Page 10 of Bro Code

The phone went dark and he got up and felt his way to a light switch. Squeezed his eyes shut as the overhead came on like a full-on assault. Stretching both arms over his head, he bent forward to touch his toes.

He was dangling there, upside down, when Riley Webb popped into his head again. Annoying. It kept happening since that game against New York. Louis had spent the last six months successfully not thinking about him. They’d hooked up in Italy after the Olympics in the spring, and Louis had texted a couple of times after and received nothing back. He’d pretty much forgotten about it when the Calvin Klein ad came out and suddenly Riley was everywhere. There was a billboard across town with his cock on it, three feet long and shrink-wrapped in a pair of briefs.

Maybe Louis could make a detour on his way home.

When the phone lit up a third time, he straightened up and slid it across the desk toward him with a finger. Not Grindr: three texts from Holly. Holly rarely worked past ten. Frowning, he double-checked the time and swiped open the phone.

Need you to pull everything we have on NY, said the first text.

And anything publicly available too, said the second. Mostly need data on number 19. Biometrics, stats, biography, mother’s maiden name, favorite latte place, sexual partners, literally whatever you can find. I’m kidding about the sexual partners obviously but you get the idea

And the third, which made Louis groan in disbelief: Need this all by 7 AM tomorrow

Furious, he picked up the phone and opened the keyboard.

I’m barely finished cleaning up the data from yesterday’s game.

Three dots. Drop that. This is the priority.

Seriously? It’s midnight.

Nothing came back, which from Holly meant, “And that’s my problem how?” Sighing, he sent, Why the five-alarm fire? Did something happen?

A moment more of nothing, then:

Riley Webb is coming to Montreal.

CHAPTER FOUR

Riley

Less than twenty-four hours after he’d been backed into a literal corner and forced to sign a document that would change his life forever, Riley was walking into the locker room in Montreal.

Those hours were a blur.

He was furious with Rick. Because if Rick had been paying attention, instead of spending all his time on Nic Golden Boy Arsenault, he would’ve seen this coming. What good was an ally if they were too slow on the uptake to actually have your back?

He was more angry with himself. Because he’d let New York bully him into this. Because he was too scared to take them to court, and that made him feel like a fraud. So he was happy to be a “gay icon” as long as it meant risking nothing? Lounging around in a pair of tighty-whities for Calvin Klein was fine, but actually taking a stand was not?

Texts from Mom and Dad piled into his phone. What was going on? Where was he? What was this about a trade? Why hadn’t he called them? Riley braced himself in the Uber from the plane and called them to break the news. His mom was stunned, then furious, then crying. His dad just kept asking questions.

What do you mean your stats were slipping? We thought you were playing so well!

He slept for what felt like ten minutes at the hotel the team had put him up in, and found himself early the following morning in a Canadiens ball-cap and suit jacket, staring at Montreal’s GM, head coach, and director of PR across a desk so shiny he could see the ceiling fixtures in it. Everyone smelled like cologne. Riley’s coffee was burning his hand through the cup.

The GM had a big silver watch on, and his salt-and-pepper hair was rock solid with gel. He told Riley they were optimistic about his prospects with Montreal. They’d rehabbed assets of his caliber before — in fact, the Canadiens prided themselves on finding broken down centers and fixing them up. Whatever was going wrong with his game, they’d find it. They were confident they’d recoup their investment.

The director of PR asked how his French was – he laughed and said, “French?” – and the head coach handed him a playbook the size of a dictionary, and he went to the locker room to “poke his head in and say hello.”

To say it was tense in there would have been an understatement. One of the guys Montreal had traded to get Riley had been the team’s most beloved veteran. Not a star – he wasn’t gonna lead them to any championships — but the kind of guy who’d made the locker room what it was.

“Think of it this way,” said Rick on the phone, as Riley walked out of the complex and back to the car Montreal had hired for him. “Montreal sees you as a Lamborghini. You’re a Lamborghini with a transmission issue, so they’re getting you for the price of a Corolla, but they’re betting their garage can fix you up. It’s a compliment.”

Asset. Investment. Lamborghini. Corolla.

It sure as hell didn’t feel like a compliment.

He was back at the complex the next morning for his first practice with the team. It was, predictably, a shitshow.