Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Grayson
Perhaps it’s the years-long dry spell I’ve been in, or perhaps it’s the fact that Remy is so much my type, but jacking off in the shower is just not cutting it anymore. I know how he sounds, and how he shudders when he comes. I know that he’s the perfect height for me and we fit together seamlessly. All of these things should give me more than enough ammunition to create fantasies to whack off to, yet nothing is as good as having him there. I don’t want to touch myself—I want to touch him .
And this is why teammates should never get involved , I think, as Remy walks into the hotel a few paces ahead of me. His suit pants are tight, showing off powerful legs and a tempting, round ass. The suit is a dark, forest-green color that perfectly brings out the green flecks in his hazel eyes, which I know because I haven’t stopped staring at him since we boarded the team bus this morning. Someone is going to notice me leering at him, and with my luck it’ll be Petterson who would surely take it to management.
I tear my eyes away from him, doing my best to pretend he doesn’t exist and I don’t know how his lips taste.
The game against Edmonton starts promisingly. Our fourth line forwards show up and have more shots on goal in the first period than all the rest of the lines combined. Rikkens and I are a damn near impenetrable wall against the opposing offense, blocking as many shots as Gordon and getting an assist each.
Unfortunately, as is wont to happen in professional hockey, the second period brings with it a wave of resurgence from Edmonton. For every shooting lane I cut off, they create another, and the first half of the period passes without ever leaving our defensive zone. They score. Sheer volume of shots almost ensures this outcome but it’s infuriating, nonetheless.
The next time I’m sent over the boards, Rikkens and I are playing with the top forward line. It’s Petterson who takes the draw, but loses. I manage to keep it in our attacking zone, guarding the puck against the boards and sending it to Zolkov to try once more for the net.
We push hard, trying to lengthen our lead by more than a point, but nearly two minutes of shift time on the ice leaves us gassed and frustrated. Whatever fire was lit under Edmonton’s ass in the locker room during intermission is burning strong. They’re playing better than us right now, and if they keep it up, they’ll likely end up closing the gap.
It’s not until late in the third that we finally put another shot into the net. I’m sitting at the blue line and trying to keep the puck in our attacking zone. It’s time for a shift change for Rikkens and me but we can’t perform a change when we’re holding the offensive zone, so we stick it out. It pays off when Remy comes over the boards and makes a play for the net. His shot is deflected but he is able to corral his own rebound and pass it back to me.
There is a wide-open shooting lane in front of me—a gift from the motherfucking hockey gods. I shoot. The puck rings off the center post inside the net and the horn sounds. I’m not the kind of guy who does a celly but damn if I don’t want to tonight. That was a good fucking goal, and it feels incredible. Particularly when Remy pulls me into a hug and bangs his helmet against mine, whooping in my ear. I laugh—nobody is as enthusiastic about me scoring than Remy. He’s my own personal hype-man.
We win the game but it’s by the skin of our teeth, and the team is exhausted. A few of the guys make half-hearted plans to unwind and grab a beer at the hotel bar, but the majority wave off the offer in favor of their beds. I can feel Remy’s eyes burning a hole in the side of my head as I resolutely look out the window as the bus takes us from the stadium. Beside me, Zolkov is texting and muttering in Russian.
“Gray,” he says, and shoves his phone my way after making a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. Taking his phone, I look down at the article he has pulled up.
South Carolina was playing tonight in Arizona, and though they won in OT, their starting goaltender, Anthony Lawson, left the ice late in the second period and did not return. There is a video posted with the article and I click on it. It shows the Arizona forwards doing a tic-tac-toe maneuver so expertly, by the time one of them takes a shot, Lawson is covering the opposite goal post and there is a wide-open net. He ends up catching it, though, by performing a spectacular diving save that really should have been impossible. If I’d had an open net like that, I would have thought for sure I was scoring.
Unfortunately, the author of the article—a well-known and respected sports journalist—speculates that this was an injury-inducing save and that’s why Lawson was pulled. South Carolina has been silent so far, but nobody in their right mind would pull a goalie who was on fire like that unless they were hurt. I hand the phone back to Zolkov.
“He is old man,” Z tells me, eyes dark in the dim light of the bus, and face absent of his usual smirk. “He has bad shoulder.”
“He’s not old,” I argue, even though by hockey years, he is old. As much as I hate going up against Lawson when we play them, I still feel a niggle of worry—he’s been a part of that team for so long, I can’t imagine South Carolina without him. “He’s probably okay. They were likely just being careful because of his history with upper-body injuries.”
Zolkov scrunches up his nose in distaste, evidently not buying anything I’m selling.
“He has surgery three times,” he reminds me. I squint at him, trying to judge his expression in the scant light. The worry escalates as I realize Zolkov is upset. He only played with South Carolina for a year and loves to rag on Lawson every time we match up, but I know he considers him a friend.
“Did you text him?” I ask.
“He says I am fine and will be there to kick your ass next month when we play ,” Zolkov reads off in exasperation. I can’t help but smile—it sounds exactly like Lawson. “But he is liar. Trying to be tough hockey guy.”
“Maybe,” I concede. “We’ll know tomorrow, either way. If he’s not dressed out for morning skate, that means they’ll have to make a statement.”
I contemplate texting Troy, but decide against it for the moment. He’s probably worried enough about his friend—I don’t need to be adding to it. I nudge Zolkov.
“I’ll get the inside info from Troy tomorrow, Z.”
“Yes. Nichols will fold under pressure. He will tell you.”
“Christ, Z.” I laugh, digging my elbow a little harder into his ribs before he pushes me away. “I’m not going to waterboard him, I’m going to ask if Lawson is okay.”
Zolkov rolls his eyes, but appears more at ease than he was moments before. When I turn away from him, my gaze locks on Remy a couple rows up and to the left. He’s got his head tipped back, gold hair fanned out and making him easily identifiable. I almost wish he’d turn around, even though I know it’s dangerous to look at him too long in the presence of so many of my teammates. He’s one who turned away the offer of a drink at the bar, and I try not to look too closely at the relief I feel at that.
Jealousy has no place in our relationship. I have no claim on him and letting myself believe otherwise is a bad idea.
It’s the end of our stretch of away games, and as usual, I’m happy to be home. I love Calgary, regardless of how soured my opinion of my team has become. Walking through the front door of my crooked house and sleeping in my own bed practically make me faint with happiness. Ignoring the chiming of my phone in favor of a hot shower, I soak my airplane-stiff muscles under the spray until my skin prunes.
Still ignoring my phone, I stand in front of the refrigerator and contemplate just how much work I want to put into dinner. Weighing the value of calories over sleep, I settle on calories and start pulling out the ingredients for the simplest meal I can manage with what I have. The knock at my front door is as unwelcome as it is surprising. Who the hell would come to the door this late?
If I wasn’t so damn tired, I would have the mental fortitude to realize that only two people would be at my door at any time of day. I probably also would be able to guess which one it actually is. As it is, I pull open the door and am pleasantly surprised to see Remy’s crooked smile and messy hair. He holds up a bag of takeout from a local vegan restaurant. Behind him, an Uber pulls slowly away from the curb.
“Hey,” he says. “How do you feel about company?”
I step back to let him inside, pretending as I do that it’s because he came all this way, and not because I think there might be a chance to take his pants off later.
“I was just trying to come up with the enthusiasm to cook,” I admit, trailing after him to the kitchen. He gazes at my feeble attempt and puts down the bag.
“Well, I can’t promise this is anything good, but it was the healthiest option I could find this late in the evening. If anything, we could just say to hell with dinner and get naked instead.”
Laughing, because this matches my own thoughts exactly, I start popping open the to-go containers. Remy steps around me and grabs two forks from the silverware drawer. He comes to a stop unnecessarily close to me, arm brushing along mine. He must have taken a shower once he got home, the same way I did—he smells like coconut.
“Do you have coconut shampoo?” I ask, and then shrug in response to the quizzical eyebrow raise this gets me. “I swear you always smell like coconut. It’s not just me projecting my image of a California surfer boy, is it?”
“What, like, you think all surfers smell tropical, so your brain is filling in the blanks?” He sounds amused.
“Forget about it.”
“Do you like the smell of coconut?”
Ignoring the sly angle for a compliment, I dip my fork into a container of what looks like a quinoa salad and put a bite in my mouth. If I’m chewing, I can’t be expected to answer. Remy doesn’t start eating, but watches me with a grin on his face and humor in his eyes.
“I do use coconut shampoo and conditioner,” he admits. “I already warned you I was a stereotypical surfer. But if you don’t like it…”
“I like it,” I tell him, rolling my eyes at his look of glee. He sidles closer and presses into my side, rendering my left arm useless if I wanted to actually eat anything. I don’t mind, though. Having him touching me is more satisfying than putting food in my stomach.
“Tell you something?” he asks.
“Sure.”
“You were ignoring my texts, so I stopped to grab food as an excuse to come over, and make sure that you weren’t upset with me or with someone else.”
I cast my eyes to the opposite side of the room where my cell phone is lying facedown on the hall table. I’m not the kind of person who is attached to their electronics, and I rarely carry it around when I’m at home. I’d only started doing so more recently, when Ree and I had been chatting on the app. More important than my self-imposed electronic detox, however, is the implication behind his words. Holy shit, was he jealous ?
It’s my turn to smile. Dropping my fork into the nearest container, I cross my arms.
“We only got home three hours ago,” I point out. “You really thought I had company over here?”
“No, of course not.” He waves a hand. “But you could have, and since you were ignoring my texts, I was expecting the worst.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Remy! I’m the one who suggested to you that we keep this thing between us exclusive. Christ, have you forgotten that I haven’t been laid in two years? I couldn’t have had somebody over here even if I wanted to. And I wasn’t ignoring your texts—I was ignoring my phone. There’s a difference.”
“Well, now that I’ve made a fool of myself and ascertained that you’re alone and not mad at me, I can leave you in peace.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” I respond mildly, grabbing his forearm before he can step away from the island. Sliding my hand down his arm until it’s resting on top of his own, I indulge myself by brushing my thumb across his knuckles. “You came all this way, after all. Might as well get something out of it.”
“Vegan food?” he asks, nodding toward the half-eaten dinner.
“I guess it depends on what kind of meat qualifies as vegan.” I raise my eyebrows in a suggestive wiggle. He tips his head back and laughs.
Sliding his hand out from under mine, he turns to face me. Automatically, I mirror him. Without a second of hesitation, he reaches up to grab my face between his palms and drag me downward. I go easily, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling us together as he kisses me. When he moves back a minute later, he skims his lips over my jaw and cheek as though enjoying the scratch of stubble against the sensitive skin. Tightening my arm, I angle my head and lean into it, content to let him do whatever he wants to me.
“This feels so good,” he says in wonder, leaning back and once more replacing lips with fingers. His thumbs slide over my jaw and up my cheek.
“You up for a repeat of last time?” I ask, already hard just thinking about it.
“No way.” He leans back further, trying to look at my face without going cross-eyed. His hands tighten on my cheeks and he narrows his eyes at me. “Last time was all about me, and we’re not doing that again. This time you get to have fun, too.”
“It’s cute that you think that wasn’t fun for me,” I tell him wryly. “And this whole thing is about you—you’re the one exploring and trying new things, right?”
“Right, but all of the new things I want to try entail you also blowing your load.” He takes a step back from me—I immediately drop my arm and let him go. “So, lead the way. You can have your way with me in any room of the house, I’m not picky.”
Snorting, I look at the mess of to-go containers on the island and decide it can be a problem for future Grayson. Holding out a hand for him, he’s quick to link his fingers with mine. The gesture makes him smile, and he gives my hand a little squeeze. Even though he knows where it’s located, I lead him down the hall toward my bedroom, lowering half of the kitchen lights on our way out.
When we get to my room, he drops my hand in favor of walking around the space and peering at my things. There is a stack of photographs on top of my dresser that should probably be hung up or put in a book at some point—he points to them, glancing back over his shoulder at me.
“Can I?”
“Sure,” I tell him, watching as he eagerly starts flipping through the pictures and inspecting each one.
I start slowly undressing as he does, putting everything in the laundry as I go, until I’m standing in nothing but boxers. Remy is still peering avidly at the photographs, so I step into the bathroom to grab my toothbrush. I’m leaned against the doorframe, brushing my teeth and watching him, when he holds one up to show me. If he’s surprised by me being half-naked, he doesn’t show it.
“Nichols’ wedding?” he asks, and I nod.
“It was a small, private wedding. Less than twenty people,” I tell him, pulling the toothbrush out of my mouth to speak. “Only closest friends and family.”
“I’ve never once seen Sanhover smile,” Remy notes, looking down at the picture. It shows all of us lined up with arms around one another: me, Corwin, Troy, Lawson, Nigel, Sam, and Nico. Nobody is standing with their partner, but everyone is standing with someone they love. It’s my favorite picture from the wedding.
“Corwin’s pretty serious,” I agree, turning to rinse my mouth out in the sink and replace the toothbrush. When I return to the bedroom, Remy’s dropped the stack back on the dresser and is pulling his shirt over his head. I walk over and dip my fingers into his waistband, pulling him into a kiss before he can take his own pants off. His hands find their way back to my face as I undress him the rest of the way.
He doesn’t step closer to me, but gives himself enough space to put a hand on my chest at the base of my throat and slide it slowly down to my stomach. A small murmur of approval and he breaks his mouth from mine, grinning.
“Chest hair,” is all he says, before fusing his lips back to mine and continuing to explore my upper body.
I let my own hands wander a bit—careful fingers trailing over soft, smooth skin. I trace the surgical scar low on his stomach, and run my palms upward to cup his ribs. He makes a low noise as I do it, pressing his lips to mine more firmly and kissing me deeply. I use my grip on him to turn him toward the bed, walking him backward carefully. I don’t want to stop kissing him, but neither do I want to give him an injury by walking him into the furniture.
“Can we—can I….” Remy’s out of breath, fingers clenching and unclenching where they are curled low on my hips. I lean back enough to see his face—flushed cheeks, eyes wide, and lips glistening. I move back a little farther, because he’s painfully beautiful and it hurts a little bit, seeing him this close.
“Do you want to stop?” I ask. His eyebrows shoot up his forehead and settle somewhere near his hairline.
“No. Fuck. Of course not.” He closes his eyes briefly. “I wish I had, like, four more hands so I could touch everywhere, all at once.”
Laughing, I skim my thumbs along the soft skin of his hips. We’re hovering near the bed, half-naked and both of us hard. I want to lay him on the bed and sink myself so deep inside him, he’ll feel me for days.