Contract Season Read online

  Also available from Cait Nary

  and Carina Press

  Season’s Change

  Content Warning

  Contract Season includes depictions of forced outing, implied homophobia, and recreational drug use.

  Contract Season

  Cait Nary

  Author Note

  The North American Hockey Association (NAHA) is a fictionalized professional hockey league. While it shares similarities with the league you may be familiar with, it is intentionally different in multiple ways.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Season’s Change by Cait Nary

  Chapter One

  Navin stuck his elbow in Brody’s side. “Dinner and a show, eh?”

  “What?” Brody declined to look up from Instagram. He enjoyed weddings—champagne, shots, dancing, happiness, true love, what wasn’t to like? But today he could still hear his now-ex’s voice ringing in his ears: What’s the point of this if you won’t even take me out in public?

  Brody’s argument that they went out in public plenty—to brunch, for drinks or smoothies or groceries—hadn’t helped.

  Declining to bring London to his hockey buddy’s wedding had been the last straw.

  It’s practically work, he’d argued.

  He’s your friend, London shot back. Your brother’s the best man. I’ve heard the story about how he got you drunk for the first time fifty times.

  It isn’t a small wedding. There’s gonna be tons of people there.

  Who’s going to notice one more? And Alex and your family know about you. About us.

  Long brown fingers entered Brody’s field of vision, interrupting his view of somebody wakeboarding on Instagram. “Give me that.”

  “Fuck off, Navin.”

  Navin did not fuck off. Brody was too mature to get into a slap-fight with his childhood best friend while wearing a tux and sitting in a wooden folding chair at his basically-a-cousin’s wedding, so he gave up his phone.

  “Anyway,” Navin continued, nodding toward the front of the aisle. There was a big tree, wrapped in a flower installation thing that Alex had said cost twenty thousand dollars. Brody had no idea you could spend that much money on flowers, but money wasn’t an object for Alex Klassen—professional hockey player—and his soon-to-be wife—country music superstar Josette Radley. Brody didn’t know how they made time to see each other during the season.

  “Thanks for showing me what twenty thousand dollars’ worth of flowers looks like. I needed to know.”

  “Touchy, touchy.” Navin rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Brody. Behave.” That came from his other side in the warning tone his mother had been using his whole life. “Listen to the music.”

  “I don’t like country music.”

  “Fake it.”

  Brody heaved a sigh. He wasn’t usually like this, and he knew he was being a bummer. But going to a wedding was the last thing he felt like doing, no matter how much he usually enjoyed them. There were very good reasons why he wasn’t out enough to show up to a star-studded, heavily photographed wedding with a boyfriend on his arm, no matter what London had to say about it. London wasn’t the one who’d have to deal with the media, with the idiot teammates, with the slurs out on the ice. Brody was making an intentional choice to stay quiet—publicly, at least—about his sexuality until he retired. The people who mattered to him knew. Taking London to a wedding had never seemed worth the trade-off.

  But right now, flying solo was undeniably shitty.

  No matter how nice this wedding was. One of the country music people was perched on a stool to the side of the flower-draped tree, picking at a guitar as more guests filtered in. It was a gorgeous setting on Josette’s Texas ranch—hills, the quiet sound of water from a creek, horses nodding their heads over a fence and getting bribed with carrots to stand for selfies with the wedding guests. Navin had made him take one when they first arrived.

  “Isn’t that The Avett Brothers?” Brody asked, stretching out his legs and looking away from the horses and back to the guitarist, who was drifting his way through the opening bars of “I and Love and You.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Not all of us only listen to the saddest music possible.”

  “Shut up about the National,” Brody said, gearing up for the hundred and fifty-eighth round of this eternal battle.

  “Brody.” His mom sounded like she was being pushed to the limits of her patience. Brody was the cooperative son. “Be quiet and enjoy the scenery.”

  Navin snickered. “Yeah, the scenery.”

  “I’ve seen horses before.”

  “I mean the guy playing the guitar.”

  Mom nodded. “He’s quite a looker.”

  Brody wanted to drown himself in the creek.

  And that was before the guitar guy shook his dirty-blond curls back over his shoulder, looked up at the mic, and started singing.

  Navin elbowed him again. “Hot, yeah?”

  “I don’t need this from you.” Possibly, Brody needed the guitar guy’s golden-tanned cheekbones to be less sharp, his hands less strong, his voice less low and raspy and, Christ, sexy as hell as he meandered through one of Brody’s all-time favorite songs in a soft country drawl.

  He proceeded to cover everything from the Beatles to Bob Dylan to unequivocally country songs, quietly enough to be appropriate enough for a wedding prelude. But at the same time, he had this magnetism to his presence, a way of looking up from his guitar and letting his whiskey-colored eyes catch on one wedding guest at a time, like they were the only thing in the world he could see.

  Despite himself, Brody shivered when their eyes caught as he crooned the opening verse to “Songbird” by Fleetwood Mac. He was wearing a suit jacket but not a tie, and his white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest to show the glint of a gold chain.

  Shouldn’t Guitar Guy have moved on by now? Found someone else in the adoring public? But no, he was still staring at Brody. Singing to Brody, voice all slow and honey-sticky.

  Or someone behind Brody, or sitting in front of Brody, and Brody was having delusions.

  “Finally, some peace and quiet.”

  Brody elbowed Navin, not quite able to tear his eyes off Guitar Guy and the way his long fingers were wrapped around the neck of his acoustic guitar. “It’s not too late for me to go hang out with the groomsmen instead.”

  “Sorry kiddo, I think it is,” Mom said, nodding to where the officiant had started progressing toward th
e flower-tree.

  Sure enough, Guitar Guy was wrapping up “Songbird,” letting the closing notes fade into the perfect blue sky. He’d bent back over the guitar while Brody was distracted, hair slanting across his face. Brody’s fingers itched to tuck it back.

  “Thanks, y’all,” he drawled into the mic. His speaking voice was lower than his singing voice. He brushed his hair back, unfolding himself from the stool. “Let’s get this show on the road, yeah?”

  Guitar Guy slanted a crooked grin out over the audience and strolled to a seat near the front. All Brody could see was the back of his head, the messy tangle of his hair brushing past the shoulders of his black suit jacket; and then Brody wasn’t looking at Guitar Guy at all, too busy focusing on Alex’s parents walking down the aisle, then Alex himself, tough-guy face intact (but probably not for long); and Brody’s brother, Bryce, in his role as best man, looking laughably uncomfortable in his penguin suit. He worked as a site manager in Kellerman Construction. Unlike Brody, suits weren’t part of his deal.

  After the rest of the wedding party, Josette’s daughters from her first marriage skipped down the aisle in a flutter of dark curls and poufy white skirts, tossing flower petals.

  “Wild that Alex has kids now,” Navin mumbled. “I remember him getting so drunk he puked in the back of your mom’s minivan.”

  “He threw up where?” Mom hissed.

  Fortunately, Josette made her entrance before Navin could betray any more of Brody’s teenage secrets. She looked gorgeous, with her warm, copper-brown skin glowing against the graceful lines of her white dress, her black hair over her shoulder in a messy braid.

  “I don’t know how Alex got so fucking lucky.” Navin, again.

  “Should I call your mum and tell her you’re finally ready to settle down?”

  “Sure, if Josette has a younger sister.”

  “Boys.” Mom’s voice took on a warning edge. “The ceremony’s starting.”

  Alex and Josette smiled at each other underneath their flower-tree. Bryce continued looking awkward in his tux; Brody could see Mom twitch out of the corner of his eye every time Bryce fidgeted with his bow tie. But he managed to hand over the rings, then a tissue when Alex started crying halfway through his vows, so overall he avoided humiliating the Kellerman family name.

  Before too much longer, Alex and Josette were kissing while the guests cheered. Brody clapped, wolf-whistled, tried not to let himself wonder will that ever be me? It wouldn’t as long as he was still playing—he’d made that choice a long time ago.

  He couldn’t blame London for breaking up with him over it, though.

  It still sucked.

  Not as much as being under the microscope of First (Out) Gay North American Hockey Association Player.

  He’d do it all when he retired. That was enough.

  * * *

  Once they made it to cocktail hour, Brody went straight for the bar—his mom was catching up with Alex’s family and Navin had inserted himself into a conversation with some Nashville-looking people, always eager to talk about music. Brody wasn’t sure where the overlap was between country and the bass-first electronic shit Navin played every time someone let him near an aux cable, but Navin would find it. He’d always been a living networking event.

  Brody picked up two champagne flutes and dropped a twenty in the tip jar, planning to take one to his mom before peeling off to talk to some of Alex’s teammates.

  But when he turned back around, there was a body in his way.

  A very long, very tall body that now had a glass and a half of champagne soaking through his white shirt.

  Brody could see the dark lines of tattoos through the wet fabric.

  He dragged his eyes to Guitar Guy’s face. It wasn’t an improvement: his eyes were a lit-up whiskey color as he blinked down at his stomach in dismay.

  “Holy shit.” Brody set the glasses back down on the bar and accepted a handful of cocktail napkins from the bartender. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Guitar Guy said after a second. His voice was low and slow like—like—Brody didn’t know, because he was busy dabbing at the champagne. It accomplished nothing in terms of soaking up the alcohol; plenty in terms of getting to feel how firm Guitar Guy’s stomach was under his clothes.

  “I’m sure Alex has a spare shirt.”

  Guitar Guy snorted, raising an eyebrow. They were darker than the tangle of his hair. “I don’t think Alex’s shirts are going to fit me.”

  Alex was the approximate dimensions of a barn. Guitar Guy was tall, maybe even as tall as Alex, but built on lankier lines. “Shit.”

  “It’s really okay,” he repeated. It wasn’t: the hints of tattoos alone were enough to drive Brody to distraction.

  “I think my brother brought his suitcase,” Brody said. “He’s skinnier.”

  “Why’d your brother bring his suitcase to a wedding?”

  “Best man. He wanted to be prepared for anything.”

  Brody pulled out his phone to text Bryce as Guitar Guy handed the soaking napkins back across the bar. When Brody looked back up, Guitar Guy was holding his jacket awkwardly across his stomach, but followed him readily enough through the crowd.

  Once they’d made it free, he opened his jacket back up to show off a bottle of bourbon. “We never got our drinks.”

  “Usually I need a name before I’ll let a guy buy me a drink,” Brody said, not realizing how flirtatious he sounded until it was already out of his mouth.

  Guitar Guy blinked once, like he was thinking about it; like he was thinking about something. Nothing about his face was fair, how the composite of his features was somehow more attractive than their individual parts. “It’s Seamus,” he said after a second. “But you can call me Sea.” His drawl made it verge on two syllables—sha-ay.

  “Brody,” he answered as a slow, crooked smile twisted itself across Sea’s mouth.

  “Well,” Sea said, voice managing to drop itself a notch lower, “how about that drink?”

  He twisted the cap off the bourbon with a pop and wrapped his lips around the neck of the bottle. Tilted it back.

  Coughed immediately. Brody thumped him between the shoulders, stifling a laugh.

  “Jesus Christ.” He wiped the back of his wrist across his mouth. “This is not my day.”

  Brody nodded toward where the sun was starting to set, casting everything around them in red-gold light. “Maybe it could be your night, though.”

  Sea took another swig from the bourbon bottle, eyes never leaving Brody’s. “Maybe.”

  They’d traded the whiskey back and forth a few rounds by the time they made it to the guesthouse where Alex and the groomsmen had gotten ready. Brody had a little bit of a buzz going as he opened the door.

  “Snacks,” Sea said in his low voice. “Nice.”

  The whole place was a mess, even though Brody could see how gorgeous it would look if it hadn’t just hosted eight very messy dudes getting ready for a wedding—there were broad windows, a big stone fireplace, comfortable-looking leather couches. In addition to the jumble of crap spread out over every available surface, there were picked-over plates of charcuterie and fruit on the bar.

  “That’s been sitting out for hours.”

  Sea shrugged, popping a piece of cheese in his mouth. “Live a little.” He paused; Brody was getting the sense that he liked to think before he spoke. Arrange his thoughts, or whatever. “And I can’t eat before I sing, anyway. So I need something to soak up all this bourbon.”

  “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. Your Avett Brothers cover was killer.” Brody located his brother’s suitcase. “Want to see if there’s anything that works in here?”

  “I guess.” He ate another piece of bacteria-covered cheese and ambled over. He smelled like alcohol and freshly cut grass when he bent over to sift through Bryce’s cl
othes, coming up with a plain white T-shirt. “This’ll work.”

  Then his long fingers were unbuttoning his champagne-soaked shirt. More golden skin exposed itself with every button. There was no way Sea didn’t see him looking, either—trading lip-prints on a bourbon bottle hadn’t done anything to reinstate Brody’s chill.

  Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, though. It had been a minute since Brody’d had a good, old-fashioned one-night stand. He and London had been together for three years.

  A long time to not be able to be someone’s wedding date.

  Brody shoved the feelings back down. It was easy to distract himself with Sea’s abs, anyway, which looked as good as they’d felt under his hand. Brody spent plenty of time around mostly naked male bodies. This was different, the awareness he felt with just the two of them in this empty guesthouse, far enough away from the party that he couldn’t hear the music anymore. Couldn’t hear anything but the hush of fabric as Sea dropped his shirt onto the floor.

  “So,” Sea said, more carefully than the word deserved, “you’re one of Alex’s friends?”

  “We grew up together in Vancouver. He’s basically a cousin.” Brody wasn’t going into the rest of it right now—youth hockey, getting drafted to the same juniors team, the way Alex had pulled him along in his wake, smoothing out his path and showing him what to do when he’d been a nervous kid who listened to the wrong music and wanted to kiss the wrong people.

  “And I’m guessing country music isn’t your thing.”

  Brody thought about lying, since he was hoping to put his mouth on the body of someone who was obviously in the country music industry. He decided not to bother. “It’s fine. But I don’t listen to it on my own.”

  Sea nodded, pushing his hair back from his face with one hand. It made the muscles in his chest shift. He was making no moves to pull on Bryce’s undershirt, standing there half naked in his tight black suit pants with his gold chain lying across his collarbones, a cross resting between his pecs. Brody didn’t think he was imagining the crackle of sexual tension—he’d gotten good at picking up on vibes. Both as a survival mechanism, and in the interest of getting laid semi-regularly in the days before he could pull out Grindr on road trips through off-market cities. Before he’d met London.