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  Fisher gave him a look but didn’t say anything.

  “Plus I like games,” Felix said, grinning at him, and Fisher’s lips twitched. “So will you tell me if I’m right?”

  “If you’re right,” Fisher said. He stirred the sauce, adding something to the pan.

  “Fine.” Felix considered. “You are… a makeup artist.”

  Fisher laughed, head falling back and shoulders shaking. “I can’t contour for shit,” he finally said when he’d sobered. “Leo despairs.”

  Felix grinned and drummed his fingers on the table. “Wedding planner. You work with satin and lace and terrible mothers all day.”

  “The terrible—” Fisher stopped. “No. Not a wedding planner, but weirdly closer than you might think.”

  “That explains absolutely nothing,” Felix said, nettled, and Fisher grinned at him.

  “So do I get to guess what you do?” he countered.

  Felix narrowed his eyes. “I won’t tell you if you’re right,” he warned.

  Fisher sighed. “And you say you like games.”

  “Go ahead and guess then,” Felix snapped, bristling. “You won’t get it right anyway.” He told himself the way Fisher brightened didn’t affect him at all.

  “Actor,” Fisher said immediately.

  Felix burst out laughing and Fisher scowled at him.

  “I am a hopeless actor, pêcheur,” Felix said through his giggles. “I tried once, in high school. Missed every cue, forgot all my lines. The director fired me, said she had a desk chair that would do a better job.” There was a reason he was never tapped to do anything in the commercials the media team shot other than smile widely and stop pucks.

  “Ouch,” Fisher said, snickering. “Okay, hm. Something fairly prominent publicly, I’m guessing.”

  Felix very carefully didn’t react beyond raising a neutral eyebrow.

  “You’re a lawyer,” Fisher said. He sounded pleased with himself.

  Felix made a gagging noise. “Do I really look like a lawyer?” he demanded. “I think I’m insulted.”

  “Your clothes are expensive enough!” Fisher said, fighting a laugh. “Fine, fine. One more guess.” He poked at the fish, lips pursed. “Oh, I’ve got it! Pack it up, I’ve figured it out, I know exactly what you do.”

  Felix held very still, careful not to let the sudden panic show. “And what is that, pêcheur?” he asked when he was sure his voice wouldn’t give him away.

  “You’re in politics,” Fisher announced triumphantly, grinning at him, and the rush of relief that swamped Felix was dizzying. “Think about it,” Fisher continued. “You’re obviously well-off, you don’t want to be recognized, you travel all the time. Clearly, you’re a closeted politician and you’ve got your sights set on somewhere high up, maybe the White House.”

  “Pêcheur,” Felix said, chewing his lip in a desperate attempt to keep from laughing. “I’m Canadian.”

  “Oh right. Forgot about that.”

  “You… forgot I was Canadian.”

  “Well, it’s not something I spend a lot of time thinking about!” Fisher said defensively. “You’re just… you know. You.” He made a vague gesture in Felix’s direction. “But fine, I give up. You win.”

  “I like winning,” Felix said, grinning at him.

  Fisher smiled back and turned to flip the fish. “Anyway, it’s not like I care,” he said over his shoulder. “As long as you’re not a professional athlete.”

  Ice slid down Felix’s spine. He took a sip of water to steady himself. “Why not?” he asked, praying his tone sounded casual.

  Fisher shrugged, back still turned. “I hate sports in general,” he said, taking the pan off the heat and sliding it into the oven. “Football bothers me because of all the TBI that everyone just seems to ignore.”

  “TBI?” Felix asked, tilting his head when Fisher glanced at him.

  “Traumatic brain injuries,” Fisher said. “Concussions and stuff. Look ‘em up, they’re terrifying. And no one wants to talk about them because then they might have to change the way the game is played, make it safer, which of course means making it less interesting.”

  “Huh,” Felix said. It doesn’t mean anything anyway, he told himself. We’re not in a relationship, so it doesn’t matter. But the thought of Fisher hating sports, hating his beautiful sport, made him faintly ill. “Basketball? Baseball? All sports?”

  “Never really understood the point of any sport,” Fisher admitted, reaching into the fridge for a beer and tossing one to Felix. “All that effort, for what? To put the ball in a hoop or chase someone around a diamond, getting all sweaty and filthy? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “And that goes double for hockey,” Fisher was continuing, oblivious to Felix’s internal dilemma. “Maybe triple. Because not only do they go a lot faster, so they get hurt a ton more, but fighting’s legal, which is the stupidest thing in the world.”

  “It’s technically not,” Felix pointed out before he could stop himself, and hunched his shoulders when Fisher glanced over again, raising an eyebrow.

  “You know much about hockey?”

  “I’m Canadian, as we just established,” Felix said, a feeble attempt to seem distanced from the conversation. “It’s in the handbook that we all have to like hockey.”

  Fisher laughed, setting another pan on the stove and turning to open the refrigerator. “Well, remind me never to move to Canada then. Anyway—” He emerged holding a carton of vegetable broth. “It’s not something that takes up a lot of my thought, and anyway it wouldn’t matter if you did play hockey, it’s not like we’re together. But on top of it being violent and dangerous and bloody, I have… negative associations with it in general. So I’m sure as hell never falling in love with a professional athlete, that’s all.”

  Fuck you for thinking I can’t act, Mrs. Bushnell, Felix thought viciously, and was ready with a smile when Fisher crossed the room and stepped between Felix’s knees, returning the smile.

  “Do you know many professional athletes?” Felix inquired, proud of himself when his tone stayed light and teasing. “Because maybe I could get some numbers, I have no such hangups—”

  Fisher laughed and cut him off with a kiss. “Shut the fuck up,” he growled against Felix’s mouth, and Felix wrapped his arms around his neck to kiss him back properly.

  * * *

  It changes nothing, he told himself on the way home. We were never going to be a couple. And if he does find out, so what? He can’t tell me what to do with my life, and if he’ll stop seeing me over something this important to me, then I don’t want him anyway.

  Still, he couldn’t stop the clinging misery as he fed Henry and got ready for the flight in the morning, and it took awhile for him to realize exactly why he was so sad.

  When it clicked into place, he glanced down at Henry, winding between his feet as Felix stood in the middle of his laundry room.

  “Oh,” he said, and his voice sounded small to his own ears.

  Henry meowed, rusty and creaking, and Felix bent to pick him up. Henry began kneading his shoulder, eyes closed in bliss as his purr vibrated his lanky frame.

  “It’s because there’s no chance for anything,” Felix whispered against Henry’ silky fur, and blinked against the stinging of his eyes. He hadn’t thought about it too much, hadn’t wanted to confront it head-on just yet, but the truth was, Fisher was exactly his type. And the tiny seed of hope had been planted that maybe, just maybe, he could learn to let go of what had happened with Paul and have a healthy, happy relationship with someone he already wanted to spend all his time with.

  It was stupid, he told himself. He’d made it clear from the beginning that there would be nothing more between him and Fisher other than sex. Fisher was fine with that, so why couldn’t Felix be?

  “I have to be,” he told Henry, who kept purring. “It’s fine. It is. Everything’s fine. I can do this.” He kissed the dome of Henry’s skull and set him back on the floor to put his clothes in
the dryer. He had a game to think about and footage to watch, strategy to plan.

  11

  “Why are you always on your phone these days?” Saint asked as they deplaned in Saskatchewan.

  “My private life is none of your concern,” Felix said, hastily shoving his phone in his pocket and putting his nose in the air. Fisher’s pic-spam of him and Maya at the park playing with several kids and other dogs would just have to wait.

  “Uh huh.” Saint was hiding a smile but it showed in the dimple in his cheek, the way he tucked his lips in to keep them from curving up.

  Felix peered at him. “You’re smiling. What happened?”

  “Fuck off,” Saint said, shoving him. “Something has to happen for me to smile?”

  Felix pushed him in return, ducking under his swing and shoving him back several steps. They fell into Carmine, who caught Saint with a grunt.

  “Please don’t injure our star forward before the game,” he said, setting Saint back on his feet and winking at him.

  “It’s the Sentinels,” Felix said, smoothing his hair. “I think we could probably manage without him. No offense, cherry,” he added to a distinctly offended-looking Saint.

  “Okay, I have to know,” Carmine said. “Why do you call him that?”

  “What, cherry?”

  “You don’t call anyone else that. Where’d it come from?”

  Felix shot a glance at Saint, whose dimple had deepened. “You want to tell him?”

  Saint looked at Carmine. “Felix and I were inseparable when we were billeted together.”

  “You’re inseparable now,” Carmine pointed out.

  “Not like we were then,” Saint said. “We were attached at the hip. So our teammates started saying we were married.”

  “Saint was the wife,” Felix added.

  “Anyway,” Saint continued loudly, “mon cherie is a term of endearment for a lover. So Felix took to calling me cherie around our teammates just to fuck with them, and it ended up sticking. And morphing a bit, I guess.”

  “That’s disgustingly adorable,” Carmine said. He looped an arm around Saint’s neck and pulled him close to whisper something in his ear, and Saint snorted a laugh.

  Felix rolled his eyes. “Revolting.”

  “Jealous,” Carmine said cheerfully, arm still around Saint’s shoulders, and then they were at the bus and Felix couldn’t find a counter argument in time.

  “I hear they’re trying to land Stromberg,” he said when they were in their seats, twisted sideways so he could talk to Saint and Carmine behind him.

  “That Swedish kid?” Saint asked. “Shit, they get him, maybe figure out how to score occasionally, they might have a chance.”

  “Theo’s no slouch,” Felix said, always ready to jump to a fellow goalie’s defense, even one he was going up against in a few hours.

  “He’s cold as ice,” Carmine commented, and they both looked at him. Carmine shrugged. “Back with the Otters, we played them and someone rushed his net. I think it might have been Rory, come to think of it. Anyway, he took Wallin, the net, all of it out. Can’t believe no one was hurt. But Wallin got up, brushed off his helmet, and just… looked at Rory.” He shook his head. “He shut us right the fuck out that night, and it was all him, their defense was as shit as ever.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “And then, right, Rory tries to apologize to him after, because he’s an idiot but he’s not an asshole. And Brick just looks at him and says in that cool voice of his, ‘sorry for what, losing?’ And just walks away. Cold.”

  Felix snorted laughter. “That’s Brick.”

  “I get the feeling if he’s pissed off enough, he’ll win the Cup on his own just to show the rest of ‘em,” Carmine said, resting a hand on Saint’s thigh. Saint didn’t move, but his dimple deepened.

  “Are you going out with him after the game?” he asked Felix.

  “Probably,” Felix said.

  “Good. Make sure he tells you where we need to get better.”

  “You know him?” Carmine asked.

  “Played together in juniors,” Felix said. “He’s a little older, I was his backup. He’s cold if you don’t know him, you’re right, but he’s a good man, too.”

  Carmine rubbed Saint’s thigh and Saint leaned against him.

  Felix turned back around in his seat and pulled out his phone. He was playing Words With Friends with Fisher, and it was his turn.

  * * *

  Theo Wallin ended up next to Felix on the blue line, stretching on his knees beside him.

  “Bonjour, ami,” Felix greeted him. “How have you been?”

  Theo glanced over. His blue eyes were already distant behind the mask, settling into the zone, but he smiled readily enough. “Been a while. Let’s catch up, after.”

  “Loser buys,” Felix said, rolling onto a knee to stretch his hamstring, and Theo sighed.

  “I’ll get my wallet ready.”

  A Sentinel player dropped to the ice on Theo’s side to stretch. Theo said nothing, just turned to look at him, but the player flinched immediately and scrambled upright.

  “Uh… sorry, Brick,” he stuttered, and made his escape.

  “Is he new?” Felix asked, hiding his amusement.

  “Just called up.”

  “He’ll learn,” Felix said. He rolled to his feet and tapped Theo’s pads with his stick. “See you after the game.”

  12

  They ended up in a quiet restaurant not far from the rink. Out of his gear, Theo wasn’t a big man, barely 5’10 and compact, his bearing as neat and contained as ever as he inspected a menu, lips pursed.

  “Sure your team doesn’t mind you ditching them?” he asked, glancing up.

  Felix shrugged. “I go out with them plenty. They’ll understand. How are you? How’s your little woodcarving business?”

  “Fine,” Theo said, smoothing a strand of blond hair back. He was handsome in an unassuming way, his personality always tucked deep like the rest of his life. If they hadn’t played together in juniors, Felix might never have gotten to know the man behind the icy persona he presented to the media, learned to appreciate Theo’s dry humor and sharp insight. “I’m working on a patio set for Sunny right now.”

  They didn’t make much small talk throughout their meal, enjoying each other’s company without feeling the need to fill the silences that fell naturally.

  When they were done, Felix leaned back in his chair. “So what do you think of our team?”

  Theo rolled his eyes. “Are we doing this?”

  “Just like always,” Felix said cheerfully. “Do we have a chance yet?”

  “No,” Theo said bluntly. He winced as if immediately regretting the word. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Felix said. “Tell me why not. Saint will want to know.”

  “You’re getting there,” Theo said, picking up a napkin and toying with it. “Carmine was a good trade in so many ways. His ability to strip the puck is always good and he thinks three plays ahead. He reads Saint’s mind, and his d-partner’s too. Plus it’s clear everyone respects and likes him. That’s… important.” He fell silent briefly, lips tightening.

  “Your team loves you,” Felix said quietly.

  Theo flicked a glance at him. “But they don’t like me very much, do they.” It wasn’t a question. “Except for Sunny, they’re all afraid of me. I don’t know how to—I don’t have your gift of being a charming bastard.”

  “Not many do,” Felix said, grinning.

  “Anyway,” Theo said, lips twitching. “Saint is… Saint. And you’re good, I suppose.”

  “Try not to hurt yourself,” Felix said dryly, and Theo laughed.

  “But you need more defensive depth. More cohesion. I like your offensive lineup, but Carmine and Jason are the only strong d-pair you have. Your others fall apart at the first sign of trouble.”

  Felix grimaced. He wasn’t wrong, that was the real bitch of it.

  “You’ll make the playoffs, but not the Final,” Theo sa
id. “Not with the team you have now.” He hesitated. “Sorry.”

  “No, I need to hear it,” Felix said. “Only so much I can do, but management listens to Saint. Maybe we can make some changes, get some stronger defense. So thanks. How have you been? Anything new and exciting in your life?”

  “Is there ever?” Theo said dryly.

  “You never know. Something might happen in Saskatchewan someday. A chicken lays an egg with a double yolk, or Farmer John cheats on his wife or something.”

  “Fuck you,” Theo said, lips twitching. “It’s not that rural here.”

  “How’s your lovelife?”

  Theo shrugged. “Same as ever, nonexistent.”

  “Think that’ll ever change?”

  “Unlikely.” Theo didn’t look too worried about it, but Felix could hear the underlying sadness in his voice. “Hard to find someone willing to accept how I’ve chosen to live my life and not come in trying to change it. Or me. Besides, I like things the way they are. I don’t need the drama of dating. But tell me how you’re doing,” he said, setting the napkin down. “I haven’t heard from you much since—”

  Felix took a sip of wine to delay answering. It didn’t work; Theo was still watching him expectantly when he lowered the glass, and Felix sighed.

  “I’m fine.”

  Theo raised an eyebrow.

  “I mean, I’m never falling in love again, but other than that I’m fine.”

  His attempt at humor fell flat.

  “Felix,” Theo said softly, and Felix bridled.

  “You have no room to talk, do you? Still single after all these years all because you won’t—”

  “Stop.” Theo’s voice was sharp. “Stop right there. Don’t lash out at me just because you’re hurting.”

  Felix closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and felt Theo take his hand, squeezing it gently. “I’m just—it was—” I can’t risk it.

  “He’s a piece of shit, and he hurt you badly,” Theo said. “It’s understandable that you’re… skittish now.” He squeezed Felix’s hand again, thumb stroking over his knuckles, and Felix opened his eyes to look at him.