Contract Season, page 2
London was the last person he wanted to think about right now.
Instead, Brody reached for Sea’s hip. He didn’t move, just gave a long, slow exhale when Brody’s fingers touched his skin. They were pale against Sea’s tan, the contrast sharper against the black anchor tattoo wrapping around his side. He had a pair of them, one on each hip—the flicker of ink that had been taunting Brody through his soaking-wet shirt.
“I saw you at the ceremony,” Sea said in his tar-pit honey voice. He was a few inches taller than Brody when he was standing up straight, but he’d managed to slouch himself down enough to look at him through his eyelashes. “When I was playing.”
“Yeah?” Brody moved his thumb, feeling skin move over muscle and bone. It made him feel some kind of way, that the hottest guy he’d seen in years—maybe in his entire life—had been looking back at him; that the sizzle of connection hadn’t been all in his head.
“I wondered if your beard was as soft as it looked.”
“Only one way to find out.”
Sea made a pleased little mmm sound in the back of his throat and tipped forward. Instead of going for the kiss, he nosed along Brody’s jawline, a barely there touch that still sent goose bumps down his arm. Brody put his hand on Sea’s second anchor, felt the heat radiating out from his skin; tried not to laugh at the sudden absurdity, the two of them about to start making out in this messy guesthouse at one of his best friends’ wedding receptions, surrounded by the clutter from Bryce’s suitcase and eight guys getting themselves into tuxedos: undershirts, socks, track pants.
This wasn’t the type of thing Brody did. He was careful. Intentional.
But at the same time, he’d never miss taking a shot from a good angle. So here he was, sliding his hand up the smooth skin over Sea’s ribs, palming at his shoulder blade while Sea pressed his mouth to the hinge of his jaw. Brody could feel his long hair brushing against his collarbone.
“So what’s the verdict on the beard?”
“Pretty soft. Could be better, though.”
Brody dug his fingernails into Sea’s hip. “Hey now.”
That made Sea shiver and shift closer, winding his arms around Brody’s neck and grinning at him, close enough that all Brody could see were his brown eyes and the way they crinkled at the corners. “I call ’em like I see ’em.”
“Get the NAHA on the line, we’ve got a new recruit for the referee pool.”
“Hockey’s never been my thing.” Sea was practically talking into his mouth, air moving over Brody’s lips. His voice kept getting lower and slower. “Big fan of kissing, though.”
Brody laughed; kissed him halfway through it. He tasted like bourbon with an aftertaste of unrefrigerated cheese, which made Brody laugh again at the fucking absurdity. Sea’s mmm changed tunes from happiness to displeasure. But then he put a hand in Brody’s hair, tightened his fingers so it flirted with the edge of discomfort, and took control of the kiss. It went from halfway joking to filthy-hot in a second, his mouth and tongue and teeth following through on every promise his voice had made while he was singing.
It had been a long time since Brody’d had a first kiss.
This one might be ruining him on first kisses forever.
Brody’s phone started ringing before he could see what else Sea wanted to deliver on. He fished it out of his pocket while Sea sighed dramatically, using two hands to push his hair back from his face. He’d looked mesmerizing before, his features asymmetrical enough to keep his face from bland handsomeness—but he looked even better after being kissed, his full lips pink and wet with spit.
“It’s my mom.” Brody’s brain took a second to process the name and picture on his lock screen.
“Better get it then.” Sea said better get it like he was inviting Brody to suck his dick, his voice so deep it was practically subvocal. He scratched the thin line of hair on his lower belly before he turned away to pull on Bryce’s T-shirt. His anchor tattoos continued across his back, chains twisting together around an intricate compass rose in the middle of his spine. He had a scattering of others down his arms—a Bible verse, a ship, a pirate flag.
“The speeches are starting in fifteen minutes,” Mom snapped. “Your brother’s about to throw up. He needs a pep talk.”
“Why can’t you give him one?”
“Brody,” she said ominously, as the white T-shirt covered the last edge of black ink on Sea’s back. He scruffed a hand through his hair, half tucked the T-shirt, and slipped back into his jacket, looking immediately cool and intentional in a way Brody could never have managed. It probably had to do with his face, and his voice, and everything else about him. Brody did fine for himself—he was a professional athlete, he was in shape, he’d long since figured out how to dress the nonstandard proportions of his ass—but he was at best boy-next-door good-looking. Not a walking, talking, go-ahead-and-give-him-a-guitar-to-put-the-nail-in-the-coffin sex god.
“Be there in a second.” He disconnected the call.
“Duty calls?” Sea asked, lifting one eyebrow.
“My brother’s not a fan of public speaking.” Brody shrugged and turned, regretfully, toward the door. Sea followed, grabbing a couple more pieces of cheese on the way. “What the fuck? You know we’re going back to where the nontoxic food is?”
“Waste not, want not,” he said, mouth full of cheese and bacteria.
Impulsively, Brody stopped. “Wait, one more bourbon for the road. You can disinfect your mouth.”
“I don’t think it works like that,” Sea said, but he uncapped the bottle willingly enough, tipped it back. Brody’s eyes got stuck on the long line of his throat; he wanted to lick off the alcohol lingering on Sea’s lower lip when he lowered the bottle. Sea did it himself, though, with a swipe of his tongue that made Brody’s knees go wobbly. “Your turn.”
He took his own swallow. It was good bourbon—smooth caramel and vanilla, subtle with the burn of spice on the back of his tongue. One of Brody’s teammates in Cincinnati had gotten him into whiskey a couple of years ago; he’d probably add this one to the collection behind his bar. Josette Radley’s wedding would only be serving from the top shelf, both in terms of alcohol and pre-wedding music.
Brody could tell that both of them were lingering, just inside the door to the guesthouse. He didn’t know why, other than that this felt like something happening outside the bounds of his normal life: connecting with someone at his friend’s wedding, flirting, making out in a dark corner. A normal fucking thing that he never got to do.
Even if nothing about Sea was normal, from the crackle of his magnetism to the way he had casually eaten that disgusting cheese.
The eye contact was getting weighty. Brody wondered what Sea was seeing in his eyes—they were a standard, boring blue.
“This was fun,” Sea said, after another second or two. He unnecessarily swept back his hair with one hand, shaking it out to adjust the way it fell around his face. “Maybe we can pick it up. Later.”
Brody liked the sound of that. “Later.”
“You know.” He paused, looking uncertain for the first time in their brief acquaintance. It made him look young. “I’m in the industry, and this is kind of—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Brody nudged the bourbon bottle back into his hand. “Same. Only the other one. So: later, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.” Sea took a final swig from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
They made it out of the door. The Texas light was starting to shade past the golden hour, the sky red and gold over the distant hills. The peaked white tent where the reception was being held glowed ahead of them with lights, music, and laughter. A little bit of a breeze played with the ends of Sea’s hair. It smelled like cut grass and horses and the low, spicy note of his cologne.
Brody could blame what he said next on the bourbon. “Do you think you’ll ever, you know, do this?”
There was a long pause before Sea spoke, long enough that Brody wondered if he’d answer at all. “Can’t see how.”
Their shoulders weren’t close enough to touch. Brody wanted to be touching him: wanted to slide his arm up and around Sea’s shoulders, put his palm on his chest inside his T-shirt. Wanted to say some bullshit platitude like it gets better or you don’t know that, but those things weren’t even true for him. Well, they were, and they weren’t, at the same time. In retrospect, Bryce and Alex barging into his room, when he’d been fourteen years old with his tongue stuck down Daniel from across the street’s throat, had been a blessing. He didn’t know when he would have been brave enough to tell anyone otherwise, but he hadn’t been willing to lie about it when they caught him, either. It had been a mess, but they’d worked it out. Being able to be honest with Bryce, and Alex, and his mom, and a small, carefully curated circle of friends and family, had kept him sane over the intervening twelve years.
It took him a second to realize Sea had turned the question back on him. It felt unexpectedly heavy for no good reason—they’d met maybe thirty minutes ago.
“Hope so,” Brody answered. “Eventually.”
Sea laughed, low in the back of his throat. “Yeah, you look like it.”
“What?”
He shrugged. “I mean, I dunno. You have resting married face.”
“What the hell?”
“I call ’em like I see ’em,” he drawled. “Anyway. Tell your brother good luck with his speech.”
Brody snorted. “I’m more likely to be handing him a water after he pukes.”
“He should do some belly breaths,” Sea said. “Or diaphragmatic breathing is what it’s actually called, I guess. It slows your heart rate.” He glanced sideways at Brody, a little bit of a smile curving his lips. “I used to get the worst stage fright. It helps.”
He couldn’t see it—Sea had been so calm, so smooth, at the ceremony. Brody might not know anything about country music other than guitars and pickup trucks and whatever blasted in the locker room when one of the farm boys got the aux cord, but he could see that Sea had star-power charisma and the voice to back it up. He’d have to, to be performing at Josette’s wedding—she was one of the most successful female country artists of the last decade.
“I’ll tell him,” Brody said. They were almost at the edge of the outdoor seating area, golden light from the strings of bulbs highlighting the contours of Sea’s face. Brody couldn’t kiss him, but he reached out and brushed his fingers over the back of his wrist, a touch with the ghost of a possibility. “See you on the other side.”
Chapter Two
Brody only got smacked twice when he sprung the concept of diaphragmatic breathing on Bryce, who was clutching a bottle of beer like it was a lifeline. But in Sea’s defense, Bryce did some fancy breathing and made it through his speech without puking. He even managed to be funny, exposing a few stories from his and Alex’s youthful escapades that even Brody hadn’t heard. Navin cracked up next to him; Mom, sitting a few tables over with Alex’s parents, looked less amused.
“Bro,” Navin wheezed, “your mom is going to kill him.”
“I think the statute of limitations has expired.”
“He’d better hope. No wonder he was nervous.”
They were at a table with the rest of their Vancouver youth hockey crew, and it was nice to catch up. Brody hadn’t seen some of them in years, his time at home constrained by the NAHA schedule. The whole time, though, he could see Sea on the other side of the tent.
Sometimes Brody wished he hadn’t realized that he was a relationship guy, because nothing in his life made that easy. He’d thought he and London had a good thing, but evidently it hadn’t been good enough. Brody couldn’t blame him for it, but he couldn’t help being angry—London had known the deal when they’d gotten involved. Brody couldn’t have been clearer. And London hadn’t seemed to mind the benefits: Brody’s bank account, the luxe vacations. He’d bought London a car after they’d been dating for five months, because his piece-of-shit beater kept refusing to start and having to get towed out of parking lots across Cincinnati.
But at some point, it had stopped being worth the rest of it.
Their relationship hadn’t even been that much of a secret. Both of their families knew. Some close friends like Navin and Alex; even a couple of Brody’s more trustworthy teammates.
It had been the publicity that he hadn’t wanted to deal with: living and playing under a spotlight where every turnover was a reflection on whether gay men could make it in the North American Hockey Association.
Brody had had a good career by anyone’s metric. He’d played for Team Canada before, and would again; only an inconveniently timed hip injury had kept him out of the last World Championship. He’d won Defenseman of the Year once and been a finalist two other times. He was known for his professionalism, his attention to detail, his compete level. It wasn’t unlikely that he’d get a leadership letter on his sweater at some point—probably an alternate captaincy, but getting the big C for captain wasn’t out of the question, either. He was only twenty-six. He still had years to play.
When he retired and went public, he’d be able to leave the next kid coming up behind him a hell of a legacy.
He just wasn’t opening that door right now.
“You look serious for someone who dumped champagne on your dream guy, vanished for forty-five minutes, and came back looking all hot and bothered,” Navin hissed into his ear, as a laughing Josette smashed a handful of cake into Alex’s face.
Brody elbowed him as hard as he could while still clapping politely as Alex laughed and wiped the frosting off his face. Despite Navin’s chirping, it already felt like kissing Sea had happened outside of the bounds of his normal life.
If Brody was good enough at vibes to kiss a guy at a wedding, maybe he should have seen the cracks opening between him and London sooner than he had. Maybe he shouldn’t have been as blindsided as he was.
But he had been. Hadn’t taken it seriously the first few times London had brought up the tasteful wedding invitation stuck to the side of the refrigerator.
London had cooked Alex dinner a few times when Nashville was in town. He could remember jostling through the front door the first time, postgame adrenaline not quite worn off all the way—how London had poured them glasses of wine, moved easily in the space of Brody’s kitchen. Seared steaks, pulled roasted vegetables out of the oven, made Alex laugh with stories about the graphic design agency where he worked.
London had been furious when he’d realized that Brody was still going to RSVP for one.
In the moment, Brody had been furious right back: that London was changing the terms of their relationship, that London didn’t understand the difference between being quietly out to people who Brody trusted implicitly and showing up hand in hand to a wedding attended by plenty of hockey players with whom Brody did not have the same level of trust. The NAHA had a well-developed gossip network, and Brody had stayed under the whisper network’s radar for the eight years since he’d been drafted.
Don’t you care? London had asked in one of their last conversations. Their last conversation that hadn’t been about returning the stuff he’d moved into Brody’s house. About how much this means to me? Or about all the people you could help if you stopped being so scared?
Brody had tried to make London understand. Again. The way he’d thought London had understood for the three years they’d been together; for the three years that Brody had been happy, had felt blessed, to be with London. While London had quietly gotten angrier and angrier. Understood less and less.
He had the feeling that Sea would understand—Later, and I’m in the industry, his dark eyes looking nervous in a way they hadn’t before. Brody couldn’t think of many places where it would be as hard as the Big Four sports to be gay, but the country music industry would be one of them: faith, family, fishing, and a fine-ass woman sitting on the tailgate of your truck.
Across the tent, Sea was laughing at something the girl sitting next to him had said, throwing his head back and showing off the long golden line of his throat. He looked captivated, delighted.
Brody should be focusing on the circuitous way one of his former youth teammates was trying to express how sorry he was that Cincinnati had been knocked out of the Cup playoffs, without mentioning the defensive meltdowns Brody’d had along the way. How, for the first time in his life, he hadn’t been able to focus on the game; how stepping out onto clean ice in sharp skates hadn’t turned off everything else in his head.
It was childish to blame that on London. Brody had been the one who couldn’t pull it together when he’d been at the arena in Boston, knowing that London was driving to his empty house to pick up the boxes Brody had put together for him, to leave his keys on the table next to the front door.
He was angry that London hadn’t waited. Hadn’t given him two more goddamned weeks, so he didn’t have to go through the first serious breakup of his life at the same time he was in the fucking Cup playoffs.
Now wasn’t the time, though. Despite his performance at the beginning of the wedding ceremony, Brody didn’t want to drag down the mood.
He refocused on the thread of conversation at the table. Sipped his wine. Forced himself to smile, forced himself to laugh, until dinner was wrapping up and he could make his escape.
He only made it as far as the line for the bar, though—saw Sea rising to his feet, starting to weave through the tables, catching his eye—when he heard a voice behind him say, “Kellerman.”
Brody turned. It was Nashville’s captain, Rasmus Holmgren, a trim, fox-faced Swede Brody only knew by reputation. Alex liked him—said he was one of the smartest guys he’d ever played with.
