Page 41 of The Blame Game

“Yeah, okay,” Dom said skeptically.

“Trust me. I get you on the best-dressed list every year,” Shea reminded him. “Gotta get back to work now though. See you tonight.”

He hung up without waiting for an answer. Whatever, Dom could handle it and Shea needed to finish the last few bites of his lunch before his next patient came in.

Later that evening, as Shea followed the hostess to their table at the steakhouse, he deeply regretted his choice.

Oh fuck me, he thought as Dom rose to his feet to greet him.

Shea shouldn’t have suggested this outfit. As much as he loved Dom in a suit—and fuck did he love Dom in a suit, he had the perfect body for it—he looked so good dressed down like this too.

He was mouthwatering.

And this was the guy Shea was supposed to pretend to be nothing but buddies with.

He was so screwed.

“Nice outfit,” Shea teased as Dom greeted him with a brief, manly back-slapping hug, feeling the moment when the tension in Dom’s shoulders softened.

Sometimes, Shea wondered if Dom’s back problems weren’t made that much worse by the amount of tension he carried with him constantly.

Dom huffed a laugh, then stepped back. “Thanks. Have a seat.”

Shea surveyed the rectangular table, quickly deciding to go for the chair diagonally across from Dom. He couldn’t handle bumping knees with Dom all night.

“You, uh, you look nice too,” Dom said quietly, gaze darting to the tables around them. The staff had seated them near the window at a prominent table. The kind offered to pro athletes and other VIPs.

“Thanks.” Shea grinned, shrugging off his dark brown leather jacket, then took his seat. He’d changed from the athletic clothes he wore at the clinic into distressed jeans and a cream-colored sweater. He didn’t have the budget Dom did, but he still knew how to pull a look together.

They stared awkwardly at each other for a moment. They’d never been out like this in public before.

“So, uh, my friends should be here any minute.”

“Great.” Dom wrapped his hands around a glass of amber-colored liquor. Scotch, presumably. He wondered how early Dom had gotten here and how much he’d had to drink.

Probably not a lot, since he liked to stay in control, but hopefully enough to take a little of the edge off. Although Shea really fucking hoped he wasn’t still taking the Toradol.

He opened his mouth to ask, but the hostess approached their table and Shea glanced over, annoyed at the interruption but glad to see his friend behind her. “Myles! Hey.”

“Hey, man.” Myles’ expression brightened. He was a tall, lanky white guy with messy light brown hair and a patchy beard.

Dom and Shea both rose to their feet, the hostess discreetly fading away.

“Myles, this is Dominic Olson,” Shea said.

“Uh, yeah.” Myles laughed, wide-eyed, clearly a little starstruck at the moment. “Shit. Great to meet you.”

Dom held out a hand to shake. “You too. Call me Dom.”

“Dom, this is Myles. We work together.”

“How long have you been a physical therapist?” Dom asked as they took their seats, Myles slipping into the chair beside Dom.

“Oh, just a few years. Shea and I graduated at the same time. How long have you been, uh, playing hockey?” A weird look crossed Myles’ face. “Wait, never mind. Dumb question.”

Dom laughed, toying with his glass. “Pretty much my whole life. I think I was three, maybe, when my dad put me on skates.”

“Kurt Olson played for Montreal, right?”

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