10. Riley
CHAPTER 10
RILEY
After three days in the hospital with a never ending rotation of hockey players at my bedside, going home is akin to having an orgasm after hours of edging. It doesn’t hurt that Griffin has taken over my role of Mama Hen and refuses to let me stand and cook my own meals.
Or bathe on my own. Which has resulted in some rather glorious blowjobs.
But today starts the regular season, and Griffin is off playing against the Pumas: a fearsome starting match.
He didn’t leave me unattended, though. Locke is standing at our kitchen counter holding a plate of sandwiches—two peanut butter and jellies—and chips.
“I don’t know why he sent me. I don’t cook.”
I laugh, swinging onto the couch as gently as possible and reaching back to lean my crutches against the wall. “Because Grif thinks I need a babysitter.”
Locke squishes his lips into a line and puts the plate on the coffee table, blowing some stray hair from his eyes that’s fallen out of its elastic.
“Uh oh. I know we aren’t besties or anything, but I do know that look. That’s your ‘I don’t approve’ look.”
He frowns and swats my hand when I go to reach for the food. “That is not a face I have.”
“Mhm.” This time I do get the sandwich off the plate and stuff a bite in my mouth. “You have it every time you see me and Griff together.”
Locke’s jaw drops, but he quickly closes it and crosses his arms. “That’s not it. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“I’m not,” I say and offer him a smile. “I don’t judge you for it, either. I know that basically being our beard has to suck for you.”
The frown on his face softens, and he walks around to sit beside me on the couch. “It’s not a hardship. Griff has done a lot for me over the years—I can give him this. I just…”
He leans forward, pinching the skin of his thumb between his teeth. “I don’t want you to lead him on. Make him think there’s more to offer than what you’re willing to give him.”
I set the rest of the food down on the plate and nod in confirmation, even if my smile is tight and makes my chest hurt. “He knows where our boundaries are.”
His words from the hospital echo in my head. Wanting me to come out to the team. Wanting to let others into the fraction of the world we’ve made for ourselves.
“Griffin is great at respecting boundaries. Not so great at setting them.”
Locke might be the only person who knows, and that’s mostly because Griff insisted that he was physically incapable of keeping those kinds of secrets from him. Honestly, I like the guy, so it didn’t feel as scary.
“Are you suggesting I break up with him?” The words alone sound absurd, like someone ripping into my ribcage with the jaws of life threatening to tear him out of me.
Locke scoffs and tugs on the band in his hair until it all cascades around his shoulders. “What I’m suggesting is you meet his needs the way he meets yours.”
My computer on the table in front of us dings with the start of the game. It takes both of our attention, though I imagine it’s as much pretend on Locke’s part as it is on mine.
We watch the entire first period with not a single goal being made on either side before Locke stands and stretches. “I’m going to hit the shower. Let me know if he breaks any bones.”
Griff has been on his relative best behavior since the surgery. He listens to Coach, runs his drills, and ends our preseason on a high note. I don’t know what lit a fire under his ass, but I’m damn glad it did.
This game seems to be following that pattern. Our team is struggling to score, but so is theirs, and it’s not for lack of trying. Griff is barely letting air through the net, let alone a puck.
Halfway through the second period, though, something starts to shift. There’s a player from the opposing team hanging away from the others. He’s spending an awful lot of time in our defensive zone, getting near the crease but not crossing into it.
That’s not where the cameras focus, so I don’t actually see much of what’s going on, but when the gloves come off, all attention is directed at our goaltender.
What was I saying about him being on his best behavior? It’s a nasty set of punches that gets a ref yanking him away and Coach yelling from the sides.
He shoves his helmet off, lunges for the guy again—and this is beyond a typical fight. They’re going to bench Griff and send out Roman.
Fuck.
That’s a match penalty, which means Griff is off the ice like a bullet, and the way he barks at Coach says he’s still got one in the chamber. The rest of the game is rough to watch. Not because we’re playing badly but because I know Griff has to be going out of his mind. As soon as the match ends, as soon as we get our first official loss of the season, I pull my phone out and stare.
A few minutes later, it rings.
I don’t need to look at it to know who it is.
“Don’t say it,” Griff’s rumbly grit barrels through the phone. “Coach already chewed me out.”
“You called me, hotshot.”
I can practically hear him roll his eyes.
“Because I need you to talk me off a ledge.”
“Wanna tell me what that was about?”
“Fuck no.”
Not that Griff needs much to be provoked into throwing down his gloves, but there’s usually a pretty good reason for it. Especially with Coach on his back the way he has been.
“Just wanted to hear my voice?”
“Fuck you. Maybe.”
Something squeaks, and then the sound of water on tile echoes down the line.
“Are you showering?”
There’s the rustle of clothes hitting the floor, then a puff of laughter hits my ear. “Might as well. Burn this anger off before the guys get here. Said they’d give me a few minutes.”
I’ve talked Griff down from some of his spells a couple times throughout the years, but never where I couldn’t physically put my hands on him. Couldn’t kiss him or work the tension out of his body with my fingers.
“You sure laid into that guy, huh?”
“Not talking about it, Riles.”
His tone is punchy and tired, and we won’t be getting anywhere as long as he’s this worked up.
“Hey.”
“Hm?” His voice is slightly muffled, so I can imagine he’s got his head dipped under the water, probably propped the phone on the soap stand, though having me on speaker isn’t the safest idea.
Maybe we could both use a little danger, even if the thought makes me a little anxious because my boyfriend’s best friend happens to be down the hall.
“You know I’m fucking proud of you, right?”
All I hear is the water for several seconds before he scoffs.
“For punching a dude’s lights out? You’ve got low standards, Easton.”
I smile and wish I could see the eye roll he’s definitely giving me.
“No, I just know my boyfriend. I know people only make your shit list when they break your honor code. And I know that when you get into fights we always come back to the house and have really hot sex.”
“Fuck,” he curses, and then there’s some shuffling around, his voice right in my ear when he speaks again. “Don’t make me hard right now when there’s nothing you can do about it.”
I hum and lean back on the couch, moving the phone away for just a second to listen for Locke and peer at the bathroom door: sealed shut with the light on.
“Who says I won’t do anything about it?”
We’ve had phone sex before. Over the summers when I go home to see my parents and Parker, but this feels different.
Almost exciting.
“Tell me you don’t want to wrap your hands around your cock and pretend I’m behind you, jerking you slow while I rut between your cheeks.”
Griffin’s breathing deepens, and if I close my eyes I can practically see him pumping his shaft slow with anticipation.
“Fuck no,” he growls with a short moan. “I’d need it quick. Rough. On your knees with me buried in your throat. You’d have to take it, Riley, because I’m too fucking keyed up.”
Okay, yeah, whatever it was had to be bad. Griff is about as dominant in bed as a labrador retriever. Bossy, sure. Loves to goad me into pounding his ass, but he’s surprisingly gentle when it comes to handling me unless I’ve given him the go-ahead.
Or if something has really gotten under his skin.
“Do it, hotshot.” I lower my voice and let the deep timbre seep in. “Squeeze your fist around the head and slowly drag it down. Let me lick your naked tip and drink all the sweet precum you can give me.”
The breathless pants coming down the line tell me that he isn’t following instructions, but the gasp of my name at least confirms I’ve got his attention.
“Too slow. Fuck. Riley. I need you.” His sentence dips off on a whimper, and knowing there’s no way he can last long like this, I switch tactics.
“How about this, baby? You fuck my throat good and raw; take it all out on me. Drain those big ass balls of yours, and when you get back to the room later, I’ll lay you out and fuck all of that frustration right out of you. Sound good?”
“Oh god. Oh god. Dammit, dammit, dammit!” He shouts, though it sounds like something is smothering the sound, and then he’s gasping and groaning in that way he does when he comes.
The sounds are so loud in my ear that I miss a door opening and footsteps coming down the hall until Locke is standing on the other side of the coffee table with his hands on his hips and his brows raised.
I don’t think I was particularly loud with any of that, but then I realize that I’m sitting with my legs splayed wide and an erection tenting my shorts.
“You okay, baby?”
Locke shakes his head, but he’s got a smile on his face now as he turns and heads into the kitchen.
Griff laughs hot and heavy in my ear, ending on a groan and the soft patter of the shower shutting off.
“I miss you.”
“You’ll be home in a few days.” The team has two out of state games in a row, and even if I feel a pang in my chest to say the words, I know in the scheme of things this isn’t the worst it’ll be. If we make it to the playoffs this year, the distance is going to suck.
“I don’t want to be home. I want to go to the bar and drink all this shit away, but I want you to be there. I want you to sit in the booth with your arm around me and let me pass out on your shoulder. I want to go back to the hotel room with you, and I want you to fucking hold me so I can start my morning off knowing that I have you. That you’re mine. That it doesn’t matter how good or bad I play; if I fuck up or cost us the win. You’re with me anyway.”
My mind goes painstakingly blank. How do you respond to that? How do you tell the man you’ve practically handed your heart to on a platter that it’s your own stupidity keeping you apart?
Not just because I didn’t take care of my leg like I should have after the initial injury, but because it’s my own fucked up anxiety keeping us from going public.
There’s nothing I can say to make up for any of that, but I wet my lips and do my best with the quaking breath that comes out.
“I’m with you, Griff. Always with you.”
He sighs, and neither of us speaks as he steps into his clothes, as he sits down on the bench and sighs again.
“I love you, Riley.” Tiredness pours from those four little words.
Four words that punch me in the gut and knock the breath out of my lungs.
Before I can muster up the courage to say it back—before I can say anything at all—the line clicks, and the call drops.
Pacing the floor with crutches is a lot slower and a lot less satisfying than if I could do it on my own. Locke doesn’t seem to think so, because he’s sitting on the couch drumming his fingers over his knee with a pinched expression.
“This is driving you insane,” he says, and I snort.
“You think?”
I want to be with my team. Playing or not, it doesn’t feel right sitting around here while they work their asses off.
I want to be with Griff.
“You’re giving me a migraine. C’mon.”
Locke stands, pats his pockets, and motions to the door.
For the first time in twenty minutes, I stop. My arms hurt like hell from the damn crutches.
“What?”
“You’re a hockey player. I’m going to bet that duffle bag sitting next to the TV has clothes and essentials in it? Either because you’re as anal as Griff about being prepared or because he made you pack one. Grab it and get in the damn car.”
Griff did pack me a bag actually. Right before he left because it’s his pregame tradition. He always packs our stuff the night before a game and has it sitting by the door.
“It’s a nine hour drive.”
“So we’ll have plenty of chances to bond. Griff will love that.”
“Coach and Nash will be pissed.”
Locke rolls his eyes. “Griff is going to drink himself silly tonight. He hates alcohol, but if he’s that tore up… he’s going to need you in the morning.”
I need him, too.
God, do I need him.
I need to hold him and kiss him and laugh with him. I need to feel his rough hand in mine and remind myself this is real.
We’re real.
A little uncertainty about my future can’t take that away.