Open Ice Hit (The Sin Bin Book 2)

Tommy had bought a suit especially for the charity ball, a bottle-green two-piece made of velvet with satin trimmings. The fit and large tuxedo lapels accentuated his solid frame, deepening the darkness of his hair and eyes. The shirt underneath was a stark white, embroidered with the subtlest, most delicate flower design Tommy had ever seen. He’d fallen in love with it right away and was psyched to finally be showing it off.

He’d decided to go dateless. He had a few friends outside the hockey world that would have agreed to come along, but he’d opted to be a free agent and make the most of a night that would inevitably be filled with way too much schmoozing.

“Jesus, Tremblay,” Ricky said as Tommy finally made it to the hall where the ball was taking place. “You a hockey player or a model? Holy smokes.”

“Stop flirting with me.” Tommy laughed, sticking his tongue out.

Ricky draped his arm over Tommy’s shoulders. He didn’t look too shabby himself, his Colombian skin a perfect complement to the wine-colored tux he was wearing. “I better keep an eye on you, make sure you make it outta this in one piece. That woman over there looks like she wants to eat you alive.”

Tommy looked over at where Ricky had nodded with a spectacular lack of subtlety. A stunning woman in a black dress with a slit up to her hip revealing a mile-long strip of white skin stood watching them. “Don’t be so jealous. There’s plenty of me to go around.”

Ricky snorted, pulling Tommy toward the bar. “Let’s make this night bearable, eh?”

“Now you’re talking.”

Tommy ordered a bright pink cocktail, happy that they weren’t just serving simple drinks and hard liquor. He kept forgetting he should be carded in the US, but being a successful hockey player definitely had its perks. Not that he was planning to get drunk—any pictures published from the event had to be approved by the league, but he wasn’t going to be a sloppy mess at an official event.

He’d only taken a sip of his drink when Zed, his two lovebirds, and Vicki joined them.

“Damn, Tommy. Lookin’ fit.” Davesh exclaimed, looking at him appraisingly.

“Nice suit, D,” Tommy replied, tilting his chin at the cream tuxedo he was wearing.

“Thanks. And if you’re gonna compliment these two bozos, thank me too. I picked out their clothes,” he said, indicating Kevin in his forest-green three piece and Zed in a black thing with embroidered shoulders.

“Well done for not letting Zed show up in glitter. Truly, you’re doing us all a service.”

Zed scowled playfully. “I’ll have you know the sequined tux I chose was fucking fire. You’re all just haters.”

Davesh shook his head. “This isn’t camp night at your favorite strip club, Zed.”

Kevin bit his lip, obviously trying not to laugh. Vicki, meanwhile, stood by their side in his classic black tux, greeting Tommy with a tip of his chin.

Tommy rolled his eyes, turning away from him. He was sick of looking at Vicki’s goddamn face, frankly. Not even seeing him frown from the corner of his eyes moved him. Let the guy be confused about Tommy’s change in attitude—he’d brought it on himself.

Zed jabbed Tommy in the chest. “Nice goal, asshole.”

Tommy grinned, but Vicki butted in before he could chirp back. “Are we all going to ignore how he almost took out Kevin?” he drawled sardonically.

Tommy had to close his eyes for a moment, letting the anger wash through him. Luckily, Ricky had his back. “Jesus, man, why don’t you give it a damn rest? You’re the sorest loser I’ve ever met. Why don’t you have a drink and fucking chill out for once in your life.”

Vicki raised his eyebrows. “Is taking responsibility for your actions not a thing in Queens, or…”

Ricky opened his mouth to retort, obviously gearing up for a fight, but Tommy placed a calming hand on his chest. “Don’t bother, Ricky. He’s not worth it. Look at him. I feel sorry for him, honestly—I’ve never met anybody more miserable in my entire life.”

Tommy watched with vindictive pleasure as Vicki seemed genuinely taken aback. Tommy gave him a mean little smile—the guy was probably unused to people actually fighting back.

Zed stepped in, placating hands up. “All right, all right. Let’s cool it, yeah, boys? I’ll see you around, Tommy. Bosques.”

Tommy shrugged, watching them go.

Ricky grunted. “Good riddance. Come on, let’s try to have some fun. I hear Mayo smuggled in some of his vodka.”

Tommy laughed. “Does he know there’s an open bar?”

“In his words, he doesn’t trust us Americans. Never mind that we’re Canadian.”

“Wait till he hears you’re Colombian too. It’s gonna blow his goddamn mind.”

They made the rounds, spending half the time with their teammates but managing to do a fair bit of mingling after the auction was over.

Tommy got caught talking to some rich art collector who curated displays for the Guggenheim. Tommy knew shit about art, but it was nice to hear people talk about what they were passionate about. The man, though older, was nice to look at too with his dark skin and hair threaded with white, a contrast to his still-youthful face.

“Sorry,” Tommy finally said, excusing himself. “I gotta find a bathroom, but you’ll be around?” He was getting some definite vibes from the guy, and it’d be perfect if he could get Vicki out of his system with someone else.

The man smiled his perfect, white-toothed smile. “Sure. I’d love to get your number before you leave if you’re amenable.”

“I sure am. Be back in a sec.”

That, it turned out, was easier said than done. Rich people sure loved to hide their bathrooms in the most obscure places, but as Tommy walked down what was clearly a service hallway, he knew it shouldn’t be that hard to find somewhere to pee.

“Where the fuck…” Tommy was about to turn around when he spotted a form slumped in a hidden alcove where some sort of machine was plugged in. “Woah—hey, bud, you okay?”

Tommy stopped in his tracks as the person lifted his head, disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes exposed from the shadows. The gala was a muffled hum in the distance, the sound of clinking plates coming from somewhere to their left where the kitchen was obviously located.

In that quiet, still pocket, was Vicki, tux a mess and a mostly empty bottle of liquor by his thigh.

Vicki blinked at him blearily before a loud, shredded laugh left him. “Of course it’s you. Of course it is.”

Tommy tried not to take it personally—the guy was obviously drunk as a skunk. “What’re you doing here, man? You’re gonna get fucking sick if you drink the rest of that, come on.”

Because Vicki was a contrary asshole, he lifted the bottle and took a long drag, maintaining eye contact with Tommy the whole time.

Tommy sighed in exasperation, stepping closer and yanking the bourbon out of his hands. “Dude, you’ve got a game the day after tomorrow. Come on.”

Vicki scowled up at him. “Whadda you care? Go back to flirting with…whoever,” he slurred.

Tommy felt his eyebrows rise incredulously. “You cannot seriously be doing this again. I can flirt with whoever I want, man. What do you care, eh? It’s not like you’re not telling the world what a piece of shit I am any chance you get.”

Vicki swayed where he sat, expression folded in childlike confusion. “I don’t think you’re a shit. A piece of shit.”

“Coulda fooled me. Look, should I get Zed? You’re fucking sloshed, man, I don’t want you to—”

“No. No, I don’t…Don’t call Zed. Please.”

Tommy took a deep breath, feeling concern bubble up despite himself. He crouched beside Vicki, steadying himself with a hand on Vicki’s knee. “Dude, this isn’t like you, even I know that. Did something happen? Are you okay?”

Vicki let out an unamused laugh, tilting his head back as he closed his eyes. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Why don’t you try me, eh? I know I’m not your favorite person, but whatever it is, it’ll stay between us.”

Vicki peered at him through slit eyes, assessing. Tommy stared back steadily, waiting Vicki out until he spoke. “You ever…you ever think about quitting hockey?”

Out of everything he thought Vicki might say, that was nowhere close. “What? What are you talking about?”

Vicki shook his head. “I told you, you wouldn’t get it. I—”

“Nah, man, come on. Where is this coming from?”

Vicki was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again. “My dad—he’s a politician back in Sweden, you know. And…hockey’s kind of popular over there but not really. Not like football, anyway, not that it would make a difference if that’s what I’d chosen.”

Tommy nodded, not sure what the fuck Vicki was talking about but wanting to seem encouraging.

“He thinks I’m wasting my life. I barely talk to my sister because of him. He just…He’s so fucking…oförsonligt. Kyligt.”

“Um…”

“He won’t stop—he just doesn’t care. Wants me to quit, to go home.”

“Wait, your dad wants you to stop playing hockey? Are you fucking serious? But you’re so good!”

Vicki looked at him then, his face more vulnerable than Tommy had ever seen—cracked open, his normal, cold façade in shreds.

Tommy shook his head. “This seems like it’s been going on for a while, and I don’t know what happened recently to make you actually consider quitting hockey, but that’s absolute bullshit. You have family all around you, Vicki. Your team are your brothers—they fucking need you. They want you, would choose you any day of the week if it was in their power. You…you’re Noah Viklund, forward for the Brooklyn Phantoms, goddammit.”

Vicki was gaping at him a little by the time Tommy took a breath, but he wasn’t finished.

“Look. I know what it’s like to do something when most people think you can’t. Don’t get me wrong, my family’s always been great, but nobody else thought I could make it this far. I’ve always been small for hockey, and I tried making up for it with rough play. I know what you think about that, but…the point is, everybody in hockey always told me to quit while I was ahead and not listening to them was the best decision of my life.”

Vicki swallowed audibly. “I didn’t know that.”

Tommy shrugged. “It’s irrelevant now. I made it. We made it. We’re out there, night after night, sacrificing our bodies just so we can do something we love with guys around us that are like our brothers—most people don’t get that, Noah. Most people don’t get to experience what it’s like to love something as much as we do. We’re the lucky ones. So if your dad is telling you to quit, his opinion is bullshit. You know what you’re doing is worth it for you. It’s obvious every time you skate, okay? So. Enough with the drinking and moping. You’re in the fucking NHL. Act like it.”

Tommy was almost breathless by the time he was finished, the hand on Vicki’s knee white-knuckled with the force of his grip.

Vicki stared at him for a long moment, eyes a little hazy but obviously comprehending. “Okay,” he said finally, voice smaller than Tommy had ever heard it.

“Okay. You fucking remember that, though. There’s nothing better than winning when everybody thinks you’re gonna lose.”

Vicki nodded slowly, tilting tipsily toward Tommy.

“Okay, big guy. Imma take you home now, eh? You brought your car?”

“No.”

“Perfect, me neither. We’ll grab an Uber. I think I saw a back door somewhere around here.”

Despite how obviously drunk Vicki was, it was relatively easy to drag him outside into the cold December air. Vicki seemed unselfconscious about how hard he was leaning against Tommy, and his trust had Tommy’s stomach in knots.

Tommy managed to text Ricky and call an Uber to Vicki’s apartment, Vicki coherent enough to give the address.

They stumbled into the dark living room and didn’t bother to turn on the lights as Vicki half guided him to the bedroom.

Tommy didn’t let himself look at the messy sprawl of Vicki’s body on the bed as he helped him out of his clothes and under the covers. Tommy was sweating by the time he was done moving Vicki’s drunk ass around and getting him some water before turning to leave. He was more than ready for this night to end.

As soon as he made for the door, though, Vicki groaned and turned around, grabbing Tommy’s wrist. “Wait.”

Tommy looked down at the shadows playing over Vicki—the bruised underside of his eyes, the miserable tilt of his mouth. “Yeah?”

“You…before. You said…I don’t think you’re a piece of shit.”

It took a moment for Tommy to grasp what he was saying. “Okay, bud. Whatever you say.”

“No. Don’t—I don’t. I don’t.”

Tommy sighed. “Vicki, you know, I really thought you had your shit together, but you’re human like the rest of us, eh? Look. Just forget about it. I don’t think you’re ever going to look past the impression you have of me, and I shouldn’t care so much. As in—not that I care. If you want to talk shit to the media about me, then you fucking do that.” Tommy snapped his mouth shut. Hopefully Vicki was too sloshed to remember any of that in the morning.

Vicki shook his head, blond hair a tangle against the pillow. “I don’t…I don’t mean what I say. I just. Say it.”

Tommy let out an unamused laugh. “You don’t exactly seem like the kinda person that says things they don’t mean.”

“You have no idea how much of a fool I am.”

Tommy snorted for real this time, surprised at the admission. He regarded Vicki carefully, the anger he had been carrying since he’d seen Vicki’s presser draining away.

It was infuriating how difficult Tommy found it to hold a grudge in the face of someone so inconsistent, but, well…being as vindictive as Vicki didn’t seem fun either.

“Fine. Just. I’m not gonna roll over and take it anymore. What we do when we’re alone is…it’s good. But. You can’t say that kinda shit about me and then expect me to forget it. Not anymore.”

Vicki nodded, hand squeezing Tommy’s wrist. “Okay.”

“Okay. Imma go now, yeah? Just, get some sleep.”

Vicki’s fingers finally unclenched, falling away. For a second, Tommy wanted to bend down and kiss Vicki on the forehead—offer some sort of comfort.

Instead, Tommy nodded decisively and stepped out of the room.

Whatever happened next, Tommy knew one thing for sure—Vicki wasn’t getting any more chances.