Page 5 of The Hockey Stud

Dover and the blond guy appear as though they are chasing after the photographer, their movements urgent and tense. As they scan their surroundings, looking both ways down the street, Dover’s eyes suddenly lock onto mine with a sharp intensity. For a brief moment, I think I see a flicker of emotion cross his face—perhaps a guilty flush blooming high on his cheekbones, betraying something he’s trying to hide. My curiosity and frustration boil over, and I stride purposefully toward him, my footsteps echoing in the charged silence.

“What the fuck just happened?” I demand, my voice low and harsh, the words cutting through the air like a knife. The blond guy, startled by my aggression, instinctively takes a step back, putting a little more distance between us. Dover, however, does the opposite. He steps forward, invading my personal space with a defiant glare, his jaw set stubbornly.

“Get out of my business, Dodge,” he spits out, my name laced with contempt. He deliberately calls me Dodge instead of Levi, and the sting of it is immediate and sharp. It’s a reminder of the distance he’s putting between us, and it hurts more than I want to admit.

Unable to stand the tension any longer, I turn on my heel and walk away, my back rigid with anger and humiliation. My fists clench tightly at my sides, knuckles whitening, and I have to force myself to take slow, measured breaths. Each inhale and exhale is a conscious effort to keep my emotions in check as I continue down the street, trying to regain my composure and make sense of what just happened.

With my AirPods snugly in my ears, I listen to green noise—the steady, soothing sound of the ocean waves rolling in and out. This calming audio has become a pre-game ritual for me, a way to settle my nerves and bring my mind into focus before I step onto the ice. The rhythmic surge of water drowns out the chaos of the locker room, muffling the chatter, the clatter of equipment, and the ever-present hum of anticipation. Usually, this soundscape is enough to help me block out distractions and center myself, allowing me to concentrate solely on the game ahead.

But today, it’s not working as well as it usually does. No matter how hard I try to focus on the ocean’s ebb and flow, Levi’s face keeps intruding into my thoughts, sharp and insistent. I can’t stop thinking about him, even though I know I should be concentrating on the game.

Last night, I hadn’t done anything meaningful with the guy I met. In fact, I can’t even recall his name now, which makes me wince with guilt and discomfort. The only thing I do remember is that, as we kissed, I put my hand on his dick. That was as far as it went. There was no spark, no genuine interest on my part. I tried to feel something, to convince myself that I could be into him, but the truth was undeniable—he wasn’t Levi Dodge, and that made all the difference.

I had been on the verge of telling the guy that he should probably look for someone else, someone who actually wanted to be there with him. But before I could say anything, the sudden flash of a camera caught my attention, startling me. In that instant, I realized that a photographer had managed to capture me in a compromising position with another guy. My immediate reaction wasn’t panic or fear, but rather a weary sense of resignation.

Letting out a heavy sigh, I pull my jersey over my head, the familiar fabric settling against my pads. As I get ready for the game, I can’t help but wonder when that photograph will inevitably surface online. Given my current popularity in the hockey world, it’s only a matter of time before the images make their rounds on social media. The thought lingers in the back of my mind, adding another layer of tension to an already complicated day.

Nash steps into my field of vision, his presence drawing my attention as he gestures subtly, signaling that it’s time for me to remove the earbuds from my ears. I comply, tugging one free, and immediately he leans in, concern evident in his voice as he asks, “You okay?”

I nod, offering a brief, “Yeah,” in response, though I can tell he’s not entirely convinced.

Without missing a beat, Nash continues, his tone shifting as he brings up the events from last night. “You left with Gemma’s friend,” he states, watching me closely for any reaction. I arch an eyebrow at his observation, waiting for him to elaborate. “He seemed—I don’t know—not your type, I guess.” He gives a casual shrug, as if trying to downplay his curiosity, but his eyes remain intent on mine.

I let out a small sigh, realizing what he’s getting at. “Nothing happened between us, if that’s what you’re trying to ask,” I clarify, my voice steady but honest. “I wasn’t into him,” I add, hoping to put his mind at ease. There’s a brief pause as I consider whether to mention the rest, but guilt prods me forward. After a moment’s hesitation, I confess, “A photograph caught us kissing,” the admission slipping out as I wince, bracing myself for his reaction.

“Oh, shit, man! That isn’t good.”

“I’m resigned to it.” I roll my shoulders, feeling the weight of acceptance settle in, and with a sigh, I plonk my battered bucket of a helmet onto my head. The familiar, snug fit is oddly comforting. I reach down to grab my well-worn gloves and my stick, the tape on the handle fraying just a little at the edges. With a deep breath, I fall in line behind my teammates, following them out of the locker room and into the narrow, echoing tunnel that leads to the rink. The sounds of skates scraping against concrete and muffled voices bounce off the walls as we make our way toward the bright, cold expanse of the ice.

Tonight, we’re facing the Minnesota Lions, a team known for their aggressive play and tight defense. Our starting lineup is set: Bradford is guarding the net, his calm presence a steadying force for the rest of us. On defense, we have Nikoli and Rhodes, both solid and reliable, ready to block shots and clear the crease. Dario is taking the face-offs as our center, quick and sharp, always thinking a step ahead. On the wings, it’s Madden and me, tasked with driving the puck up the ice and creating scoring opportunities. That’s our top line, the group our coach is counting on to set the tone early in the game. Nash, who’s been working hard in practice, is slotted in on the third line for now, waiting for his chance to make an impact.

As the announcer calls out the Vikings, the crowd’s roar swells, and we burst out onto the ice, blades biting into the fresh surface. The chill of the arena hits me, and adrenaline starts to pulse through my veins. We skate a few laps, stretching out our legs and getting a feel for the puck, all while sizing up the Lions as they warm up at the other end. They’ve recently added Drago Levenski to their roster—a player everyone calls Dragon. His reputation precedes him. He’s known for his fierce competitiveness and physical style of play. Still, I remind myself that, unlike Igor Lenten of the Vegas Sharks, Dragon isn’t built like a tank. Lenten is an absolute beast on the ice, a player who seems to delight in bending or outright breaking the rules, never hesitating to throw his weight around. Dragon, on the other hand, may have a tough reputation, but he’s also known for playing a fair game. I know I’ll have to keep my head up when he’s out there, but I’m not particularly worried about sharing the ice with him tonight.

While the game is in full swing, I find myself confined to the security office, unable to focus on anything except the photographs that the obnoxious photographer took the previous night—pictures of Dover with the blond guy. The images are spread out on the laptop in front of me, and each one makes my blood boil a little more. I want to punch something—no, more than that, I wish I’d actually punched the photographer when I’d had the opportunity. The urge is almost overwhelming, but all I can do now is clench my fists and glare at the evidence of someone else’s invasion of privacy.

Meanwhile, social media is already ablaze. Comments are pouring in from every direction, some supporting Dover, others condemning him, all centered around speculation about his sexuality. It’s infuriating to watch strangers dissect his private life as if it’s some kind of public spectacle. Why the hell do these people think they have the right to pass judgment on someone else’s personal choices? The arrogance and ignorance on display are enough to make my temper flare dangerously close to the boiling point with every new comment I read.

I can’t help but worry about how Dover will react once he finds out about all this. Will he be devastated, angry, or just resigned to the fact that something like this was bound to happen eventually? Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he just shrugged it off. Off the ice, Dover tends to be incredibly laid back, almost unflappable in the face of drama or gossip. But when he’s on the ice, he transforms into a different person—fiercely competitive, intensely focused, and unwilling to let anything distract him from the game. I wonder which side of him will emerge in response to this mess.

A thought suddenly crosses my mind—it strikes me as rather convenient, perhaps even suspicious, that a photographer just happened to be present at the exact moment when Dover and the other guy were out back together. It’s almost as if the timing was too perfect to be a mere coincidence.

As I mull this over, another possibility occurs to me—what if the blond guy orchestrated the entire situation to set Dover up? The idea that this could have been a deliberate act makes my blood boil. If it turns out that the blond guy did, in fact, set Dover up, I swear I won’t let it go unpunished. I’ll make sure that asshole pays for what he’s done. No one gets away with messing with a Viking player, especially not the one I’m completely obsessed with. My loyalty and protectiveness won’t allow it.

This raises the important issue of what I’m going to do about Dover. I’m constantly thinking about him, and I’m absolutely sure I feel something for him. It’s equally clear to me that he is feeling it for me and wants to be with me as well. But my conscience has been holding me back, stopping me from doing what I really want to do because of the huge twelve-year age difference.

This age gap has been weighing heavily on my mind and has been a source of internal conflict. At this point, I have to ask myself if I still care about that difference. I’m tempted to say that it doesn’t matter anymore, that I’m ready to move beyond it and follow my heart. But if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not totally sure that I’ve gotten to that point yet. There is still a part of me that hesitates, unsure if I’m ready to ignore the concerns that have held me back for so long.

“Okay,” Rosie says, her voice snapping me out of my thoughts and anchoring me firmly in the present moment. She pulls up a chair and sits down right next to me, her concern evident in the way she leans in. “What is really going on with you, Levi? I’m worried about you. You can’t afford to be this distracted right now.” The gentle, caring expression on her face is enough to break down my defenses, making it impossible for me to keep pretending that everything is fine.

I hesitate for a moment, then finally admit, “The guy who was in your group last night⁠—”

Rosie’s eyes widen in recognition. “Oh!”

But I hold up a hand to stop her from interrupting. “Let me finish,” I say softly, and as I speak, I reach out and give her wrist a gentle squeeze, hoping to reassure her as much as myself. “I think he may have been the one who set Dover up with the photographer.”

She frowns, confusion flickering across her face. “What photographer?”

I grimace, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach as I recall the details. “Dover and that guy slipped out of the bar through the back entrance. I decided to leave through the front doors, but as I was walking out, I saw a man with a really expensive-looking camera sprinting out of the alley. He was being chased—first by Dover, then by the guy who was with him.”