13. Riley
Riley’s dream of playing for the NHL was slowly slipping away, and it was all Kingston Sloan’s fault.
He had thought that accidentally dragging Sloan to Jake’s place might build bridges of tolerance between them, especially since he was so well-behaved for the visit.
That assumption turned out to be wrong, because while Sloan was happy to snuggle with Allen and smile at Jake, he drew the line when it came to Riley in everything.
Living together? Seething, angry silence.
Travelling to the rink together? Don’t talk to him or look at him.
Practicing passes together? Good luck, because Sloan would rather pass to an imaginary player skating in the wrong direction than give a puck to Riley.
Locker room bonding and shower time? Avoidance. Icy-cold avoidance that smothered any spark of cheer in the space.
Riley couldn’t live like this for much longer. At this rate, his life would get easier if he quit, played in the beer league with Jake, and focused on furthering his education. Maybe he could open a sports merchandise business and partner with the Citadels? That was an option, right?
Sure, he wasn’t artistic, but he could play the piano and the guitar. Some of those skills had to be transferable to other sections of his creative side.
Hell, he could start a band. Rock and Roll was cool—he could be the lead singer and release his anger by screaming into a mic instead of throwing fists in hockey.
It wasn’t impossible, just…boring.
“Evans!”
The voice shouting at him was Sloan’s, which was weird because they hadn’t spoken in weeks.
Startled, Riley whipped his head to the side, catching a glimpse of Sloan’s slack-jawed expression for a split second before he collided with the solid boards.
Riley’s skates slipped out from under him, and he toppled backward, crashing into the ice with enough force to make his lungs spasm and then seize.
Instinct drove him to flip over and push onto his knees, but he was already standing when shouting voices approached and hands reached out to steady him.
Humiliated, Riley kept his head bent as Coach Sullivan gripped the collar of his sweater, holding him in place while the medical team checked him for injuries and asked rapid-fire questions.
It’s not like he could answer them when his lungs refused to work, but no one was paying attention to him anyway.
“Was there contact between his head and the ice?” Lloyd Cooper, the Citadel’s team physician, asked everyone. “Did anyone see?”
Riley tried to shake his head, but someone held it still.
He didn’t take a hit to his skull, but his ego—that was a different story.
“Loss of consciousness?” Lloyd asked him, his cold fingers pressing against his face as someone else removed Riley’s helmet. “Is your head hurting, Mr. Evans?”
“I’m fine,” Riley rasped. The extra fuss was making his cheeks burn as he met the concerned looks of everyone around him. “I was thinking about something dumb and wasn’t paying attention. I’m good. I swear.”
Riley knew practice was over for him, and at the rate he was going, so was his career.
“Off the ice,” Coach Sullivan ordered. “We’ll get you evaluated and send you home for the day, just to make sure. I’m not taking any chances, Evans. We need you healthy before the season begins.”
Riley shrugged. He was in no position to argue with his coach or the doctors, and concussion protocol was taken seriously in his line of work.
He had no choice but to be carted off the ice by several of the staff while his teammates watched, murmuring words of encouragement that did nothing to soothe his frayed nerves.
Once he was sitting in his stall and had taken a small mouthful of water to wet his dry throat, he was quickly evaluated and deemed physically okay, but he was still being sent home.
“I told Sloan he’s done for the day, too,” Coach Sullivan said to Dr. Cooper, talking softly over Riley’s lowered head. “He knows what to look out for, and I made sure he had your number in case he has questions.”
Dr. Cooper hummed and set a firm hand on Riley’s slumped shoulder. “I don’t think there’s any need for concern, but it’s good to know his roommate will be there to take care of him.”
Riley let out a snort without meaning to, but the thought of Sloan caring for him was so pitiful that he couldn’t help himself.
The silence in the room was loud, and Riley’s pulse reacted, sending blood rushing to his face and neck again.
God. He just couldn’t keep his mouth shut, and he could feel the hole that he was trapped in getting deeper and deeper.
“You’re both a pain in the ass,” said Coach Sullivan. “And you’re both lucky that I can see your potential better than you can.”
Coach tapped Riley’s shin pad with her stick, and Dr. Cooper’s chuckle only added to his misery.
“Rest tomorrow, and I’ll see you on Monday at eight A.M. sharp, Evans,” said Coach Sullivan. “Maybe if I convince you and Sloan to hold hands at the team breakfast, you’ll make friends faster.”
The thud of skates approaching told him that Sloan had joined the injury party. Riley could sense his surly teammate’s attitude from across the room.
Panic took hold, and Riley lifted his head to send a pleading look at his coach and the doctor. “I have friends I can stay with. I don’t need—”
“I got him,” Sloan said, shoving himself into the conversation. “He’s coming with me.”
Then Sloan literally shoved himself into Riley’s space, and Dr. Cooper and Coach Sullivan disappeared behind a towering body with white-blond hair, blue eyes, and a glare.
Sloan put his hand on the shoulder that Dr. Cooper squeezed, but his grip was less friendly and borderline painful.
Riley glowered at Sloan as Coach and the medical team cleared the room, and then it was just the two of them battling it out silently with their frowns.
It was stupid and childish, but when Sloan blinked first, Riley grinned and said, “I win.”
Sloan blinked again, and then he rolled his eyes and stepped away, giving them more space to breathe.
“You definitely have brain damage,” Sloan snarked. “Get out of your gear so we can shower and leave. I’ll fry up some carbs, and you can rest your eyes while I put a game on or something.”
They were talking without fighting. Sure, Sloan was pissed, but at least they were communicating again.
Not wanting to make matters worse, Riley gave in to Sloan’s demands and started stripping his gear. Despite not hitting his head hard, it was beginning to ache with the adrenaline wearing off.
Riley wasn’t concerned about it. He didn’t lose consciousness, and he had no other symptoms. His head would be fine.
He followed Sloan to the showers, pausing when Sloan took the spot beside him with a sigh and aggressively turned the tap on.
Riley made a point of looking across the row of unoccupied showerheads and back at Sloan, but all he got for his effort was a furrowed brow and a sneer.
“Do you know how much shit I would be in if you decided to throw yourself at a wall again and fall?” Sloan grumbled. “I’m sticking close because you’re a spazz.”
Riley took a moment to wash his hair before he answered, breathing deeply to keep his temper from sizzling to a boiling point.
“I didn’t mean to skate into the wall,” he said after his brief meditation.
“There are a lot of problems I’ve been overthinking lately, and I picked the worst time to mentally sort them out.
I’m not hurt, and I don’t have a concussion.
I’m aching because the ice is hard, and I got the wind knocked out of me. I don’t need to be watched—”
A hand slapped over his mouth, and he was shoved back, bumping against the wall with as little force as possible. Riley cringed and waited for his head to hit the tile as he stumbled, but a second hand was there to stop the impact, cushioning it before that could happen.
“Mmmf muhh fuhh—!” Riley twisted, fighting to get out of Sloan’s hold, but his balance was off, and his attacker had been selected as an enforcer for a reason. Sloan was sixty percent muscle and forty percent rage, so Riley didn’t stand a chance in hell.
“Listen, you dumb mother fucker,” Sloan hissed. “Do you even know how hard you hit your head? It bounced like a basketball, which is fitting because you have air in place of a brain, so let me spell it out for you.”
Riley felt like this conversation could be had without his dick high-fiving Sloan’s, but it’s not like he could suggest that when he was being suffocated.
“I need you right now,” Sloan continued, bringing his face so close that his nose bumped the hand covering Riley’s mouth.
“I don’t have time for your whining, your problems or your macho showboating.
I need you to not die of a brain bleed in the next twenty-four hours so you can get your ass back onto the ice and figure out how to play hockey without ending up on IR. ”
Ah, fuck it. Riley was done holding himself back from a fight.
Taking hold of Sloan’s hand, Riley ripped it away from his mouth with a frustrated growl. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do this whole time?! Don’t act like you’re worried about our chemistry when it’s your fault we have none!”
He was waiting for Sloan to step back—waiting for him to put space between them so this was less awkward—but he didn’t.
Sloan didn’t yell, curse or sneer like Riley was expecting.
Instead, his blue eyes flicked down, lingering on Riley’s mouth too long for it to be an accident, then flicked back up.
“Evans, you’re not the only one here with problems to overthink,” Sloan said, his voice lowering enough that it sent warning signals straight to Riley’s flight instincts. “You’re driving me insane, you know that, right?”
They were too close. Too fucking close.