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He pushed the door open and immediately regretted his decision, as he was met with the sight of TK fucking a petite blonde from behind as she sucked Neil Halloway off.
“Shit. My bad.”
“You seriously didn’t lock the fuckin’ door?” Halloway yelled, his hands tangled in her blonde hair as she worked his cock with her hand and mouth simultaneously. “Mmm, yeah, just like that.”
“Sorry, you took too long. You wanna tap in, baby?” TK called to him as he smacked the girl’s ass, causing her to moan loudly. “Yeah, slut. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
She looked over at Hayes with a mouthful of cock and nodded aggressively.
“Nah, I’m…all set. Have fun.” Hayes quickly pulled the door shut, wondered if it was the drugs and alcohol or if he’d actually just witnessed that, and made his way to an empty bedroom, making sure to knock first this time.
Trouble in Paradise (3)
Hayes locked the door behind him, pulled his shirt off, and plopped backward onto the king size bed, folding his arms behind his head. He sighed loudly, his head spinning as he thought about Ryan and what an absolute shitshow their relationship had morphed into recently.
Hayes had, as expected, made the opening night roster with New York and had remained there, having moved into an apartment with Neil Halloway on Long Island. It wasn’t ideal, but Hayes had never really had an issue with Halloway. The two hashed it out pretty hard over what had gone down at the Gilgo Beach house with Ryan and Amara, with Halloway having gone to counseling because of it. They’d agreed to be roommates since Neil had gotten divorced and they both needed a place to live.
Hayes had one stipulation: Halloway was to send Amara flowers every single week for at least a year, or longer if he’d ultimately decided so.
And every week, he held him to it.
“Yo, bitch. You send ‘em yet?” he’d said, smacking him in the back of the head at the exact moment he took a sip of his coffee at the kitchen countertop one morning, causing him to clank his teeth against the cup’s rim and spill some on his shirt.
“Dammit, kid,” he grumbled, fumbling for a nearby napkin and blotting his shirt. “Not yet. Was gonna do it in a few minutes.”
“You better. And not those shitty ass roses this time either. She said they all died after two days. Calla lilies. Those are her favorite.”
Their posh, 2000-square-foot apartment was a little different from what Hayes was used to on the fourth floor in Bridgeport now that they were playing with NHL paychecks. And though he did miss it, he was able to visit from time to time, as Ryan was now living there with Osi. Though everyone fully expected Sellars to unload him over the summer after all the bullshit that had gone down last season, Ryan had remained with Bridgeport. He’d even been named an alternate captain, much to his own shock.
The confidence boost must’ve been exactly what he needed because Ryan Baylor was absolutely killing it in Bridgeport this year. He’d received the highest praise from Coach Hastings and Coach Reilly, both of whom had expressed how pleased they were with his progress.
“You’re like a different fucking guy out there, Baylor,” Hastings had told him after a recent game. “It’s unbelievable. You’ve got that vision now. Head’s constantly up, scanning the play. And your awareness? It’s there, kid. That sixth sense they always talk about with elite d-men? You’re working up to it. You’ve consistently been two steps ahead of every play. Baylor, it’s been fucking incredible to see.”
Couple those vast improvements with the fact that he’d continued to work on his speed and that he currently led the entire team in points. He was really coming into his own and getting back to the caliber of play for which he’d been known in juniors and college.
And there were plenty of NHL scouts taking notice of it, too.
Now, Tyler Hayes?
That was a different story altogether.
The NHL wasn’t the AHL, and Hayes had been walloped with that reality check very quickly. He’d had a great camp, enough to get him on the roster, but aside from a few good games here or there, he’d been riding the struggle bus hard.
He hadn’t scored his first goal yet, he was at minus 7, and his excessive penalty minutes, mostly unsportsmanlikes for running his mouth, earned him several healthy scratches. His backchecking was absolute garbage, so much so that he landed on the fourth line. And as if all of that wasn’t bad enough, his shoulder had been acting up again, and he’d begun numbing the pain with a cocktail of opioids and alcohol just so he could continue to play.
Oh, and then there was Travis Kadin.
TK.
The gorgeous, dark-haired, ripped up, 21-year-old forward who’d come to New York from Nashville in the first few weeks of the regular season. That in itself was weird, but “extenuating circumstances” were cited for the unconventional trade.
He and Hayes immediately gravitated toward each other and after only a few weeks, the reputation the two had begun to develop as a pair left much to be desired.
TK liked to party.
Fuck, did he like to party.
And hard.
