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Mike didn’t answer, though. Probably out with another guy. Mike wouldn’t have trouble moving on or picking up if he wanted to. And that left Remy lying there buzzing with need and loneliness and the sudden creeping fear that he’d actually played like crap and was a fool for thinking his NHL career would last beyond this season.

He needed to visualize something positive. And it probably wasn’t what the team’s sports psychologist would’ve recommended, but all he could come up with when he closed his eyes was Jed’s sudden smile.

Remy wasn’t proud of it, but he couldn’t help stroking himself. He did it hard and fast, willing himself to at least stop picturing Jed’s face and think instead about a big, solid body pressing down on him, mouth hot against his neck. About a giant thigh across his legs, pinning him in place, and a warm, strong hand taking over for his.

About a low voice murmuring in his ear, telling him to come now.

And he did, hard.

He lay there a minute, mind staticky with pleasure, trying to catch his breath.

As the white noise faded, reality set in. Maybe it felt better to think about Jed than to think about Mike right now, but it was a fucking terrible long-term plan. And not just because Jed was his teammate. If there was any lesson to be drawn from Mike ghosting him, it was that he’d be an idiot to fixate again on the first hot older guy who came along and showed him some friendly interest.

And with a small amount of distance, Remy could see that Mike had probably had a point about integrating himself with the rest of the team. It wouldn’t be hard with Petey helping him out. Starting tomorrow, he’d make a real effort to hang out with Petey and McBride and see where that took him. He had a feeling that ignoring Jed wasn’t going to be easy, but if it got him closer to a one-way contract at the end of the season, he’d make it happen.

CHAPTER EIGHT

JED

January 10

The Blizzards had a road trip the next week up to Winnipeg, Minnesota, and Chicago. The travel kept Jed tired enough that he could pretend he wasn’t thinking about Remy more than any other guy on the team. That he wasn’t on alert, skin prickling, every time he walked into the locker room.

It helped that Remy stuck close to Moreau and McBride on the bus and at meals, and said just enough to Jed in the locker room to be polite. Jed almost wondered if Remy was avoiding him before he shook that thought off and reminded himself that Remy should be hanging out with the guys closer to his own age. That it was a good thing that Moreau and McBride were the ones putting the occasional smile on Remy’s face, because that meant Remy was settling in with the team and Jed’s job was done.

So Jed tried to put Remy out of his mind and ignored Mike’s texts asking how Remy was doing. That’s what he would do with any other new guy who seemed to be finding his way okay, so that’s what he’d do with Remy.

By the last game of the trip, Jed had almost convinced himself that if he was more attuned to Remy than his other teammates, it was only because Remy still struggled on the ice. After seeing him play half a dozen games, Jed was confident that Remy had the technical skills, strength, and speed to be on the second d-pairing where Coach was playing him. But he wasn’t yet showing the offensive spark he’d had in Montreal.

It didn’t matter in Chicago—the Blizzards’ first and second lines were on fire that night, putting up four goals against Chicago’s one. That didn’t seem to help Remy’s mood, though, because Jed found him ripping his pads off with more force than necessary after the game.

So when Moreau rounded Remy up to celebrate after the win—telling him to “shake it off before the lizard shakes you off for good,” which made no sense but seemed to be effective in getting Remy to go along with the crowd—Jed decided he’d better join them, too. He told himself it was just to make sure no one talked Remy into doing something stupid in the name of making him feel better.

“You sure you want to come?” Bakesy looked skeptically at Jed as they headed out to the club. “I don’t mind looking out for the young’uns this time if you want to crash. You’ve gotten a workout these last few games.”

Jed grunted in reply and got a raised eyebrow back from Bakesy for his efforts. The truth was, his shoulder hurt, and he would’ve been better off taking another hot shower and getting some sleep. But Hal would want him to go, he told himself, even though the questioning look Hal shot him as they were leaving said otherwise.

The club Moreau picked was pretty much everything Jed hated. Loud and crowded on a Friday night, with no real VIP section to speak of, so there was no place for Jed to hide. Moreau had called ahead and managed to reserve a few tables right next to the dance floor.

Normally, even that wouldn’t have been so bad. Bakesy kept up a steady stream of chatter, speculating about who on the team would get lucky and who’d strike out. Jed didn’t mind sitting there sipping a beer and listening to Bakesy’s nonsense.

The problem was that after a couple of drinks, Moreau dragged Remy out onto the dance floor. And Jed guessed that Moreau had told the younger guys to be prepared, because they were all wearing what were probably ridiculously expensive T-shirts and jeans that, in Remy’s case, showed off a spectacular ass. Objectively speaking, of course.

“Dude,” Bakesy said, knocking his shoulder against Jed’s. “You haven’t done anything but grunt in the last ten minutes. Someone catching your eye out there?”

“Hmm?” Jed pretended he hadn’t heard. Remy was moving with the confidence he’d lacked in the last few games, shaking his hips to the upbeat music and spinning some girl in a sleek, tiny dress that showed off all sorts of curves. Maybe it was the adoring audience. When Jed caught flashes of the girl’s face, she looked like she wanted to peel Remy’s shirt off and slowly devour him.

Fuck, it was hot in the club. Almost suffocating, in fact, and Jed didn’t know how Bakesy could sit there sipping his drink with such a relaxed look on his face.

“I asked if you saw something you liked out there, man.” Bakesy nudged him again. “Sure looks like most of the boys are getting lucky tonight.”

Jed didn’t respond at all this time. The girl was running her hand up Remy’s chest, and Remy wasn’t objecting. In fact, he was smiling at her, fingers curling into her hips, letting her sway closer and press her body into his.

Jesus, Jed thought, forcing himself to unclench his jaw. He knocked back the rest of the drink and told himself to get a grip.

But then Remy looked up and met Jed’s eyes, and for a moment, Jed could have sworn that Remy knew exactly how bothered Jed was getting, sitting there watching the show. His smile fell, and Jed could swear his movements stuttered. The girl must’ve said something, though, because Remy smiled down at her again as the song ended.

“I think I’m done.” Jed set his empty glass down on the table harder than he needed to. Bakesy gave him a look that said he noticed.