And also afraid that he won’t.
Slowly, he licks his lips, and drops my wrist. But he doesn’t step back. If anything, he leans a fractional degree closer. “Yeah,” he says under his breath. “I think I do.”
Well that got heated fast. Go me.
And I don’t ever do this. I must have lost my mind, picking up a guy in a bar where my team hangs out on the regular. So I need to downshift. “Let's finish the game,” I whisper. “Want to put five bucks on it?”
“Sure,” he says with a slow smile. “Only five?”
“Well, I've been holding back a little.”
He laughs, and the sound of it is bright with promise. “Really? Why?” The question comes out sounding flirty. “Trying to flatter me?”
I shrug, suddenly embarrassed. But that’s exactly what I’ve done. I’m in the mood to live a little. And by live a little, I mean take this guy home and strip his clothes off. It’s been a long time since I had such a reckless urge.
It’s been years.
But I’m pretty sure he wants me just as much as I want him. We’re gazing at each other in a way that dudes in a bar just don’t usually do.
Not this bar anyway.
Fuck. This is a bad idea. I drop my gaze, even though I don’t want to.
Gavin moves back to his end of the table so we can finish the game. He taps his paddle on the table to let me know he’s ready. “Bring it, man. Do your worst.”
“All right. You asked for it.” I take a breath that’s meant to cool me down. And then I serve up a blazing fast ball, diagonally across the table.
Gavin returns it with a stroke so fast that it’s almost invisible to the human eye.
I’d laugh, except I’m too busy yanking my paddle toward the ball. I get my shot off, but just barely. And he returns it again like gunfire.
“Jesus,” I gasp as I dive for it. But this time he smokes me and takes the point.
I’m thinking I might be out five dollars. He hustled me. But I’m going to go down fighting.
