Page 5 of Line Change

The tattoos are the first thing I see, and I stop untying my skate.

Black and gray cover most of his left arm. One piece climbs from his wrist, over his shoulder, across part of his chest, and up the side of his neck. When he reaches back to drop his shirt behind the stall, the lines move with him. I can’t tell where one ends or the next one starts.

Without the gear, I can see exactly how he’s built. His shoulders are broad for his height, his chest solid, his torso compact enough to keep his center of gravity low. That’s why the hit didn’t move him. That’s why he can change direction before a bigger player gets his weight turned.

I wonder when he got the first one and how long it took. Whether he did the whole arm at once or kept going back. The skin over his shoulder had to hurt. His neck had to be worse. I want to know what it means, if it means anything.

There are at least a dozen conversations happening around me. For several seconds, I don’t hear any of them.

Then Fraser looks straight at me.

“You want to see where else I’m tattooed?”

I scowl and give him the finger.

Someone laughs. I don’t look to see who. I go back to my skate, except I’ve already pulled the lace out of the same two eyelets and have to start again.

Before Fraser can say anything else, Gunderson comes through the door and tells everybody to bring it in. The team moves toward the middle of the room. I get up with one skate still loose and join the huddle because standing back would look like a statement.

Gunderson puts a hand on my shoulder. “Guys, this is Ben Pope. He’s won a Cup, so pay attention to what he fucking says, and let’s win some fucking games.”

The room gives him a roar. Gunderson smiles at me, so I smile back. He means this as a welcome, even if it sounds like another job I’m supposed to fix. That’s what a good attitude looks like.

Over Gunderson’s shoulder, Fraser is still shirtless, his arms folded across his chest. When the huddle breaks, I turn back toward my stall. He keeps staring at me.

It makes me feel fucking weird.

3

NOLAN

Seattle has won one game in two weeks.

And tonight I’m dressed like a monkey in a too-tight suit while people pay fake money to play poker with me.

The suit fits exactly the way I paid for it to fit, and I look better than half my teammates. It still feels too tight. Most of them own one good suit because the league makes them travel in it. I own four because I have mirrors.

I left the top button of my shirt open so the ink along my neck shows above the collar. A woman near the silent auction looks at it, then at my face. A man carrying two glasses of wine does the same thing ten minutes later. I smile at both of them.

Taking one of them home would improve the evening. It’s been a while, mostly because losing makes me mean and sex is more fun when I don’t spend half of it thinking about the standings. I’ve been trying to keep my focus on the season. That hasn’t been going particularly well since Ben Pope showed up.

The golden boy was supposed to put us back on the map. So far, we’ve won one game after their goalie stopped a shot with his ass and Bobby knocked the rebound in off somebody else’s skate. That was sheer dumb luck. Pope hasn’t put anybody back on the map.

I spot him across the ballroom talking to one of the sponsors. His suit is dark, his tie is perfectly straight, and he has the same serious face he wears when Gunderson draws up a play. The sponsor laughs, and Pope gives him the exact smile the moment requires. Then his eyes move across the room and land on me.

Again.

For two weeks, I have felt Pope looking at me. On the ice, in the locker room, during video, across the table when the team eats together. Sometimes I turn and catch him. Sometimes I turn and he’s already busy with something else.

If a hot man looked at me that often under any other circumstances, I’d appreciate it. Ben Pope is six-two, built like somebody ordered a center by the pound, and unfairly good in a suit.

Unfortunately, he’s straight.

He isn’t going to drop to his knees and suck my cock, which limits the practical value of all that staring.

I look back at the woman by the auction table. She’s moved on to a signed stick, and the man with the wine is talking to someone who keeps touching his arm. Fine. Maybe I’ll go home alone and preserve my commitment to the season.

A member of the events staff catches me before I can decide and points me toward an open seat at one of the Texas hold’em tables. Pope is sitting in the chair beside it. Of course he is.