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HarttrickXIV: Sure.

AnGray3000: I follow hockey, and I know you guys are on the road quite a lot. You mentioned working around my school schedule, but how many road games do you expect me to attend?

HarttrickXIV: As many as you can. For games that require an overnight stay (more than four hours by flight), I do expect you to fly out as long as it doesn’t interfere with your classes. I’ll pay for your flight and hotel room.

AnGray3000: And home games?

HarttrickXIV: Attending the home games isn’t mandatory. However, you will receive season passes if you want to come. I do expect you to be available after the games.

“Well…I think that answers the next question, but you know what they say about assuming.”

AnGray3000: I’m assuming that we won’t be playing Charades after the games, but as you mentioned, I’m straightforward and want to make sure there isn’t any miscommunication between us. Sex is expected, correct?

HarttrickXIV: You’d be correct. After the games, I’m still pretty amped up, and sex is how I prefer to blow off steam.

My thighs clamped together, and I shifted in my seat as I tried to smother the fire that attempted to spark just from the thought of having sex with him.

AnGray3000: And you have no issues with getting tested?

HarttrickXIV: None at all.

AnGray3000: Good.

HarttrickXIV: Are you free Thursday night?

AnGray3000: What time?

HarttrickXIV: 8:00?

AnGray3000: I’m free.

HarttrickXIV: Would you be opposed to meeting for a late dinner?

AnGray3000: Not at all. I think meeting face-to-face to iron out all the kinks before we sign on the dotted line is a good idea.

HarttrickXIV: Agreed. I’m curious… you wouldn’t happen to be an André 3000 fan, would you?

I grinned and stumbled out of my desk chair into bed. That one question opened the floodgates and led to Hart and me exchanging messages late into the evening. Once the initial awkwardness faded away, we spoke as if we were old friends who’d known each other for years. And by the time we signed off, any hesitation I had about our secret arrangement disappeared.

Late Night Dinners

Hart

I grimaced after sampling the stout and discarded the empty glass with the rest of them.

“No, it’s not right. Do it again.”

My sommelier’s head snapped back in offense, and a part of me couldn’t blame him. Braxton was a Level Five sommelier who graduated from one of the best wine schools in the country and could easily land a job at a Michelin-star restaurant. But here he was in Seattle, working for me and DeAndre for less than he could make elsewhere. Once, I asked him why he didn’t accept a competitive offer from a local restaurateur who attempted to poach him. He said, “It’s not about the money; it’s about the vibes.”

And now, here I am, challenging his expertise because I’m trying to impress my potential sugar baby. Fuck me running.

“Hart, my expertise may lie in wine, but I assure you I’m quite proficient in all spirits, including beer,” he responded.

“It’s not working—something’s off.”

Braxton chuckled darkly and motioned towards the glasses.

“What’s off is your blood-alcohol content level. You’ve gone through three beer flights in thirty minutes,” he said, sounding like the epitome of judgment before sliding a glass of water towards me. I killed it and motioned for another. “Are we being reviewed?”