Page 33 of Line Change

NOLAN

By midnight, I want every Leviathan out of my apartment.

I’ve hosted this party every year since I joined the team. Usually, people stay until the neighbors complain or somebody passes out on my couch, and I love it. I like hearing two arguments at once while somebody changes the music because apparently my taste is “too sad to drink to.” The empty bottles all over my kitchen don’t bother me either. They can wait until morning.

Tonight, I stopped opening new beers while the party was still going and began asking people if they had rides home. Ben Pope came, and I spent most of my own party making sure we weren’t in the same room. The minute he sat down in the living room, I went to the kitchen. Later, he followed the rest of the guys in there, so I carried a bottle opener back to the living room even though nobody had asked for one.

From the kitchen, I knew when Pope won a race because Bobby started swearing loud enough to drown out the music. When I finally looked over, Pope was leaning across the back of my couch to hand off a controller. His sweater had pulled tight across his shoulders, and I forgot what the guy beside me was saying. I nodded anyway. He looked confused, so it probably wasn’t something that required agreement.

It’s a top-floor two-bedroom. Bobby asked why I kept walking away from my own beer.

This isn’t sustainable. Pope is my center. We’re supposed to play together, travel together, and see each other nearly every day until one of us gets traded or retires. I can’t keep leaving the room whenever he shows up. I also can’t walk up to him and ask whether he’s still having gay panic about putting his cock in my mouth.

The idea of not hosting next year pisses me off. I’ve done this since I joined Seattle. I’m not giving it up because Pope walked into my apartment and made it impossible to think about anybody else all night.

The last group finally crowds into the entryway, talking over each other while they hunt for phones and jackets. Somebody has put an empty beer bottle in the umbrella stand. Bobby is accusing two of the rookies of cheating at Mario Kart, even though he was the one looking over shoulders and shouting whenever somebody got close enough to pass him.

“You say that every year,” he tells me when I threaten to ban all of them for life.

“And one day, I’m going to mean it.” I shove his jacket against his chest, but he catches me in a one-armed hug before I can get away. Not that he needs it, he only lives a few floors down.

“Love you too, Noles.” He squeezes once and releases me before I can elbow him in the ribs.

“Get the fuck out of my house.” He laughs all the way into the hall. A few of the guys call their goodbyes behind him, then the elevator doors close on another argument about who actually won the last race.

Pope’s coat is gone from the chair where he left it. He must have slipped out with an earlier group. Good.

I shut my apartment door and rest my forehead against it. The quiet is a fucking relief. The cleanup is tomorrow’s problem.

I take the tin from above the refrigerator and pull out a joint and my lighter. The covered porch off the kitchen barely fits two worn chairs and the little table between them. Rain dots the railing, and the lights along the Sound are hazy through the drizzle. I sit and light the joint.

I could have smoked earlier. A few of the guys wouldn’t have cared, and the ones who did could’ve minded their own business. I wanted my head clear in case I got trapped alone with Pope, though. Apparently I thought I needed every available brain cell to say hello to a man who’s seen my cock.

The first drag burns my lungs. I hold the smoke until the last voices fade from the hallway, then let it out over the railing. My head is still clear, but I sink farther into the chair. I take another hit and try not to remember the scrape of Pope’s stubble against my skin.

The kitchen door opens behind me.

Ben fucking Pope steps onto my porch.

He fills the doorway in a dark sweater and jeans, his coat folded over one arm. I stare at him, trying to work out where the hell he was hiding and why he’s still here.

“Are you going to turn me in, officer?” I blow smoke directly at him. I’m feeling loose enough to be an asshole, but I don’t take another drag.

His eyes narrow as the smoke drifts across his face. “I play professional hockey, Fraser. I’m not a fucking narc.”

He looks at the joint, then reaches down and plucks it from my fingers. His thumb slides over the side of mine before he lifts it to his mouth and inhales.

Okay, that was fucking hot.

I take my time looking him over. His jeans cling to his thighs and cup his cock, and I know exactly what he looks like under them and how heavy he feels in my hand.

His thick fingers make the joint look tiny. There’s a scar across one knuckle, and the thumb resting against the paper is the one I sucked into my mouth in Arizona.

His lips close around it. In Arizona, that mouth dragged over my neck and chest, then went soft against the inside of my thigh. He stopped with my cock inches away.

Fuck, he’s hot. His crooked nose and dark stubble make him look rougher than he does in press photos. With smoke slipping between his lips, he looks a little dirty for once. If I’d seen him at Marlowe’s, I would’ve bought him a drink before he got his coat off.

My dick presses against my zipper as Pope exhales toward the Sound. I watch his mouth do it.