Chapter 20 #2
After we hung up, I continued to stare at the lake. Mom was learning mah-jongg and leaving dishes in the sink. Relieved that Dad wasn't there to criticize the neighbor's snow removal technique. And she wanted to see us together.
I sat there until the condensation on the window blurred the shoreline into abstraction. Then I drove into town with no particular destination in mind—just the need to be somewhere that wasn't my own head.
Frost fogged the coffee shop windows, every table occupied by people in wool hats and heavy coats that didn't come off even inside.
I'd just stepped inside when a blue wave of hair and an oversized blazer caught my eye in the corner.
Juno Park had her laptop open and a recorder sitting on a napkin next to a half-eaten blueberry scone.
She looked up, recognized me, and beckoned. "Hey, Rhett. I hear things are good with the enforcer boyfriend."
I laughed self-consciously. "Seems solid."
"Are we using names yet or only archetypes?
I enjoy a good archetype." Her grin was sharp and kind at the same time.
"I'm doing a piece on the Storm's playoff run for Off the Ice.
Do you want to give me the civilian boyfriend's perspective?
In exchange, I promise not to refer to your partner as Thunder Bay's cuddliest bruiser unless absolutely necessary. "
"You already decided you're using that," I said.
"I already decided I'm using that," she agreed. "But I can also quote you saying you hate it."
I ordered coffee and sat for a minute, the room's warmth bleeding the cold out of my hands.
Juno asked questions that were statements in disguise.
How the town felt this year. Whether something had shifted.
If it was true that the arena's pipes had stopped groaning during home games and started singing instead.
"You look more relaxed than the players I've interviewed," she said at one point, head tipped as if lining up the angle of a shot.
"I'm not worried about getting traded."
She threw me a salute with her pen. "Excellent answer." Then, softer, "How's your mom?"
"Better. Different. In a good way."
She nodded, typed something, and moved on. When she closed her laptop, she told me she'd be at the Fort William Gardens for practice with her recorder and her best behavior. "Tell your man to pretend I'm not there."
"He can't pretend anything. He's a billboard that walks."
"Love a walking billboard," she said. "See you."
I left with caffeine in my veins. Being seen didn't agitate anymore. It was more like wind at my back.
When I knocked and let myself in, Hog's apartment smelled like eucalyptus and laundry soap.
The lamp by the couch cast a soft pool of light over the room, catching the metal stubs of his gear rack near the radiator.
He sprawled across the cushions like a man who'd been poured there.
A towel slid off his shoulder when he twisted to look at me.
"Just maintenance on the ol' machinery," he said.
"Hi." He started to sit up, and I waved him down. "Stay."
I took the ice pack, set it aside, and slid my palm along the warm curve of his shoulder. His skin was hot all the way down to his elbow.
"You've got heat down to here," I said. "Intimidation elbow?"
"That's the part I throw my vibes with," he muttered, eyes half-closed. "Rhett Mason, hypnotist. Fix me."
"I'm a contractor." I grabbed the tube of heat rub he'd set on the coffee table and warmed some between my hands. The smell rose—menthol. He closed his eyes as I started to work it in, slow circles anchored with my thumbs.
He tried to joke through it, but his voice kept trailing into a ragged breath when I hit the right places. Coach Rusk's name came up once, in a muttered curse that dissolved into a sigh.
"You're pressing with your whole hand," he said, a little dazed.
"That's how hands work. You have a lot of shoulder."
"You say the sexiest things."
I didn't rush. Touch had always been the language that made the most sense to me. Not grand pronouncements. Not even promises, though we made those now and meant them.
Hog was quiet. I smoothed the last of the rub high along the curve where his neck and shoulder met. He turned his head just enough to kiss the inside of my wrist, and that was when sparks began arcing through the air.
I didn't make him wait. My hand—slick with rub and still warm—slid down from his shoulder and over his chest, following the trail of auburn hair that disappeared beneath his waistband. His skin burned hot under my touch, muscles tensing with each inch I traveled lower.
He sucked in a sharp breath when I reached the elastic. "You don't have to—"
"I know." I kissed him hard, swallowing the rest of his protest. "I want to. I need to feel you."
His sweatpants were loose, easy to push down his thighs. His cock sprang free, already fully hard, flushed and leaking at the tip. When I wrapped my hand around him, squeezing with just enough pressure, he whimpered and arched his hips desperately toward my grip.
"Oh, hell," he moaned against my mouth, his breath coming in ragged pants. "Fuck."
I took my time, stroking him with deliberate, twisting motions, thumbing over the sensitive head on each upstroke, spreading the precum there.
It wasn't about speed or proving anything.
It was about watching him come for me, memorizing every twitch and gasp, knowing and caring for Hog in the most intimate way possible.
His good hand grabbed my shirt, twisting the fabric hard enough that I heard a seam tear. His hips bucked up into my fist, seeking more friction. "You're—" He lost the thread when I twisted my wrist and increased my pace. "Fuck, Rhett, you're going to make me—"
"I've got you," I whispered, my voice rough with desire. "Let go. I want to see you come for me."
He was close, trembling on the edge. His entire body was tight and focused, cock throbbing in my grip.
When I leaned down to kiss him again—slower this time, deliberate and deep—and simultaneously tightened my grip, he came apart in my hand, hot pulses spilling over my fingers as he groaned my name.
The sound he made was quiet, almost startled, like he'd forgotten pleasure could land this soft. His whole body went rigid and then liquid, the fight spilling out of him all at once.
I worked him through it, gentler now, until sensitivity turned sharp and he was pushing weakly at my forearm, half-laughing.
"Stop," he managed. "I concede. You win."
"Wasn't a competition."
"Everything's a competition." He sprawled boneless against the couch. He covered his face with his forearm and said, muffled, "You're dangerous."
"I'm efficient." I wiped my hands, tucked the towel back into place on his shoulder, and sat beside him. He caught my wrist and tugged until I lay along his side, my ear over his heart.
We didn't talk for a while. The heater ticked. Somewhere in the building, someone's dishwasher clicked over to another cycle. Hog's fingertips traced lazy shapes along my forearm, and I let mine drift over his ribs.
"You did good today."
"I lay on your couch like a beached manatee."
"At practice," I said. "And also on my couch. Excellence is a lifestyle."
He snorted, then winced when that moved his shoulder. I shifted a little higher, tucking myself tighter against him.
"Tyler asked if my boyfriend was going to come watch again."
"Tyler," he repeated, like it was a code word. "Is he the little guy with the giant opinions?"
"That's all of them," I said. "He's the small one with the loudest giant opinions."
"Then yes. If I can skate, I'll be there."
We drifted toward sleep with the TV humming something forgettable. I must have dozed, because when I spoke again, my voice came out thick and raspy.
"Feels like home."
Hog's hand tightened where it rested against my forearm. He didn't make a joke. He didn't perform. He only answered, "Guess I'm staying, then."
We laughed simultaneously, the sound quiet and easy, our fingers still threaded together.
Outside the window, snow started up again, feathering the glass.
It was the nearly silent storm that you didn't notice until you looked out and realized the world had changed while you weren't paying attention.