His gaze drifted over me as I peeled off my shirt and tie, winging them into an armchair. I made no effort to hide the erection pressing against my zipper as I moved around the room, losing clothing as I went. Joe’s gasp when I dropped my pants and stepped out of them, bare as the day I was born, made my dick even harder. I gave him my back, letting him enjoy the sight of my ass, then jumped into a pair of old Levi’s and pulled my travel robe from my suitcase. I slid my arms into the long, flowy sleeves and spun around. Joe was fingering my guitar, his cheeks still flaming red. Fuck, but the man was so damn clean-cut. He needed dirtying up and I was just the person for the job.
“Okay, so the song is kind of like this power ballad but with no power.” I chuckled at myself then leapt onto the bed, sweeping my guitar up and placing it on my lap. Joe wiggled back a bit, his whole attention on me. I liked it. I was kind of an attention whore. “I hear it in my head as being a sort of throwback to those amazing Cat Stevens songs before he left music to find his inner self.”
“You like old songs, don’t you?” he asked as I plucked a few strings.
“Mm, yeah, I do. Did you ever feel like you were born in the wrong time? Like…” I waved a hand in the air over my head. “Like, I feel like I should have been born way back when music was real before this autotune bullshit. When bands were fired up on the glory of heavy metal as well as substantial amounts of stimulants and sex. My soul belongs in the old days of rock. Way back, like the seventies.”
“Oh, that far back,” he tossed out glibly.
“Totally. What about you?” I shimmied in reverse until my back was resting on the padded headboard. He looked up and I tossed my head to indicate he should join me. He did, far more quickly than I’d thought he would. “You ever feel like you were in the wrong generation or era?”
“Maybe. I’m more futuristic though. Traveling through the stars, discovering new life, different civilizations, and life forms. Watching galaxies be born or die. That’s where I would love to be.”
“Make it so!” I said and Joe laughed then settled beside me, his legs stretched out, his thigh resting beside mine, my hip pressed to his. “I really dig what’s going down right here with us. You into it?” I began playing something off the cuff, a short tender riff that had been skipping like a dandelion blow around my head for days now.
“Very much so.”
I gave him a wink. He blushed to his roots. Life was good. Damn good.
Life was not so good two days later. In fact, life had taken a phenomenal dump on the Raptors in game two. After the 5-0 blowout we all sat in the dressing room, heads down, unable to grasp what the fuck had taken place. Not one player in red and gold had any explanations as to where our defense had gone, why our young studs had zero shots on goal, or why the starting goalie had let four pucks past him during thirty-two minutes of play and was then pulled from the game. I felt like shit. No, that wasn’t low enough. Shit stuck on the bottom of a cockroach’s foot. Not that I was the only one blue. The whole team was subdued and down as we gave our postgame interviews. Given where we were mentally I’d have thought the press would be respectful. Most were but there was always one. This one was a short little gerbil-faced man with a terrible comb-over.
“So, Colorado, do you think that perhaps the madness in your personal life has filtered through to your game? Perhaps playing baby daddy should be left to the baby mommy. Maybe your music and the homosexual shenanigans should take a back seat and you should focus on hockey?”
I had no idea who this putz was but he was about to get his motherfucking sound bite.
“I’m not sure where to even begin dissecting all that was wrong with that statement but, dude, for serious? Not only did you toss out some incredibly sexist bullshit there, then you heaped a steaming dollop of homophobic horseshit on top. First off, my having a child in no way affects my play. I have full-time childcare. Nor does the fact that I’m pan and not gay have one fucking thing to do with my performance on the ice. Who is this joker?”
Vlad appeared out of the ether and pulled me to the other side of the room, whispering at me to keep my cool even in the face of utter stupidity. I threw a dark glare over my shoulder at the smug little ass who’d pushed my buttons, then slammed into the showers. Fuck them and their stupid questions.
The ride back to the hotel was steeped in gloom. Joe and Maddie were the only bright spots that night, and I decided to fly home with them instead of the team because I needed to be around them to center myself. Simon was a sturdy but sarcastic presence on the commercial flight. He kept fans from bothering me in his own biting way.
“Sorry, but Mr. Penn is sulking right now and would rather not be disturbed,” my bodyguard said over and over. I mentally flipped him off each time. I wasn’t sulking or hiding, I was licking my wounds and refocusing my chi to the bruised areas of my psyche.
I’d never been happier to see the Tucson airport in my life. We’d have a day off tomorrow, then a full day of practice, then game three would take place the following night.
The four of us rode
