Chapter 4
DEVON
Even with the trainers and all the equipment needed for a great workout at the rink, I laced up my shoes and hit the streets for a run. Abbotsford was nearly deserted this Saturday morning, at God knew what hour. Still dark, heavily raining, a bit of wind and just awful.
Masochist.
Ha, you wish.
My little Sadist’s heart laughed as I waved to an intrepid pet parent walking a large dog wearing a pink vinyl coat. Damn dog was drier than I was.
The owner waved and gave what I thought was a smile. Given that I had already passed them, I hadn’t even noted the owner’s gender. Average height and average build. I would be useless if the cops asked me for a description.
But I could tell them the exact hue of brown that Jack Showalter’s eyes were. Or how his pupils dilated when he was aroused. The shade of pink his ass turned when he was spanked. How he dribbled a little bit of spit down his chin while I fucked his face.
Christ Jesus.
Said in my head in that French way my mother had. Because that way led to utter madness.
Right, like you wouldn’t get him under you again in an instant. A crook of his finger—
Yeah, except I’d be doing the crooking. I’d demanded he kiss me last night. Because consent was a thing. Because I hadn’t actually believed he’d do it. Because once he had, I’d needed to dominate every fucking aspect of that amazing kiss.
The rain lashing my face and soaking my tracksuit ensured I didn’t get a boner.
Another reason I was pounding the pavement as a way to work out my frustrations.
If I took this amount of negative energy with me to the rink, I risked someone thinking I wasn’t happy to be here.
Or, even worse, asking me if I was okay.
I fucking hated being asked if I was okay. In some ways, I was always okay. I got up, exercised, then focused on hockey, French literature, or both. In other ways, since I was ten years old, I hadn’t been okay.
Fucking amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.
Fucking ALS.
Fucking Lou Gehrig’s disease.
The doctors could call it a million different things, but it hadn’t mattered. As my mother lost her ability to walk, to feed herself, to communicate, and eventually to breathe, what the experts called it didn’t matter. She’d been gone thirteen years, and it still pierced my heart.
I checked both ways twice before crossing the street. I’d forgotten to wear something reflective, and my rain-soaked gray sweats were nearly black.
Putting one foot in front of the other was all I knew how to do.
Canada hadn’t had MAID back when Mom was in the final stages of her illness.
When she was too sick for me to take care of her by myself.
Medical Assistance in Dying was such a civilized thing.
And if I ever had some terminal illness, I’d use it—to say goodbye to the world at a time of my own choosing.
To not force my loved ones to suffer as I slowly died.
I didn’t believe in an afterlife. One died, their body was disposed of, and their memory lived on in the hearts of those who loved them.
That way, I could tell myself my mother wasn’t really dead. Because she lived in every beat of my heart.
Which was also bullshit. Because no one would grieve for me. So I wouldn’t live on in anyone’s heart. Fuck, that was so pathetic.
I turned down a side street.
Dead end.
Sometimes that felt like the story of my life.
I sprinted to the end of the street, turned around, and walked back.
I needed to check my watch to get my bearings.
I hadn’t been running that long, and although the trip back to the hotel would be longer, I’d still have plenty of time to shower, eat breakfast, and make my way to the rink.
Coach had said eleven, right? At least I was ninety-nine percent certain he’d been joking about six am.
If things had changed, I figured someone would’ve texted me.
Kenny would mourn me. My former D partner would show up at my goddamn funeral and put a fucking rose next to my urn.
Heck, if the service was fancy enough, he might even bring Amanda.
If I lived a few more years, they might bring kids.
He’d point to my photo and say, a long time ago, I was close to him.
Then I met your mom and we sort of drifted apart.
Well, he’d also quit playing hockey and completed an engineering degree at U of T.
He hadn’t had my talent on the ice, that was for sure.
Just like I couldn’t pass calculus to save my life.
Recite eighteenth-century French poetry? Sure. First principle? Not a chance.
I stopped to stretch even as I took stock.
Still no hint of daylight. Not surprising, given the time of year.
I couldn’t wait for the light to come earlier.
Nothing like running during a glorious sunrise.
I’d read that some houses and condos in Abbotsford had a view of Mount Baker—the dormant volcano over in Washington State.
Bet I won’t be able to afford rent on one of those places.
My biggest hope was that I wasn’t stuck with a bedroom facing an alley.
But that had been all Mom had been able to afford during the lean years.
She put me in hockey to curb some of my energy when I was about four.
In a good year when she’d been able to afford the equipment.
As happened to kids, I outgrew those skates and then the pads.
By then, I’d caught the notice of one of the coaches. They hooked Mom up with a local charity that helped kids like me stay in the sport. My stuff was secondhand, but it was always reliable. That I’d made it this far in my career was thanks to a bevy of really good people.
I checked my watch, figured out the quickest route back to the hotel, and started off at a light jog.
Jesus, does this rain ever let up? Not a downpour, but with an intensity and steadiness that rivaled some of the worst rainy days in Toronto.
This time of year, though, Torontonians were up to their eyeballs in snow.
Well, or spring-like weather. One never knew with this climate-change thing.
One day sunny and warm—the next a polar vortex.
Out here, Abbotsford sometimes got cold. More often, they got atmospheric rivers—something I’d never heard of.
The hotel came into view, and I slicked my hair back—trying to avoid having the water run down my face as I entered the lobby. The doors swished open, and I was hit with a blast of hot air.
I blinked at the brightness of the lights. Then I nodded to the front desk clerk as I headed over to the elevators. If they thought it bizarre that someone went for a jog at six in the morning in the pouring rain, they kept that notion to themselves.
The elevator took me up to my floor. I was stripped and in the shower less than three minutes after hitting the door.
My clothes were in a heap on the bathroom floor, and I’d hang them over the shower bar once I was out.
I let the hot water seep into my muscles and, eventually, my bones.
The brutal needles of shock on my skin slowly dissipated into something more like light tingles.
I grabbed the shampoo and washed my hair.
Then I used a nice floral-scented body wash to cleanse myself of the sweat.
I shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. As I grabbed the towel, a memory of flicking one against a guy’s ass assailed me.
Carson?
Carl?
No…Cary. Some guy I’d hooked up with a couple of times.
First names only. That first night I hadn’t brought any of my gear.
My improvised dragon’s tongue had been the seam of the towel, whipped against the back of his upper thigh.
Yeah, that’d made him yelp. And dance. Until I’d ordered him to stand still.
Jesus, I could still remember the tears.
How they streamed down his face. How they tasted when I kissed him.
He’d wanted aftercare once I’d thoroughly undone him.
Fine by me. He’d turned into a cuddly mass of goo as I’d stroked his hair and told him what a good boy he’d been.
I towel-dried my hair and applied a bit of gel.
How would Jack react? If I tore him down to the studs?
Complete demolition? Would he let me hold him?
Let me take care of him? Let me build him back up?
Hard to say. Something lay beneath his craving to be dominated.
I hadn’t had many partners, but I could honestly say none came to submission as naturally as Jack did.
Which left me with about a million questions.
Jesus. Enough already. You can’t have him. You shouldn’t obsess about him. You’re here for hockey.
I was this fucking close to being called up. Vancouver needed an offensive D-man with my skills. I could put them into Cup contention.
Okay, that’s a lot of ego for seven am.
Just keeping it real.
I dressed in jeans and a henley. I eyed the room-service menu. I don’t need any more time alone this morning. Holy fuck, did we really have to stroll down memory lane?
Well, run like hell into it.
Or away from it.
Most of the time, I tried to keep Mom out of my mind—but sometimes she crept in. All I ever wanted was to make her proud.
And until just a moment ago, I’d succeeded in keeping Coach out of my mind.
Which was why, when I arrived at the hotel breakfast buffet at the exact same moment he did, I groaned.
Inwardly, at least. For him, I gave him a wary smile.
Don’t think about the fucking hot kiss last night. Don’t think about his mouth around your cock. Right, like I was ever going to get that image out of my mind. “Coach.”
“Jarvis. Nice shower?”
I met his intense brown eyes, noting his steel-gray hair was also damp. “I went for a run first. Needed to warm up.”
He glanced past me to the restaurant window where the wind lashed the rain against the pane. He pivoted his gaze back to me.
“I swear the wind wasn’t that bad when I was out running.” Or, hell, maybe it had been. I’d only encountered the one intrepid dog walker the entire length of my trip. “Well, I don’t remember it being that bad.”
“You were focused elsewhere?” He turned his attention back to the serving tray of scrambled eggs. He forked some onto his plate, then gestured to me—clearly asking if I was going to have some of it, or if he should put the lid back on it.
I took the spoon from him and heaped eggs onto the plate I’d grabbed.
Then I followed him, adding sausages, bacon—nectar of the gods and everything a good Canadian loved—as well as some pancakes and toast with peanut butter.
Not enough protein on my plate, but I’d have a shake before practice.
Right now, comfort food felt like the way to go.
We held each other’s gaze at the fruit platter.
He arched an eyebrow.
“I don’t like grapefruit.” Because, seriously, gross.
“Well, I don’t like red grapes.”
“My favorite.”
“So we can make a trade.”
I shrugged. “Sure. Here or…?”
A line had formed behind us.
“At the table.” He cocked his head. “Well, if you’re joining me.”
Last night hadn’t been my choice. He’d shown up at the bar, and it would’ve been rude for me to get up and leave. Even driving home hadn’t really been my choice. He’d offered—and taking a cab would’ve looked churlish.
Now, though? Entirely my decision. Somehow, though, the correct answer didn’t leave my mouth. “Sure. No sense in eating alone. Why take up two tables?”
He offered me a brilliant smile. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
Here we go again.
Fuck my life.
And my inability to let go of Jack Showalter.
Fuck, indeed.