After the Whistle

Ezra

There were exactly three things I had learned in my first week working for the Northpoint Wolves.

One: hockey players smelled significantly better before practice than after it.

Two: none of them knew where the laundry bin was, despite the fact that it was enormous, blue, and directly beside the locker-room door.

And three:

Rhett Slater was going to be the death of me.

Not because he was an asshole.

He was.

That part I could handle.

The problem was that Rhett Slater was an asshole who looked like that.

“Cooper.”

I kept my eyes on the stack of towels in my arms.

Maybe if I pretended I hadn’t heard him—

“Hey. Equipment boy.”

A couple guys laughed.

Asshole.

I turned around.

And immediately regretted having functional eyesight.

Rhett was sitting in front of his locker, elbows resting on his knees, still wearing his hockey pants and the black compression shirt he practiced in. His dark hair was damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from the ice, and his stupid pale eyes were fixed directly on me.

Northpoint’s number thirty-three.

Star center.

Campus hockey god.

Pain in my ass.

“What?” I asked.

He held up his empty water bottle.

Seriously?

I looked at the bottle.

Then at the refill station approximately eight feet from his left shoulder.

Then back at him.

“You’ve got legs.”

Brady Lawson made a choking noise from the next locker over.

Rhett’s eyebrows lifted.

“So do you.”

“Yes. I use mine.”

A few more laughs.

Rhett leaned back against his locker.

He had this way of looking at people that made it seem like he knew something they didn’t.

I hated it.

Mostly because whenever he looked at me like that, my brain stopped providing useful information.

“Pretty sure this is your job, Cooper.”

“My job is equipment.”

“That’s equipment.”

“It’s a water bottle.”

“Team equipment.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“Yet here you are.”

God.

He was such a dick.

I walked over, snatched the bottle out of his hand, and nearly stumbled when his fingers deliberately dragged across mine.

Deliberately.

I knew it was deliberate because his mouth twitched.

I narrowed my eyes.

Rhett smiled.

Not nicely.

“There you go.”

“Do you need me to hold it for you while you drink too?”

The locker room erupted.

Someone actually yelled, “Jesus, Cooper.”

Rhett stared at me for half a second.

Then he laughed.

Low.

Almost surprised.

“Careful.”

“Or what?”

He leaned forward.

“Wouldn’t want everybody thinking you like taking care of me.”

Oh, fuck him.

I turned before my face could betray me.

Because, unfortunately, everybody already knew I was gay.

I wasn’t ashamed of it.

I wasn’t hiding it.

I just would’ve preferred not to discuss the fact while standing in a locker room containing twenty-two attractive college hockey players.

Especially when one of them was Rhett fucking Slater.

“Pretty sure Cooper has favorites,” someone called.

“Definitely Slater,” another guy said.

I flipped them off without turning around.

That only made them laugh harder.

This had been happening since my second day.

Not the bullying people imagined when they heard gay guy working in a men’s locker room.

Mostly stupid jokes.

Eyes up, Cooper.

Enjoying the view?

Need a minute?

Typical college-guy bullshit.

I gave it back.

Usually.

The problem was they weren’t entirely wrong.

Because I tried not to look.

I really did.

I had rules.

Don’t stare while they change.

Don’t look toward the showers.

Do not, under any circumstances, look at Rhett Slater when he takes his shirt off.

That last rule had lasted approximately twenty minutes.

I filled Rhett’s bottle, screwed the lid on, and tossed it toward him.

He caught it one-handed.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Die.”

“Not very professional.”

“You called me equipment boy.”

“Because you’re the equipment boy.”

“Student manager.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“I sleep great knowing I can read above a sixth-grade level.”

Brady barked out a laugh.

Rhett looked at him.

Brady immediately busied himself with his skates.

Interesting.

I looked back at Rhett.

He was staring at me again.

Not laughing this time.

Just watching.

And for one weird second, the locker room felt quieter.

Then Rhett stood.

Holy fuck.

I hated when he did that.

I wasn’t short.

Rhett was just… Rhett.

Six-foot-something of hockey-built shoulders, narrow hips, thick thighs, and enough confidence to qualify as a personality disorder.

He walked toward me.

I forced myself not to move.

His teammates were watching.

I could feel it.

Rhett stopped directly in front of me.

Too close.

Not touching.

Just close enough that I had to tilt my head slightly to meet his eyes.

He looked down at me.

“Sixth grade?”

I swallowed.

“Maybe fifth.”

Someone behind him muttered, “Cooper’s got a death wish.”

Rhett’s mouth curled.

There it was.

That fucking look.

Cocky.

Mean around the edges.

Like he enjoyed making me nervous.

And, humiliatingly, some deeply defective part of me enjoyed it too.

“You talk a lot for a freshman,” he said.

“You talk a lot for someone who needed me to fill his water bottle.”

His eyes dropped.

Not far.

Just to my mouth.

Then back up.

My stomach did something deeply unhelpful.

Rhett stepped away.

“Keep talking.”

“Was planning on it.”

“I know.”

He walked back toward his locker.

I stared after him.

For two seconds.

Three.

His compression shirt clung to his back, and hockey pants were apparently designed by people with absolutely no respect for gay men trying to behave professionally.

Rhett stopped.

Shit.

He looked over his shoulder.

Caught me.

Again.

The guys nearest him noticed.

Of course they did.

Brady grinned.

“Oh, Cooper.”

“Shut up.”

Rhett turned around slowly.

He didn’t look embarrassed.

He didn’t look uncomfortable.

He looked delighted.

“See something you like?”

My face went hot.

There were approximately a thousand possible responses.

Every single one abandoned me.

“I was looking at your jersey.”

Rhett glanced at himself.

He wasn’t wearing one.

The locker room exploded.

I closed my eyes.

Fuck my life.

When I opened them, Rhett was grinning.

Actually grinning.

“Were you?”

“I hate all of you.”

“That wasn’t a no,” Brady said.

I pointed at him.

“You’re one towel away from doing your own laundry for the rest of the semester.”

He immediately shut his mouth.

Rhett didn’t.

“Relax, Cooper.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re turning red.”

“I have blood circulation. Congratulations on noticing.”

He laughed again.

Then he reached down and pulled his compression shirt over his head.

Right there.

While looking directly at me.

Oh.

Oh, fuck you.

I snapped my eyes to the floor.

More laughter.

There was no way that had been accidental.

No fucking way.

“You’re an asshole,” I muttered.

“Been told.”

I concentrated very hard on a roll of hockey tape sitting on the bench.

Beautiful tape.

Wonderful tape.

Extremely non-shirtless tape.

Somebody walked past me toward the showers.

Then another.

Lockers slammed.

The room slowly emptied as players headed for the showers or training room.

I finally risked looking up.

Rhett was gone.

Thank God.

I exhaled.

“Dude.”

I turned.

Nolan Pierce was still sitting at his locker.

“What?”

He looked toward the showers, then back at me.

“You make this way too easy for him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure.”

“He’s an ass.”

“He is.”

“Thank you.”

Nolan stood and grabbed his towel.

“He also only does this shit because you react.”

“Then maybe he should find a hobby.”

“Hockey.”

“A second hobby.”

Nolan laughed and disappeared toward the showers.

I started gathering abandoned tape and towels again.

My first week at Northpoint had been weird enough without Rhett deciding I was entertaining.

I had classes.

A roommate who had already turned half our dorm into a graveyard of energy-drink cans and computer parts.

A computer science workload that was going to eventually murder me.

I didn’t need whatever this was.

Especially not with Rhett.

Guys like him weren’t complicated.

Hot.

Straight.

Cocky.

Flirted with anything wearing a skirt at campus parties.

Probably had girls throwing themselves at him every weekend.

And I was Ezra Cooper.

Freshman.

Computer science major.

Glasses.

Student equipment manager.

Openly gay enough that apparently the entire team had decided my attraction to men was communal entertainment.

There was no universe where Rhett Slater was genuinely interested in me.

Which meant the staring thing was exactly what it looked like.

He knew I thought he was hot.

And being Rhett, he found that hilarious.

Fine.

I could handle that.

I grabbed another towel.

“Cooper.”

I jumped.

Rhett stood behind me.

Fresh from the shower.

Gray sweatpants.

Bare chest.

Wet dark hair pushed away from his forehead.

A white towel hanging around his neck.

I forgot every language I had ever learned.

His gaze dropped over my face.

Slowly.

Knowing.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

His eyebrow rose.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re staring again.”

“I am looking at your face.”

“For once.”

I wanted to shove him into a locker.

I wanted to keep looking.

Both things could apparently be true.

Rhett stepped closer.

My back hit the edge of the equipment-room doorway.

He braced one hand above my shoulder.

Not touching me.

Just boxing me in enough to make my pulse kick.

There were still guys in the room.

That was the worst part.

Or maybe the safest.

Rhett would never actually—

He reached up.

My entire body went rigid.

Then he plucked something off my shoulder.

A strip of black hockey tape.

He held it between two fingers.

“That’s embarrassing.”

I stared at him.

He smirked.

Asshole.

“You did that on purpose.”

“Did what?”

“You—”

“Slater!” someone called.

Rhett looked toward the locker room.

Then back at me.

His eyes lingered.

“Try not to stare too hard next time, Cooper.”

He pushed away from the wall.

I found my voice just before he reached the door.

“Try being less stareable.”

Rhett stopped.

For one terrible second, I thought I’d finally gone too far.

Then he looked back at me.

That slow smile appeared again.

“Yeah?”

My stomach dropped.

He knew.

Holy fuck.

He absolutely knew.

Rhett walked away laughing.

And I stood there holding a dirty towel, staring after the hottest asshole I had ever met, wondering how the hell I was supposed to survive an entire hockey season with him.

I had absolutely no idea.

But I was starting to think Rhett Slater was going to enjoy finding out.