Page 13 of Over the Line

Hot men were nothing new. I was surrounded by them every day of my life because, hello, hockey players? This sport was heaven for a gay man who appreciated eye candy.

So why was my brain shorting out from sitting beside Garrett Kane? I could barely follow the damn game, and just ask my parents and teachers—there was almost nothing that could distract me from hockey.

Nothing, apparently, except a gorgeous man with a smile that made my knees weak.

As we walked down to the locker room after the game, I wondered if it was because he was so different from the men I usually saw. At thirty-seven, I was very firmly at the “holy shit, you’re old” end of the hockey player spectrum. Most of the guys I saw on a daily basis were in their twenties or early thirties.

Aside from coaches and the odd retired superstar, I didn’t see too many silver foxes.

Garrett Kane?

Oh, Lord.

But as we stepped into the locker room, I shook those thoughts away. I needed to keep my media face firmly in place because there were cameras around, and I definitely didn’t need my teammates thinking I had a crush. They’d never shut the fuck up about it.

Mostly, though, the biggest reason I had no business wanting this man was on full display when he hugged his son to congratulate him on an incredible game: Garrett was my teammate’s father.

He was also most likely straight, but even if he’d walked in here wrapped in a Pride flag while his phone pinged with the Grindr alert, he was my teammate’s father.

Off-limits. No. Bad Liam. Bad.

I shook myself and refused to steal any more glances at him. I was going to start drooling or something if I did; wouldn’t the cameras love that?

The thought of the media catching wind of so much as a crush made me literally shudder. And my teammates? Oh, that would be bad.

There wasn’t technically a rule against hooking up with a teammate’s relative. Hell, L.A.’s starting goalie was married to his former head coach’s daughter.

But locker room dynamics were as crucial as they were delicate. If two players clashed, it could throw off the entire locker room in ways that were costly on the ice.

Also, Chris had looked to me as a mentor ever since he’d started coming to training camp. We didn’t need to make that weird by—well, “we” didn’t need to do shit. Garrett didn’t even know he was involved in this because he was oblivious to my stupid thoughts. I needed to not make it weird.

Just let it go. Move on. Maybe find someone else because apparently I’m overdue for a hookup.

At least I didn’t have to stick around the locker room long. I did a quick interview with a couple of reporters—not Jack Arlen, thank Christ—and then bailed. Time to get the hell out of here and clear my head.

Outside the arena garage, fans had lined up hoping for autographs. Sometimes I stopped, sometimes I didn’t; just depended on my mood. Tonight, I wasn’t really in the mood for it, but I had a feeling the post-win enthusiasm would be the boost I needed.

So, I stopped.

A lot of things had lost their novelty a long time ago, but the way a whole row of kids would light up like it was Christmas as soon as I pulled over? That was the good shit. I loved it.

After I’d signed for a few people, a dad who was probably around my age lifted his young son so the boy could hand me a puck. I was driving my Mercedes tonight; it was an SUV, and it sat up high enough that it was tougher for the small kids to reach. I’d have to bring the McLaren next time; the kids always loved the car, and even the smallest ones were almost eye level with me.

“You’re my favorite player!” the kid declared as he held out the puck.

I smiled and took the puck from him. “Thank you! That’s awesome.” I quickly scrawled my signature across the puck, then offered it back to him. “Careful of the ink—it might smudge.”

He took that to heart and gripped the puck around its edges instead of touching the top. As his dad lowered him to the ground, the kid stared at the puck like it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen.

“What do we say?” his dad prompted gently.

The kid’s head snapped up, and his grin was enormous as he said, “Thank you, Saints!”

I smiled. “Thanks for coming.”

I rolled forward to the next fans.

A boy who was probably fourteen or fifteen met me with wide eyes as he handed over an eight-by-ten photo. “Thanks, Saints!”