Page 6 of Caught Offside

The bar was a temporary setup near the back of the ballroom, polished wood top, two bartenders, bottles backlit in amber. Most of the crowd was still at their tables or moving toward the stage to catch his dad, so the bar was close to empty. Asher ordered a soda since he had to drive home and leaned against the counter.

One of the most gorgeous men Asher had ever seen stood at the other end, alone, holding a glass of something clear. The man held the posture of someone who’d rather be anywhere else but was too disciplined to leave. He had dark hair, cut short, and wore a suit that fit like it had been tailored to accentuate his thighs and an ass so perfectly it should be illegal.

He didn’t carry the lean frame of a baseball player or the compact build of a soccer forward. He was broader through the chest, heavier in the shoulders, filling out the suit jacket the way a man does when he’d be more comfortable without it. The corner of the man’s mouth tipped up in what could pass as a smile when they made eye contact. He cocked his head to the side, and Asher took the subtle movement as a silent invitation.

He picked up his drink and moved down the bar. “You look like you’re having the time of your life.”

The guy turned his head, controlled, as though even that movement were rationed. His eyes were pale gray or green, depending on how the light hit them, and they sized Asher up in a fraction of a second.

“Not really my scene, but the cause is worth the torture,” the guy said.

His voice was low and flat, carrying the faint trace of an accent. French, if Asher wasn’t mistaken, but the elongated vowels hinted at him actually being French Canadian.

“I mean, it’s not on my top-ten list of things to be doing on a Friday night, but I’m not sure I’d call it torture,” Asher teased. He nodded at the glass in the guy’s hand. “At least there’s an open bar to help dull the pain for you.”

The guy looked down at his hand. His fingers loosened. He didn’t smile, but his expression shifted, the barest crack in the wall, acknowledgment that he’d been caught. And even in the dim light of the ballroom, Asher noticed the way his cheeks turned an adorable shade of pink.

“It’s soda water,” he said. “Boring, I know, but we have a game tomorrow, so I have to behave tonight.”

Okay, so that meant he was a hockey player. He wasn’t short by any means, but definitely not basketball player tall. Well, then there was that ass, which yeah, was totally a hockey butt.

“Oh, the glamorous life. Everyone thinks it’s non-stop parties on your off days, but you’re always thinking about the next game. If it makes you feel any better, this is soda, so I suppose that makes me boring too.” Asher raised his glass. “Cheers. To being the most sober people at an open bar.”

The guy didn’t raise his glass. But he didn’t walk away either, and Asher had been reading rooms long enough to know the difference between disinterest and resistance. Disinterest looked away. Resistance held still.

The handshake was brief. Firm. The guy’s palm was calloused the way Asher’s was, skin thickened by years of gripping things.

“Patrick.”

“Asher.” He leaned one elbow on the bar. “So what do you do when you’re not white-knuckling beverages at charity events?”

“I play for the Syndicate.”

Asher had known, but it was nice to have confirmation. “So you’re a professional hockey player named Patrick, playing in a major city, and you’re hiding at the bar at a charity gala, looking like the valet lost your car.”

Patrick’s mouth moved, not a smile, but the muscular start of one that he caught and killed before it arrived. “I’m not hiding. I’m standing in a visible location holding a drink.”

“That is textbook hiding. You picked the farthest point from the crowd and you’re facing the exit.” Asher took a step closer to test the waters. He didn’t think he’d missed the signals, but he knew better than to assume.

Patrick glanced toward the exit, then back. “That’s coincidence.”

“That’s strategy.” Asher grinned. “I respect it. I just also recognize it because I’m the one who’s usually doing it.”

“You don’t strike me as the type who hides at bars.”

“I don’t strike people as a lot of things I am.”

That landed. Asher could see it in the fractional pause, in the way Patrick’s gaze held a half-second longer than casual. It wasn’t flirtation, not yet, but curiosity.

“So what brings a hockey player to a charity gala in January?” Asher asked. “Team obligation?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s vague.”

Asher understood why Patrick’s guard was up. While it wasn’t career suicide to be out anymore, it still made life difficult, and from what he’d heard, hockey held on to the toxic masculinity like it was their duty to protect it.

“Yeah, well, you know how it is.” He took a sip of his drink and stared into the distance.