Guarding Garrett (Hockey Allies Bachelor Bid) - RJ Scott Page 0,1

himself from Loki, a cool Canadian team Olympic puck from the captain, and a cranberry-colored sweater from the newbies. I pulled the sweater on, put the puck into my jacket, and threw the bobblehead back at Loki, who caught it mid-air and then snorted a laugh. Then I hid the candy in my bag and locked that zipper, because nothing was sacred in that locker room.

Which left only one intriguingly wrapped gift in shiny silver paper, with a blue bow, and perfect corners. There was no card, so I wasn’t sure who to yell at when I opened it. The scent of flowers hit me so hard I had to hold the contents at arm’s length. Inside was a scarlet shape, a bar of soap or something. It was the kind of thing that went into the bath, then melted, fizzed, and changed the color of the water. I picked it up, but it felt weird to touch, and my skin pinkened.

“Is someone saying I stink?” I faced the team, but no one was staring at me as if it was a gift from them, so I rooted around and found a small card, pulled it out in triumph, and waited for someone to finally claim they left the gift.

“This one is your blood,” I read out, and turned it over, checking for clues as to the sender, but there was nothing, and I shrugged. My fingers itched where I’d touched it, and when no one was looking, I dumped it and the card into the trash, washing my hands and hoping I wasn’t allergic. I had a photo shoot next week, and the last thing I needed was hives.

“Beer,” Loki clapped me on the back.

I glanced to see what he’d stuck on my new sweater, pulling off the post-it that said kiss me and slapping it onto his forehead. He pouted before pocketing the note, and I damn well knew I’d make sure to check my back throughout the rest of the day and into the evening.

Birthday drinks, albeit lite beers, were at The Lair, a bar just down the road from the Dragon’s arena, and named as a connection to the team because the couple who owned it were huge fans. It wasn’t one of those bars that were trendy; it was rough, ready, and catered to exhausted hockey players and stray fans; precisely what I needed. Trendy bars meant attention, as Garrett Howell the player, the one who did the naked shoot, the one considered nothing more than a body, the gay one who was “like, so pretty.” But, in here, I could just be Garrett Howell, hockey player, tough, skilled, fast on his skates, a scorer, a team player, and most importantly, one of the guys. As we neared the back, Coach was already at what had become our table, a line of beers waiting, with a stern expression.

There was no way he’d bust any of our balls for one beer, and the stern face was for the poor newbies who shuffled past him to sit right at the other end. Coach nodded at me, and then when we were all seated, we each took a frosty beer.

“Happy Birthday, Hooly,” he declared, and everyone chimed in, taking a sip of beer, and that was it, my birthday celebration was a done deal, and talk moved on to current trade rumors.

“You hear that Detroit is looking to reinforce their defense and free cap space?”

The question was a general one, but everyone looked at me. My best friend Kyle played with the Detroit Arsenal, but he hadn’t mentioned cap issues in our messages. I’d known Kyle since I’d been billeted with his family, the Pressgroves, in Michigan. Only fifteen, I’d moved a thousand miles from Vancouver to live with them, and coming from having no family and a history of foster homes and landing in such a close-knit family had been unsettling.

Befriended by the dark-haired hockey player who would be one of the other forwards on our Junior team went some way to let me experience what a real family was like. His mom, aka Mamma P, had taken me under her wing as if I was her third son, and to this day, I thought of her as my mom. She cared it was my birthday, worried about me, called me every week without fail, and I loved her. Also I considered Kyle and Bobby my brothers, maybe not by blood but certainly by love and shared