Page 3 of Breakaway Goals
“Alright.” Hayes seemed to relax then. “Do you uh . . .still . . .”
Morgan rolled his eyes. Didn’t even bother to try to hold it back this time. After all, that’s what he’d beentryingto tell Hayes before he’d stepped in it. “Yes,” he said. “We’ll go to coffee. Butonlyif you stop looking at me like you’re five seconds away from apologizing.Again.”
Hayes wet his lips. “Alright. Sorry—God,sorry.” He flushed red this time, which was way better than the sheet white he’d been before.
Cute, even, the pink flush staining the apples of his cheeks.
“No worries. Let’s go.” Morgan patted him on the shoulder. He did it instinctually, the long habit of affectionate touching ingrained after so many years of teammates, but also because Finn had told him once how important a casual touch could be after a guy came out.
Means you’re not afraid of us, he’d said, and Morgan had lost nights of sleep after that, worrying about his son. Worrying if Morgan would end up in jail because if Finn’s teammates ever did the shitty thing and avoided touching him on purpose? Morgan couldn’t be responsible for the consequences.
“Alright.” Hayes grinned at him, a dimple emerging in his cheek.
Morgan pushed the door open, Hayes following him. There were various personnel scattered in the hallway, the interviewer leaning against the wall, talking to her boss, someone high up in the commissioner’s office. They’d just dodged her, on the way to the coffee shop that Hayes said was just across the street, but then they ran—nearly literally—into a problem. Because there was,ugh, Jacob fucking Braun.
His nemesis.
Morgan never knew what bothered him more—that Braun always saw right into his brain and knew exactly where he was going to shoot the fucking puck and somehowalwaysblocked it, or that he gave way less of a shit about Morgan than Morgan gave about him.
“Oh, there’s Braun,” Hayes said brightly. Did he notknow? Morgan thought everyone knew about him and Braun.
The last game they’d played against each other, he’d pushed his way into the crease, and one of Braun’s teammates hadpulled him out by the back of his jersey, and the next second, Morgan had been swinging his fists.
Morgan hadn’t been able to punch Braun, but his teammate had been a decent enough stand-in.
“Yeah,” Morgan said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trackpants.
Last night Thompson had asked if he and Braun on the same team was going to be a problem, and he’d said no, because he wasn’t stupid enough to think Braun wasn’t really fucking good. He gave their team the best chance of winning, and he wasn’t back on Team USA, after eight years of pretending he was above national tournaments, tolose.
A second later, Hayes made an aborted noise. “Oh God, I’m sorry. You two—”
That, of course, was the moment they came face-to-face.
“Reynolds,” Jacob said, tilting his head. “I’d say it’s good to see you but—”
“Just do your fucking job on the ice,” Morgan said between clenched teeth.
The corner of Jacob’s mouth turned up in an insufferable smirk. “Aye, aye, Captain,” he said.
Morgan made a face and then, thank God, they were moving on, heading down the escalator to the ground floor of the hotel, away from the conference level.
“Shit, I’m sorry, that was . . .” Hayes didn’t finish his sentence. Because he’d realized he’d apologized again, or because he didn’t know how to? Morgan wasn’t sure.
“It’s fine, I’m fine, it’s just a thing.” Morgan didn’t usually feel compelled to offer an explanation for why he disliked Braun so much.
How he’d set up semi-permanent residence in his brain, constantly taunting him with the goals he’d never score and the records he’d never set.
Hayes shrugged, and they headed out the front door and towards the coffee shop.
They were settled at a table, Hayes drinking some long-winded multi-hyphenated drink that made it clear, from the way he rattled it off, that his order was not as simple or straightforward as Morgan’s “large black coffee,” before Hayes brought it up again.
“So what is it about you two?” Hayes asked, his nail picking at the edge of the paper sleeve on his cup.
“I just don’t like him. He’s smug.”
Hayes shot him a knowing look. “Really? That’s why you don’t like him?”
“I think I liked you better when you were afraid of me,” Morgan muttered.
