Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Grayson
It doesn’t hit me until we’re halfway home that I’ve probably done something irreversibly stupid. You can’t go around kissing teammates, no matter that they have unkempt, sun-bleached hair, hazel eyes, and a tan. No matter that their collarbone is prominent and creates a series of hollows that you want to suck on. In fact, probably best not to kiss people like that at all, because people who look like that are probably too good to be true.
“So.” Remy’s voice is quiet in the calm dark of the car. “On a scale of one to ten, how much are you freaking out right now?”
Despite the slightly manic pace of my heartbeat, he gets a chuckle from me. “A solid six, well on my way to seven territory.”
“It’s like you’re having my gay panic for me,” he notes, making me laugh again.
“Sorry. I’ve always been comfortable keeping my sexuality hidden, though. For a long time, only a handful of people knew I was gay. The only person in the NHL who knew was Troy Nichols. And then when I finally decide that maybe it’s time to come out, I find out I’m stuck with a group of guys who apparently aren’t as cool as I thought they were. Kind of hard not to regret ever doing it in the first place.”
“I’m not planning on walking into the locker room tomorrow and making an announcement.”
“No, probably best not to do that.” I shoot him a look across the dim interior of the car.
“Besides, all we did was kiss, right? No harm in that,” Remy says, shoulders lifting in a nonchalant shrug.
Right. Except now I know what he tastes like, and how he feels pressed against me. I know that his shampoo smells like coconut and the skin on his neck is soft and smooth. That was the least satisfying kiss in the history of kissing, because now, instead of being sated, I want more. Remy’s blasé all we did was kiss does make me wonder if it was quite as spectacular for him as it was for me, but it also gives me an idea.
“Yeah,” I agree, carefully watching the road and not looking over at him. “Could lead to more, though. If we wanted.”
“I’m loving that I was able to get you over to the dark side so easily,” he says smugly. I roll my eyes even though he can’t see it. “Welcome to the world of casual sex, my friend.”
He sounds so much calmer than he did in the parking lot after I kissed him, and I don’t know him well enough to gauge which Remy is the act. Chances are pretty high that once he gets his fill of guys—or in this case, me—he’ll go back to dating women with a few new sexual experiences to brag about. He’s made it clear he’s looking for fun and experimentation, and I need to make sure I don’t forget that. I may not know him well, but I damn well know myself. I’ll be the one catching feelings and getting my heart broken unless I heed the warning signs he’s projecting.
“We can’t tell anybody else what we’re doing,” I tell him.
“What are we doing?”
“That’s up to you.” This time, I do glance over at him. He’s already looking at me. “If you’re wanting to…try new things in a safe environment, I can give that to you. But we can’t tell anyone, or post shit on social media, or go out on public dates. This”—I take a hand off the wheel to gesture between us—“won’t fly with management here. There isn’t a whole lot they can do to me with the contract I’ve got, but they can easily get rid of you. If we’re doing this, I want it to be fun and not cause you any trouble.”
“Or you.”
“Or me, what?”
“You said you don’t want to cause me trouble. I don’t want any for you, either.”
I laugh, even though it comes out sounding forced and unhappy. “Oh, I’d say that ship has sailed.”
He’s quiet after that, so I let him have the silence. I’ve never been one who needs to fill the void with words, anyway; he’ll talk when he’s ready. When I pull up to the house and wait for the garage door to make its slow way upward, I chew on my lip and think about how this arrangement would even work with our current situation. Remy, apparently, has the same thought.
“I’ve started looking for my own place. There’s an apartment complex within walking distance of the rink and they have furnished options available.”
Surprised, I look at him with raised eyebrows. He shrugs and opens the door to slide out of the car. I join him and we head inside. I’m disappointed that he’s been looking at other living arrangements. Which is, of course, fucking ridiculous. Him living with me was always meant to be temporary and that shouldn’t change just because I enjoy getting an eyeful of him when he walks around the house without a shirt on.
“You’ve already been looking?”
“Yeah.” He grins at me, hopping up to sit on the kitchen island and drum his heels lightly against the wood paneling. “I was thinking you’d be more open to hooking up with me if we could knock roommates off your list of reasons not to bang.”
I laugh even though I’m pretty sure he’s entirely serious. I kick off my shoes and loosen the top button on my shirt as I walk around Remy and grab a glass for water. Drinking it down, I fill it back up and hand it to him. He grins—crookedly, which is getting more attractive each time I see it—and drinks from the same side of the glass I did.
“Well, let it be said that I like having you here,” I tell him honestly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I would never say this to his face, and I’ll deny everything if you tell him, but I loved having Z living here. I might go so far as to say that I missed him after he moved out.”
Remy gasps, and I nod solemnly.
“It’s true,” I admit.
“You guys pick at each other like an old married couple. I can only imagine how it was living together.”
“It’s from living together that we learned how to pick at each other. The true test of a friendship is whether you can pull off living together or not.” I walk over and lean a hip against the counter, close to where Remy is seated. He widens his legs until his thigh brushes my elbow. “Truthfully, though, Zolkov is a good friend, and he was a good housemate. He never said as much, but he was disappointed to be traded here. He wanted to stay in South Carolina.”
“With your friend Nichols.”
“And Lawson and Sanhover. They were all set to adopt Z into their friend group and then he was traded. Poor kid.”
“No kidding. He had it good over there.” He moves his leg, jostling my elbow. “Now, are you trying to deflect the conversation away from us by talking about Zolkov?”
Snorting, I take the water glass from him and drink the rest of it down. “Maybe.”
“I’ve never, in my entire life, had to work so hard to convince someone to sleep with me.”
“Oh my god,” I mumble, rubbing a finger into my temple. “I’m probably going to sound like an asshole for saying this, but I don’t usually get involved with guys who are exploring their sexuality like you are. I’m all for making the world gayer than it already is, but the bi-curious thing can be tough for someone like me who knows exactly what they like and want.”
“I can see that. But how about this—you and I put on our big-boy pants and actually communicate. If something isn’t working, we say it. If something is working, we definitely say it. Friends with benefits only works if everyone is enjoying themselves. And as much as I want to do this with you, I don’t want to make your life harder.”
“I want to make a joke about things being hard , but I recognize we’re having a serious conversation and I need to act like an adult,” I say, and he laughs as though I really did tell a dick joke. “I get what you’re saying though. And I meant what I said earlier, about being able to provide a safe environment for you to figure yourself out. I just don’t want to end up in HR if you get cold feet.”
Remy sends me a mildly offended look. “I would never.”
“You can’t promise that, you know you can’t. But as long as we do that communicating thing you were talking about, we should be okay.”
“Yeah, my ex-wife and my divorce lawyer both tell me communication is the secret to a successful relationship,” he says seriously. Rolling my eyes, I go to refill our water glass. Remy shifts around the island so that he’s facing me, still seated on the marble top. “So, how do we do this? Teach me your ways, Gay Master.”
“Please don’t make me regret this,” I plead, and he laughs, holding out a hand for the water glass and taking a big gulp. He’s probably thirsty from all that dancing. All that dancing with a stranger. “Can we agree to one thing, though?”
“What’s that?”
“For as long as this is going on, it’s just us. I don’t want to sleep with multiple people at the same time, and I’d strongly prefer if you didn’t either. I’m not asking for this to be a serious relationship or anything, but…but I don’t want to compete with anyone, either.”
“Done,” Remy says the moment I stop talking. “Anything else?”
“No, I guess that’s it. What about you?”
“I don’t think I have anything to add.” He stops and ponders for a second before shrugging. “I’m a pretty chill guy.”
I make the shaka sign with my right hand and waggle it. He smiles and shoves me so hard I have to take a step backward.
“Fuck off,” he says, but then rolls his eyes and grins in a self-deprecating way. “But yeah, you’re right. Classic surfer dude, I know. I’m pretty much a walking stereotype.”
“Mm,” I hum, eyeing all the tan skin that’s on display around the white tank top. “I’m not complaining.”
“You better not fall in love with me,” he warns, hopping off of the counter and brushing up against me. “One marriage was enough for me, I won’t do it again.”
“Oh, I make no promises about that,” I laugh, leaning down and giving him a quick peck. He makes a disgruntled noise when I pull away and take a step out of the kitchen. “I already told you I don’t do casual. I’ll be catching feelings before you know it.”
“Hey!” he calls, as I wave a hand over my shoulder on my way to my bedroom.
“Goodnight, Remy,” I yell back, and smile to myself when I hear him grumble behind me.
Gently closing my bedroom door, I’m still fighting the smile as I prepare for bed. As much as I want to invite Remy into my bed for a little sexual exploration, I know it’s better if we wait. We’re going to be blurring too many lines as it is. If he’s living here while we’re fucking around, it’s only going to make things harder. As many layers of separation as we can get, the better. I wasn’t kidding when I warned him about catching feelings—I know myself, and I’m already starting to know Remy. All it will take is a gentle shove to have me stumbling into love with him.
It’s time to dig in my heels.
Remy throws himself into moving out of my house as soon as possible, but is still living with me a week later. Even though I didn’t exactly spell it out that way, it’s clear he understands my hesitance to start any sort of relationship with him beyond friendship while he’s still living with me. Hence his frantic search for a lease to sign. Unfortunately, the apartment complex he’d been looking at doesn’t have a furnished opening until December.
I’d wondered if the delay would curb Remy’s enthusiasm, but, if anything, the opposite has been true. The way he looks at me has gone from friendly to heated to downright erotic. If it was possible to undress someone with their eyes, I would never have clothes on. It would be funny if it didn’t make my own body burn with desire. He has no right to look the way he does and then look at me the way he does.
We’re seated next to each other in the Salt Lake City locker rooms, waiting for Coach to call the lines for our first regular season game against them. I haven’t experienced nerves this potent since my rookie year, yet I’m sitting here, stomach filled with butterflies and leg bouncing. Closing my eyes, I breathe a massive sigh of relief when I’m paired with Conor Rikkens. He’s a solid defenseman and we’ve played together for the last three years—he catches my eye and up-nods from across the room. I return it with a small smile attached. Maybe this game won’t be a complete clusterfuck, after all.
Remy presses his shoulder to mine, leaning heavily against me as we wait to take the ice. The contact goes unnoticed by our teammates, packed as we are on the narrow benches with our bulky pads. I’m grateful for it, anyway. He’ll be starting with Zolkov and Petterson, which, no matter that I’m not Petterson’s biggest fan, is a hell of a top line. Already, the nerves are dissipating and being replaced with excitement. I’m ready to get on the ice.
The game ends up being a slaughter from start to finish. Our forward lines, top to bottom, seem to find nothing but net, and Gordon saves all but two on thirty-seven shots. We end the game with a 7–2 win—one of which was put there by me. At the end of the game when we’re lining up to hug our goalie, Remy skates up behind me so close his chest is pressed hard against my back.
“You coming for my job, D-man?”
I look over my shoulder, already anticipating the shit-eating grin on his face. I don’t remark on the D-man comment, or the way he made it sound more sexual than any hockey term should be.
“Not sure one goal makes me a forward,” I tell him. He shrugs, skating up beside me and trying to throw his arm over my shoulder. It’s not easy, given I’m at least eight inches taller than him, but he makes it work and uses his grip to pull me into his side.
“I can’t wait for you to have a record year in points. I fucking love saying ‘I told you so.’”
“The divorce is making more sense,” I joke, but immediately regret the words. Thankfully, Remy laughs and then it’s our turn to congratulate Gordon, so the conversation stalls.
We’re flying back home tonight, and it’s a relatively subdued group that boards the team bus to head back to the airport. Everyone is tired and ready to crawl into bed, not hop onto a plane and fly home. I take an aisle seat and wait for Zolkov to board.
Remy walks onto the plane, leaning over and muttering something to the flight attendant that makes her smile and flush. He scans the plane and smiles when his eyes meet mine across the sea of empty seats. I expect him to sit in the row directly in front of me, and am slightly surprised when he comes to a stop next to me and taps my shoulder.
“You mind?” he asks, nodding toward the empty row beside me.
“No, ’course not,” I mutter, unfolding myself from the seat and letting him slide through. While he gets settled, I look toward the front of the plane and see Zolkov boarding. Seeing his usual seat occupied, he sits in the very first row; I can imagine him up there, spending the long flight flirting with the attendants.
When I sit back down, Remy is angled toward me and checking his phone. He looks up and holds it out to me, eyes alight and smile wide.
“Look at that,” he prompts, and waits for me to take the phone and read the email he’s got pulled up.
It’s a message from the office manager of the apartment complex that he’d been looking at, letting him know that the previous tenants had vacated and he could move in early. The new move-in date—if he is available—is this Thursday. When I finish reading, I hold his phone back out and look up to find him watching me. Inappropriately, heat pools in my stomach and my chest feels a little tight, as though my body knows exactly what this means.
“That’s great,” I tell him noncommittally.
“Want to help me move?” he asks, still grinning cheekily. “We can celebrate afterward.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Celebrate” is obviously a teammate-approved innuendo about kicking off our friends-with-benefits situation. If anybody is listening in, they’ll think we are going out to get drinks, not fucking.
“Sure,” I agree, smiling at him. “We’ll celebrate. ”
“Excellent.” He settles back into his seat, kicking his legs out in front of himself and tipping his head back, eyes closed. “I’ve got some ideas.”
I don’t respond, because if this conversation goes any further, I’ll be getting a hard-on and confirming all of my teammates’ fears about me being a sexual deviant. I also make sure to direct my thoughts away from any ideas of my own. The list of things I’d like to do to, and with, Remy is extensive and detailed and wholly unsuitable for this airplane.
After a flight spent dozing in and out of sleep—Remy breathing softly beside me, leg occasionally brushing mine—we land and trudge blearily off of the airplane. Silently, we all peel off toward our respective vehicles and I’m halfway across the parking lot to mine before my sleepy brain remembers I’m Remy’s ride. I turn around and find him walking a few paces behind me, yawning.
“You forgot me!” he exclaims, loud enough that several of the guys close to us turn and look.
“I didn’t,” I protest, even though I did.
We climb into my SUV and he chafes his palms together, blowing out his cheeks dramatically as the car warms up. “It’s cold,” he complains, when he sees me watching him.
“It’s October. This isn’t cold.” He shoots me a withering look and I laugh, reaching toward my dashboard and flicking on his heated seat. He watches as I adjust the heat and then angle the vents to all point toward him.
“I’m going to die here, aren’t I?” he asks seriously.
“Probably.” I nod solemnly. Backing out of the parking space, I wait for one of my teammates to leave ahead of me before putting the car in drive and following him. Remy has his head down, reading something on his phone. I drive in silence, not bothering to even put on the radio until we’re halfway home.
“My wife texted me,” he says suddenly. Ex-wife , I correct in my head as a thread of fear coils around my spine and settles in.
“Oh,” is all I can think of to say in response.
“She watched the game, I guess.” He looks out the window, tapping his phone on his leg to the beat of the music playing softly through the stereo. “I didn’t want to get a divorce. She was the one who asked for it.”
Fucking hell, are we really going to do this now? “I’m sorry.”
What I want to ask is why she asked for it, but I have no idea what the etiquette is with divorces—what you’re allowed to ask and what is taboo.
“We were only married for three years, but they weren’t bad years, you know? She was a really good friend and we had so much fun together. She’s a hockey fan!” He says this last thing like it’s the most important aspect of a healthy relationship. I nod, because it is—if you can’t talk about hockey, what can you talk about? “So, yeah, marriage was great except for our sex life.”
Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting him to say. I glance over at him, floundering over whether I’m expected to offer any sort of support or if it’s best for me to just sit here and shut up.
“Oh,” I say again, because that seems to be the best of both worlds.
“I was pissed when she said that, but then I really thought about it and she was right. I always thought we were good enough together that it wouldn’t matter. But is good enough really what we’re shooting for? Good enough got me three years of marriage, but probably ruined any chance of keeping her as a friend. I don’t think I want to live for good enough .”
“No,” I murmur, because I’ve never wanted to settle for that. I want what Troy has with his husband, Sam.
“So, anyway, after we got separated, I decided the best thing to do would be to fuck as many women as I could. Sow all my wild oats, as they say.” He waves a hand to encompass all the people who say that. “And it was nothing but a disappointment. I hated it. Honestly, I have yet to experience that mind-blowing sex that people in romance novels seem to have on the daily.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Romance novels?”
“Yeah. Amanda used to always be reading, and since she was super supportive of my hockey, I figured I’d be super supportive of her reading. We started our own little book club where I’d read the same book she was. They were always romance novels and, Gray”—he looks at me—“some of these books are freaking wild . ”
“How so?” I laugh at the expression on his face.
“I can’t even explain it to you. You’ll just have to read them for yourself one day. But my point is, everybody in these damn books has, like, earth-shattering orgasms, and the sex with their partner is the greatest fucking thing to ever happen to them. I can tell you with absolute certainty, I have never had sex that good.”
“I’ve sort of lost the thread of where this conversation was going?—"
“Have you?” he challenges, turning in the seat to face me as much as the seat belt will allow.
“I…have I what?”
“Been with someone and felt that level of connection.”
“Uhm.” I stall, trying to act like I’m thinking about it even though the answer is a giant, resounding no. “I guess not, I don’t know.”
He sighs. “Me either. Do you know how fucking frustrating that is? I was married for three years and the best I can say is we had fun, but apparently both of us could live without it. Without each other.”
“Remy, I’m not sure what we’re talking about at this point, or what you want me to say. Are you trying to tell me that you’re not interested in me anymore? Because that’s fine, if that’s the case. If you’re still trying to get over your wi?—"
“No,” he says emphatically. “Actually, I’m trying to say the opposite. Listen, this is going to be embarrassing as fuck, but I’m going to say it anyway. When you kissed me the other night, that was…” He makes an aggrieved noise in the back of his throat. “That was something . And I’ve never felt anything like that before.”
Christ, and what the hell am I supposed to say to that? As if I wasn’t already a little nervous about our arrangement, now I’m really getting worked up about it. I don’t want Remy to assign so much meaning to us fooling around. What happens when he’s disappointed?
“Sorry, Gray.” He laughs, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean to dump it all on you like that. I’ve been told that I’m a chronic oversharer.”
“That’s all right,” I murmur, glancing over at him and feeling relieved to see him relaxed and smiling.
We settle into a less than comfortable silence after that—him uncomfortable with oversharing, and me uncomfortable with the daunting task of providing the sexual experience he’s apparently read about in romance novels.
No pressure, Gray.