Crew (Hockey Royalty #3)

2. Crew

Chapter 2

Crew

N ash is seething, which is hard to do while also panting as heavy as a cow in labor. I don’t even try to bite back my smile. “Fuck you. I’m still recovering from surgery.”

"Are you still seriously going to milk that?' I question with a judgy arch of my eyebrow. "Coach Braddock isn't going to put up with that, you know? And neither is Dad. Dad had both wrists operated on one off-season and still beat his own goals record in the first two months back on the ice.”

Nash gets off his treadmill, bends, and puts his hands on his thighs, glaring at me. It's the type of glare that actually makes me feel like he's trying to incinerate me and might actually succeed. "You're a fucking dick."

“And you’re still out of shape,” I reply, unperturbed by his insult. I sip from my water bottle and walk over to the stretching area. I drop down on the mats and reach for my ankles. “You need to work double-time, Nash. I’m sorry but you know it’s true. We wanna repeat, don’t we? If we can win the Cup back-to-back we’ve done something dad hasn’t.”

Our father, Avery Westwood, has won the Stanley Cup a whopping four times, but never back-to-back. It’s not easy to find something he hasn’t done in hockey, so of course this is my new obsession. It should be Nash’s too. He wants to get out of our dad’s shadow as much as I do.

“The season hasn’t even started yet. We’re supposed to be here to chill out before it starts, so chill the fuck out, bro,” Nash grumbles. He has been super-pissy since… well forever. I don’t know what’s up his ass. I’ve been trying to give him space but it’s starting to annoy me too much. If he keeps it up, I’m gonna confront him.

I watch him grab his towel and water bottle and walk towards the gym doors with a slight limp. “You need to stretch.”

“I need ice for this fucking leg,” Nash snaps. “I’ll stretch in the suite, with ice.”

He disappears, leaving me alone in this big, fancy hotel gym. I sigh and continue to stretch. Nash and I used to be so close. We were the best of friends and the quintessential twins. We finished each other's sentences, we had inside jokes and could find each other without even looking on the ice. We were two peas in a pod.

I have to admit that started to unravel when I married Anne-Marie. Nash liked her when we were in high school and I first started dating her. Hell, even my parents liked her. But all three grew concerned when I popped the question at such a young age.

Nash and I spent our first year on the Los Angeles Quake living together, with Anne-Marie who unofficially moved in. I was fine with it. It irked Nash and my dad who said it looked bad. Yeah, live-in girlfriends were fine for other players but not for me. The son of hockey's golden child. So I proposed. I was in love, I don't deny it. I loved that woman with every fiber of my being. My very young, very naive, and very immature being. And once we were married, I would do anything to make it work. I did anything and everything, which is why it was so easy for her to rip my heart to shreds.

The distinct beep of a pass card at the door pulls me from my mental walk down Heinous Memory Lane. The door to the gym swishes open and this hot dude walks in. He's taller and fairer than I usually like, but he's built like a male fitness model. Lithe but with all the right ropey muscle in all the right places. He's not that tall. Probably just under my six feet, but he's got nice lips and a nice smile, which he's aiming at me.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Hope you don’t mind some company,” he says as he walks past me to one of the bikes lining the back wall.

I check out his ass. “Nah. The more the merrier. I’m just finishing up anyway.”

“That’s too bad.”

Okay, he's not dancing around things. I smile and he catches it in the mirror and smiles back, adding a wink as he climbs onto the Peloton. Yeah, he's interested. But I don't know who he is, or where he's from, or if he knows who I am. All of this has to be established before I hook up with anyone—male or female—which is why so far my male hook-ups have just been hockey players or those working in the NHL, like trainers or equipment managers.

"What brings you to Sin City?" he asks, and I push the heels of my feet together and lean over them to stretch out my groin.

“Partying with some friends from work,” I say vaguely. “You?”

“Medical conference.”

My eyebrows lift. “You’re a doctor?”

“Anesthesiologist.”

“You put people to sleep,” I say and he chuckles, our eyes meeting in the mirror again.

“Only when I have to, I promise,” he replies and his grin deepens as his pace on the bike picks up a little. “I am pretty good at keeping the right guy awake too.”

Shit. Is it Vegas that’s making him hit on me so brazenly or is this just his M.O.? Or is he fishing for something because he’s a reporter or fan who wants a story or a reel that gets him famous? Fuck, my dad has made me so fucking paranoid.

There’s another beep before I can figure out how to respond to the guy. In walks a woman. She’s young. Like my age, or younger. She’s got the most incredible body I have seen in a long time. On a woman. It’s wrapped in a white and pink cropped lycra top and matching capri leggings. Her brown hair, which isn’t very long, is separated into two little ponytails at the base of her neck. Her skin is pale and dusted with freckles. Her eyes are wide and brown and there’s not a lick of make-up decorating them, but they sparkle.

She stops short upon entry. Looks at the guy on the bike. Look at me. I shoot her a smile. She looks at her feet before she can catch it though. I swear she's about to turn right around and leave. But she takes a deep breath, shoves her earbuds into her ears, and marches past me. There's a boxing station in the corner of the gym and she goes right over there.

I watch her as I move into the downward dog yoga pose, to stretch some more. She starts putting on the gloves as she reads the instructions for the machine on the wall. It reminds me of a giant Simon Says game. There are large pads in different colors. You are supposed to hit the one that lights up. The machine gives you a different sequence to punch depending on the workout you select. She's reading the instructions with a furrowed brow like she's really concentrating. She's even hotter in profile with a long, elegant neck and sharp cheekbones.

“You said you’re here for work?”

Right. Hot guy is still here. I turn to look at him again. He’s lifted his butt off the seat and is cycling hard now but he’s barely out of breath. “I’m here with co-workers, but not for work. We are blowing off some steam before we… head into another long hard quarter.”

He nods slowly. “Long and hard, huh?”

I nod and can literally feel the heat in his gaze like it’s the sun hitting my face on a cloudless day. I stand up and his eyes trail down my body, over my shorts and my tank that is clinging to me thanks to sweat. My dick twitches but my eyes move to the gorgeous girl as she punches the flashing blue pad, hard. Then she slams her gloved fist into the yellow one. She’s tiny almost to the point of looking frail but all her muscles tense as she punches and the power behind it is shocking. And also hot. My dick twitches again.

I pull my phone out of my pocket to check the time. I'm supposed to meet a bunch of the guys in the casino for some blackjack before we head to some fancy sushi place for dinner and then a club. "Are you pulling that out to get my number?"

“Do you want me to get your number?”

"Yeah," he replies, slowing his cycling to a stop. His dirty blond hair is damp and he's breathing a little bit heavily, finally. I can imagine all the other ways I can make him do that—pant and sweat. "I'm here until Tuesday. You?"

“A day or two. Playing it by ear. We’re only a drive away. From California.” I act like I don’t know, but I know. We’re here until tomorrow afternoon. And we didn’t drive. We flew. But I don’t really want to get into that with him. In case he is fishing for a story or worse.

“Okay well…” He’s walking toward me now. Towel draped around his sweaty neck, hand extended toward me and my phone. I don’t hand it to him though. Instead, I extend my hand and shake his. That has him grinning in that “oh, so we’re gonna play coy, are we? I’m game” sort of way. “Jason.”

"Hi, Jason." I don't offer my name. It's too distinct. But now he's staring at me like I'm an asshole so I smile and lie. "West."

Yeah because that’s less unique you fucking idiot, my brain scolds. But it’s my standard fake name because I’m not creative and West is the only acceptable pseudonym for Crew Avery Westwood. Obviously using Wood as a name on Grindr or in gay bars would be too on-point.

"Hey, West." Jason smiles. "Fourteen forty-four."

“What?”

"My room number," he explains with a shrug. "Obviously we're both staying here so if you wanna hang out, grab a drink, or more, call the front desk and ask for room fourteen forty-four. I'm staying alone."

“I’m with my friends,” I say. “Two per room.”

Not a lie. Nash and I are staying together but in a two-bedroom suite. I could sneak this guy into my room, fuck him until he screams my fake name, and get him out the door without Nash ever knowing. And I might. But probably not… my eyes move to the woman beating the shit out of the boxing machine.

I clear my throat and turn back to Jason. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hope to see you soon.”

I leave the gym and head up to my suite. The entire time I’m in the elevator I think about the woman pummeling the boxing machine like it had personally wronged her. But I still punch Jason’s room number into my notes app, just in case.

As I'm walking down the hall to my room my phone rings. "Hey, Dad."

“How’s Vegas?” he asks.

“Wild. Insane. Have you seen The Hangover ? It's like that," I say, rolling my eyes. "Only with fewer babies and more tigers. Do you know a good lawyer? I probably need one. The internet's not forever, right? I mean I can get Mark Zuckerberg to delete the video that topless girl posted. The one wearing my underwear. You know Zuck, right? Will he do you a favor?"

“Even your mother doesn’t have this level of sarcasm,” Dad replies, his tone flat with annoyance. “But I’m sure it’s from her side of the family.”

“Probably get it from Uncle Seb,” I say, and he chuckles. “Anyway, we’ve only been here a couple of hours and I’ve spent most of it in the gym. Happy?”

“Delighted,” he replies. “But I do want you guys to have fun. Careful, well thought out fun.”

“Yeah. Sounds like a blast.” I’m giving him a hard time because I can. In reality, as much as it sometimes eats away my last nerve, I know he’s right. We have to be cautious. Nash and I were already endorsement darlings thanks to our dad being Avery Westwood, Canada’s King of Hockey and the NHL’s beloved former Golden Boy. But now we’re also Stanley Cup winners and about-to-be official co-captains of the best team in the league. Our deals got bigger, which means our images, if tarnished, don’t just affect the family legacy. It affects the team and the trophy.

“How’s Nash’s injury?”

He’s asking me probably because he asked Nash and he got growly. “He’s struggling but won’t admit it. I’m worried he won’t be ready for the season.”

“I am too.” Dad groans into the phone. “I’m gonna get Doc Forsberg to fly out when you guys are back in L.A. Don’t tell him that though.”

“Okay.” Nash will be as angry as a bear that sat on a porcupine if he finds out Dad’s personal orthopedic surgeon is making a trip out to California from New York, but I agree with my dad. Better safe than sorry. “Your secret is safe with me. You and Mom still set on coming to the banner ceremony?”

They raise the Stanley Cup winning banner in our arena the first home game of the season, and they'll award Nash and me the C. Coach Braddock told us he wanted us to share the Captain's position—a rare move to give it to two people—last week. I think Dad was happier than we were.

“Of course. Your mom has everything booked already.”

“You can stay with me,” I remind him.

“She wants to stay at a hotel,” Dad replies. “Give her boys their space. Keep me from nagging you too much, I think. And the Beverly Wilshire is slightly better than that townhouse you moved into.”

“This from the guy who lived in a shack at the beach just so he could flirt with a girl.” My dad bought a teardown semi-detached house so that he could live next to my mom when he was playing in San Diego.

They have since bought both sides of the place and turned it into one, gorgeous home. We grew up there until we were twelve and Dad retired. Then we moved back to Canada and only spent summers there. Now he and Mom spend winters there, to avoid the snow in Canada so they can pop in and watch our games whenever they want.

“Dad, what are the chances the media know the Quake is here?” I ask him.

“In Vegas?” Dad replies. “Pretty high. I mean at least the hockey blogs and stuff. Why?”

“I just… I just met someone and it felt… too easy.”

There’s a pause and I wait outside the suite door for him to respond. I’m holding my breath. I really tend to not talk to my dad or mom about my personal life. That changed when I went temporarily insane because of the split with Anne-Marie. Mom and Dad showed up to fix the mess I’d made, and I confessed my darkest secret to them. That I’m bisexual. They told me they loved me unconditionally. Always. So I guess now I’m making a bigger effort to open up to them.

“Trust your gut, Crew,” Dad replies. “Even if it’s hyper-active because of the Anne-Marie drama. It might just mean you’re not ready to meet someone new.”

"Oh, I'm not," I promise. "I am not settling down ever again. This is just… I mean I want some fun, but this guy felt like he… I don't know. He came on strong."

“He?” Dad repeats and I hold my breath. “Crew, I don’t know… he could just be confident and know what he wants and it’s Vegas so he’s you know, just letting it all out there. Or he could be a reporter for a blog or TMZ Sports or some shit. You never know. But if it feels off, it’s best to trust your instincts.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“And for the record, you will get serious about someone again one day,” he tells me. “And I want you to. And if it’s a guy, I don’t want you to think you have to hide that. You don’t. And I will have your back.”

"Thanks, Dad." I smile and pull my key card from my pocket. "But you don't have to worry about that. I'm not getting serious about anyone. Ever."

“Crew… then she wins.” I know he’s referring to my ex.

“Nope. I win,” I reply as I swing open the door and find Tate Garrison and Duke Hendrix standing at the bar in our living room pouring tequila into a blender filled with fruit. “Gotta go. Boys are here.”

“Okay. Have fun! Make good choices! Or bad ones with no consequences!”

"Okay, Dad."

I hang up. Tate grins at me over the blender. “Heard you went to the gym, nerd. Thought we’d make you a fruit smoothie.”

“Vegas style!” Duke yells.

Tate turns on the blender and my laugh is drowned out. I walk over and happily take the drink from Tate after he pours it.

“Let the games begin!”