8. Riley
CHAPTER 8
RILEY
“For the millionth time: I’m fine.”
It doesn’t matter how many times I say it, Griff still paces the length of the hospital room in front of my bed like he’s running drills.
He got a call from Coach maybe an hour ago where he swore into the phone and nearly chucked it at the wall, but he refuses to tell me what it was about.
I can guess, though.
We lost. Without two suited goalies in the building, we’d be in a rules violation.
Now we’re waiting on the doctor to come back with news from my scans.
Scans that could very well spell out the end of my career, which isn’t as frightening as it should be. I’m thirty-two years old; I’ve had a good run, but I was banking on one last season with my team.
I never told Griff, but I’d been in talks about my contract running out and how I wanted to quit while things were still going strong.
It appears ‘things’ decided they weren’t so good after all because the pain when I woke up this morning was nearly unbearable.
That happens sometimes when you’ve had half the bones in your leg reconstructed. I figured it would pass, so I spent the day in the weight room taking it easy.
Game time rolled around, and I had to push through it. Took one too many falls, and then the agony lit me up like a forest fire.
“‘Fine’ is what you say after a concussion. Or some bruised ribs. Your leg is fucking purple, Easton.” There’s an edge of panic in his voice, and I hold out a hand that he latches onto like a lifeline.
You’d think he’s the one lying in the hospital bed right now.
“I’ve been here before,” I tell him, swallowing my apprehension. “It sucks. But they’ll fix me up, and I’ll be alright.”
“Will you be alright if this takes you out of the game?” Sarcasm drips from his words, and I only squeeze his fingers tighter.
“And here I was thinking you’d be worried about our sex life.” I say it low and with a growl that makes Griffin shiver. Makes his eyes darken a bit as they finally rest on mine.
“I’m not afraid to put in the work for that.” We’re both grateful for the distraction; sex tends to be good for that, and it’s our fall back when things get too real—too serious.
It doesn’t work for long though, because worry clouds his expression as he drops into the chair beside the bed, pressing our linked hands to his forehead.
“This is my fault.”
I run my other hand through his messy helmet hair and tug until he looks at me with watery eyes.
“Texas played dirty, and I’ve always been a liability. This leg was going to catch up with me at some point.”
“But I put bad juju into this game.” He squeezes my fingers and presses our knuckles to his lips. “I was a cocky shit who had plans centered around us winning, and the hockey gods decided to smite you for it.”
I don’t know how to reply to that, trying to come up with something lighthearted, but his self-deprecating laugh fills that void.
“Just another penalty someone has to take for my screw ups.”
“Hey now.” I finally free my hand so I can cup his cheeks and drag his attention back to me and not the floor. “We all do a lot of stupid things on game days. We’re a superstitious lot. Nothing you did holds any more weight than the rest of us.”
“The universe is laughing at me.”
“You give the universe too much credit.”
Those stormy eyes clash with mine, flick to the door for a beat, and then come back just as his lips descend on mine with a quiet urgency.
“I don’t want to keep you a secret anymore,” he whispers against my mouth, and I hate how all my muscles tense at the words. “Not from the people that matter.”
“Griff. What…?”
“I was going to ask if you were ready to come out to the team. There was a whole plan. It banked on us winning. I was sure that the universe agreed. That me and you—together we could do this.”
I’m frozen, any and all responses drowned out by the chaotic clutter twisting around in my head.
“I didn’t know you wanted that.” My reply is quiet and raw.
Griffin smiles, but it’s sad, like he knew that would be my answer but it still hurts to hear.
“I’ve always wanted that.” He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and shrugs. “But I’ve wanted you more.”
I knew going into this with Griff that keeping us a secret was a big ask. He was adamant that he was okay with it. With me not being ready to come out.
Deep down, I’ve known it’s too much for anyone.
Just like it became too much for Matty.
“Not to everyone,” he speaks into the silence we lapsed into. “Just to the team. Just the guys.”
I want to give him that. I want to want to give him that.
Something always gets in my way, makes me panic. If I could live my entire life without having to tell a single soul, I’d go live in a cabin in the woods and board the two of us up.
That wouldn’t be fair to Griffin.
I can’t give him words; I don’t have an answer that would erase the frown lines from his face, but I can card my hand into his hair and draw him in for another kiss.
It’s slow, sweet, and soft. The opposite of how we started.
We hold each other, Griff just short of climbing into bed with me. He clasps onto the back of my neck, his other hand slipping under my hospital gown to knead the meat of my thigh.
The cool air grows warm as the tension and friction between us picks up. It’s intimate but not sexual. Griffin’s heart bleeds into mine with every press of his lips, with every swirl of his tongue, with every quiet whimper he thinks I don’t hear but that I feel in every fiber of my being.
I hear footsteps that sound too close, and I instantly regret the way I stiffen and stop responding to the kiss.
Griffin pulls away with a tight smile, looking toward the door as it clicks open.
Doctor Nash has been with the team for a couple of years, so I know without a shadow of a doubt that the look on his face isn’t a good one. There’s an older doctor with him, the one I saw when they first admitted me, and he’s got an envelope in hand that I can only assume are my scans.
“Mr. Easton.” Nash nods to me, then furrows his brow just slightly. “Foster.”
Griffin is back in his own chair—a reasonable distance for a worried teammate—and I already miss his warmth.
“What do we got, Doc?” I twine my hands together in my lap to distract from the tremble starting up.
I’ve been preparing for this for years. Ever since that first awful break in the majors.
“We’re looking at surgery,” Nash says as the other doctor pulls out some of the scans. “I’m not going to lie to you, Easton; this is going to put you out for the rest of the season. And I can’t in good conscience tell you to aim for getting back on the ice at all.”
There it is. It should feel like a blow. I should feel like my life’s purpose has just been ripped from me.
But it hasn’t. I’ve been playing on borrowed time—getting by for the sake of it—for so long that what I feel is almost akin to relief.
And then I catch a glimpse of Griffin’s heartbroken expression. Just a glimpse before he masks it with a clenched jaw.
“But you’ll work with me through healing, won’t you?” I ask. “Until I decide to quit or you deem me unfit to return?”
Doctor Nash rolls his eyes but nods. “I won’t be leaving any players behind. Especially not one as resilient as you.”
He saw me through the ACL tear two years ago, and he kept a close eye on me when I joined the team in the first place. I traded between a few teams when I came down from the NAPH because everyone was worried how a damaged major league player would play.
Coach Pickman and Doctor Nash were the first people to take a chance on me.
Looks like that chance has run its course.
They tell me that they’ll get the surgery scheduled for some time in the next few days, and that they’ll keep me here until then. I can see that Griffin wants to object, wants there to be any other solution than this one, but this is where we are. This is where the chips fall.
Once it’s just the two of us again, Griffin wastes no time climbing into the bed on my uninjured side. I wrap my arm around his shoulders, and he rests his cheek on my chest. It’s silent other than the sounds of our breathing and the soft rustle of clothes as I stroke over his back.
“It’s not the end of the world,” I say, and he turns his face into my neck. “Better than one of us getting traded.”
He huffs a quiet laugh into my skin and tightens his arm around my waist.
“What? You mean you’re just going to laze around at home alone, waiting for me to come back from games or practice like a 1950’s househusband?”
The cheekiness earns him a pinch to his side, and when he laughs I brush my nose through his hair and breathe him in.
“They didn’t have househusbands then.”
“Shut up.”
He tips his head up, bright eyes watching me with a hint of mist at the corners, and I couldn’t say which one of us initiates, but one second we’re sharing an intimate moment, and the next we’re all teeth and tongues and hands.
There’s a prickling sensation in my spine that warns me we could be caught, but Griff’s pressure on top of me, his mouth hungry on mine, it takes that worry and washes it down to the recesses of my mind.
He avoids bearing his weight on my lap, instead sitting up on his knees—caging my body—and leaning down to keep us connected. It’d be a lie to say the attention isn’t making me hard, but I don’t have the balls to ask him to jerk me off in a damn hospital room.
That doesn’t mean his hand traveling down my body doesn’t find my erection and give it a gentle tug.
“So naughty,” he grunts into my mouth, abandoning my cock to briefly rut his own against me.
When I wince, he pulls back, lips shiny and spit slicked as he swipes his tongue over them to taste us.
“I’m here for you, Riley.” Griff grabs my hand and places it over his heart. “No matter how this changes things. I want you in my life. Not just as my teammate or as my roommate, but as my partner.”
It’s not a discussion we’ve had, but goddamn does it feel right.
If I’m not playing hockey—if the excuse of not wanting the attention of an entire league on me for being queer is gone—does that mean I have to look at this part of myself that I’ve only ever allowed to live in the shadows out in the light?
Does that mean it’s time to stop hiding?
Am I ready for that?
Griffin takes my hand and drags it down his body, down the front of his jersey our equipment manager is going to kill him for taking out of the arena, down to the strain in his slacks.
I dart my eyes to the door, but Griffin groans deep and drags my attention back to him. Back to the heat in his emotion filled eyes.
“Touch me, Riley.”
I wrap my fingers around the outline of his length and give it a few slow, sensual strokes. His eyes flutter closed, and his head drops back as a rumbled moan slips from his throat.
“You’re mine,” he whispers as I find the damp spot around his tip and smooth over it with my thumb. “Even if it’s in secret: you’re mine.”
I don’t refute him, because he’s right. I’ve only ever cared for one other person the way I care for him, and it never held the intensity that I feel when I’m with Griffin—it doesn’t hold a candle to the pull he has on me.
He fucks his covered cock into my fist until his entire body stiffens and he spills into his jockstrap. I stroke him through it, watching the wet spot grow with a smug satisfaction.
His fingers fit under my chin, and he draws my eyes from his orgasm to his face. He’s heaving, and I wish he’d kiss me again even if it’s just to ease the ache blooming in my chest.
“I’m yours, Riley Easton. Whatever you do with me, I’m yours.”
But how fair is it of me to ask him to live a lie for the rest of his life? What if I can never accept us out in the open? What if something always holds me back?
I prop up on my elbows, and Griffin meets my waiting mouth with his eager one. It’s quick, reassuring, and then he’s climbing down and pressing his budding smile to my cheek.
“How about I run home and grab some clothes? Looks like we might be here a while.”
“You’ve still got games to play, hotshot.”
He grins full and wide this time, throwing me a wink as he grabs his phone off the side table and starts typing in for an Uber.
“And I’ll kick ass at every single one. But you come first. If I’m not on the ice, I’m going to be right here driving you insane.”
I bite back my own smile. “You’re acting like a proper boyfriend.”
Griffin rolls his eyes and taps his phone to my shoulder. “That would be because I am your boyfriend.”
A fluttering sensation that feels like nerves and happiness spring to life in my gut. I hate that I have to swallow a bitter pill around it.
“Be careful. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of other visitors.”
His smile dims, and he rolls his lip between his teeth again. The hurt in his eyes is worse than the pain in my leg, even without the painkillers. I wish I could do something to ease it, and though I know exactly what could, I can’t bring myself to say the words.
So, he places another kiss on the top of my head, ruffles my hair that’s in desperate need of a dye, and steps back.
It shouldn’t feel like a crater making home in the space between us, but it does.
“I’ll be back with your stuff.” A tight smile and a wave, then he’s gone, leaving me with my mountain of regret.
I want to give Griff more.
I want to give him everything.
But I can’t quiet the nagging voice that says I don’t deserve it.
I don’t deserve him.