Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Remy
The goddamn game goes into goddamn overtime, and because we all apparently suck at our jobs, it’s going to go into a goddamn shootout, too.
Clenching my teeth, I wait for the coaching staff to confer and settle on a lineup for shooters. Every second that ticks by on the clock feels like a sliver being driven into my skin. I don’t know why time is being so unobliging, but if it wanted to speed up, that would be great.
“Calm down,” Zolkov says to me, squirting water over his face and down the back of his neck. “Is just shootout.”
“I’m going to miss my flight,” I respond between gritted teeth. I care about winning the game, obviously, but right now I care about that flight more. I haven’t seen Grayson in person since we played Colorado in January, and I miss him with the same ferocity with which I’d miss one of my eyeballs.
“No,” Zolkov says calmly. “You will not miss flight. We will score and win game and everything will be fine. Calm down,” he repeats, as the coaches come over to give us the lineup, “and score a fucking goal. I am tired of this night.”
Me fucking too.
Zolkov is the first to go with Stevenson following, and then me after that. I really hope this doesn’t drag to four rounds or—god forbid—further.
The fans are losing their collective minds as Zolkov takes his shot, and I’m not the only one who thinks he has it. The fans with rinkside seats lose their shit, pounding on the glass and cheering, but the buzzer doesn’t sound and there is a collective sigh of disappointment from the bench when the goaltender tips the puck out of his glove.
The sigh becomes a massive groan of dissatisfaction when the opposing team scores and Stevenson is unable to follow it up with a goal of our own. We lose and I know I should care a hell of a lot more than I do, but right now all I can think about is the suitcase in the trunk of Zolkov’s car and the fact that in a handful of hours I’ll be able to touch Grayson; hear his voice with no microphone distorting the timbre, and fucking smell him.
“Hurry up,” I hiss at Zolkov in the locker room, nudging him with my foot as he takes an ungodly amount of time to tie the laces on his dress shoes. I’m ten seconds away from kneeling down and doing it for him, like a damn kindergarten teacher.
He sends me a withering glare and shoves me backward. But he does finish with his shoes and stands, rolling his eyes at my obvious eagerness to leave. When we get to his car, he waits until we’re pulling out of the lot before he brings it up.
“So. You are excited to go home?”
“Sure am,” I agree, tapping my fingers on the tops of my thighs, and trying to look anywhere but at the dashboard clock.
“Gray is excited, too,” he says slyly, ignoring the alarmed blaring of the horn after he cuts off the vehicle behind us. “He tells me he is going on vacation.”
I glance over at him, biting the inside of my cheek. There’s really no need to hide it from him. The man went to a gay nightclub with me, after all. He’s not an idiot.
“Gray’s staying with me in Cali for the break. But I’d appreciate it if that stayed between us.”
The look he gives me is acidic. “I will not tell. There is nobody but these fucking assholes,” he says, taking a hand off the wheel and waving it to encompass our teammates.
“Thanks, Z.”
“I am gay magnet, I think,” he says suddenly, shaking his head in bemusement. Laughing, I reach over to shove his shoulder before thinking better of it and dropping my hand back into my lap. Zolkov’s driving isn’t great on his best day—probably don’t need to add wrestling into the mix.
“I’m not gay.” He glances over at me, looking as incredulous as it’s possible for a person to look. The car slowly veers over the center line. “I mean, I’m a little bit gay, I guess. For Grayson. It’s like a spectrum, though. On one side are the super straight people, and on the other are the people like Gray who only like men and always have.” I hold my hands parallel to each other, illustrating the spectrum even though he’s focusing on driving. “And I fall somewhere in the middle.”
I drop my hands, feeling pretty good with that explanation. I’ve been conducting an obscene amount of research, searching the internet for answers to vague questions like how do I understand my sexuality ? My obsession with finding a label that fits is like a rash I’m not supposed to scratch—I can’t leave it alone. So far, the one that feels the best is demisexual, since Grayson-sexual apparently isn’t an option.
“Okay,” Zolkov responds, not sounding like it matters one way or the other to him.
When we get to the airport, he has his door open before the car is even in park. Before I’ve got my seat belt off, he’s out and circling to get my suitcase from the back.
“Here,” he says, rolling it toward me and slamming the rear door. “Hurry.”
I shout a thank-you over my shoulder and hustle into the airport. Security is a mess, of course, and by the time I get to my gate, they’re already nearly done boarding. There’s no time to change out of my game-day suit, but I can’t bring myself to care. As long as I’m on the plane and it takes off on time, that’s all that matters.
Grayson, here I come.
I don’t jog through the airport. I don’t. But obviously everyone here moves at the pace of a sloth, because I’m darting through the crowd like I’m in a race. Seriously, if everyone who wants to walk slowly could just move to one side.
I check my phone as I’m speed-walking toward the baggage claim, but there are no messages from Grayson. I know his flight landed, though, because I checked while my plane was taxiing to the gate. He’s here, I just have to find him.
Of course, because he’s head and shoulders taller than every single person here, the moment I round the corner to the baggage carousels, I see him. He’s standing against the back wall and wearing a nondescript black hoodie and joggers. With his equally dark hair, he looks mysterious and so fucking sexy I could cry. My feet carry me toward him unconsciously, caught in the undertow that is Grayson. I’m halfway across the room when his eyes track over and lock with mine, a smile tugging on his lips.
When I’m close enough to see the way his hair curls around his ears, I drop my backpack on the floor and keep walking until I’m directly in front of him.
“Remy—”
Hand on the back of his neck, I rise upward onto my toes as I pull him down. I’ve got both arms around his neck and shoulders, and it takes him only a moment to wrap his own around my waist. Squeezing my eyes closed, I bury my face into his neck and relax for the first time all evening. He’s here.
“People are staring,” he murmurs, and maybe I should worry that either one of us could be recognized and photographed, but I just can’t.
“Screw them,” I whisper back. If I want to hug my friend and maybe-partner for a ridiculously long amount of time in the middle of a crowded airport, that’s damn well what I’m going to do. “I missed you so much.”
The sharp inhalation from Grayson is accompanied by a tightening of his arms. He kisses my neck and I’m suddenly desperate to see his face. Breaking our embrace, I lower back down to my heels and rest my hands on his shoulders. I’m so happy to see him, I feel faintly sick with it.
“Thanks for coming.” I slide my hands down his arms, searching for his body beneath the hoodie, greedy for the feel of him even in a crowded room. When I reach his wrists, I let him go, but he catches my left hand in a loose grip .
“I missed you, too,” he says. I tighten my fingers around his, wanting him to know I have no qualms about holding his hand in public. Not anymore. I know what I want, now, and I’m not going to hide it.
While we wait for my bag in comfortable silence, I look my fill of him. The slope of his muscled shoulders and thighs beneath the dark clothing has me swallowing roughly around my suddenly dry throat. He sees me staring and squeezes my hand.
“What?”
“I’m just thinking of all the filthy things I want you to do to me.”
A surprised laugh jolts out of him, and he glances around us. I probably shouldn’t have said that quite as loudly as I did. My bag comes and Grayson lets go of my hand in favor of carrying it for me. He walks toward the exit a couple steps ahead of me, and I grin happily at his backside. He’s fucking here.
By the time the Uber drops us off at my place, it’s almost sunrise and both of us are feeling it. I had high hopes of jumping his bones the second I got him through my front door, but there are dark rings around his eyes and a definite slump to his shoulders. It’s a good reminder that both of us played a game yesterday evening and then traveled all night—his bones will still be here tomorrow and in a better condition for jumping.
“Holy shit,” he says as we walk through the front door and he looks around.
“Tour tomorrow?” Tucking my hand back into his, we leave our bags by the door as I lead him through the dark house.
We get to my bedroom and silently strip each other down. The room is dimly lit with early morning light filtering through the window—just enough to see by, but low enough that shadows pervade the room. It takes me minutes longer than necessary to get all his clothes off, as my hands sleepily trail over each inch of skin I reveal.
Crawling into bed with him makes me feel like I’m the winner in a game I hadn’t even known I was playing. I want to talk to him now, tell him how I feel and hear what he has to say. I want to lock him down before he realizes I’m more trouble than I’m worth and finds someone better.
“Gray?” I can no longer see anything but the outline of him beside me, having closed the shades to block out the rising sun.
“Yeah?”
I want to tell him again how happy I am that he’s here, but my mind is fuzzy with exhaustion. Instead, I slide as close as I can to his bulk, find his face with my fingertips, and kiss him. He slides an arm underneath me and pulls me into his chest so that when we break apart, I can use him as a pillow. Chest hair tickles my cheek, and I don’t fall asleep so much as leap. It’s the best sleep I’ve had in months.
When I next wake up, I do so in that sleep limbo where you can’t remember time or place. Disoriented, I crack open my eyes and squint at the clock sitting next to the bed: 11 a.m. The sight gives me a nervous sort of energy, like my body knows it’s not supposed to be in bed this late and that I’m going to miss practice.
The next thing that occurs to my half-asleep brain is that I’m lying atop someone. Not just anyone, either, but my someone: Grayson. He’s still asleep and I have to pee, so I extricate myself as silkily as possible and tiptoe over to the bathroom. When I come back, I stand next to the bed for a few moments, looking down at him. He’s flat on his back, arm still held out as though waiting for me to come back and retake my place there. He looks exactly the same as he always has, but still different, somehow.
Perhaps it’s me that’s different, though. Grayson might be the same, but I’m no longer looking at him and only seeing a friend. I’m looking at him and imagining what it might be like to have a partner. I might be confused about a lot of things, but that’s one thing that’s now crystal clear. I want that with him.
Crawling back into bed and burrowing myself back into his warmth, I decide that if I let him sleep too long, it’ll ruin his chances of getting a good night of rest tonight. The polite thing to do would be to wake him up. Obviously.
Since the last time I touched him was during the time our teams played in January, and all we’ve had in the interim is phone sex, I am horny as all hell. But dry-humping him awake lacks a certain finesse, and the whole point of this trip is to convince him to be with me. Blowjob it is. He is dead-ass asleep as I trail my hand down the front of his chest toward his waist. Christ, I missed this chest hair so fucking much.
He doesn’t react at all when I wrap my hand around him, so I give him a few measured strokes while I watch his face. He’s so handsome. Ridiculously handsome. He’s the perfect mix of masculine and beautiful.
There is still no reaction to indicate he’s any closer to wakefulness, so I slide my way down the bed, kissing across his body as I go. I give him the laziest head of all time, dancing the pads of my fingertips lightly across his stomach as I take my time with him, never once looking away from his face. I’m still pretty new to the practice of putting a dick in my mouth, so I can’t pull out all the tricks Grayson does, but he doesn’t seem to have any complaints when he opens his eyes and they immediately find mine. Heat burns away any vestiges of sleep.
I rub myself against the mattress, needing to release a little tension after that look. Maybe he wouldn’t have minded being humped awake, after all. Something for tomorrow morning, perhaps.
Sighing, and probably not fully in the land of the conscious yet, Grayson rests a hand gently on my head and threads his fingers through my hair. I take my sweet time and swallow his load when he comes on another soft sigh. He cups a hand around my biceps and pulls me up to where he can kiss me, tasting himself on my tongue. I’m barely aware of the way my hips have started moving—frotting against him as we reacquaint ourselves with each other’s mouths.
“Can I?” I pant. Grayson is a full top, and I’m not sure if this is exactly in his wheelhouse. In answer, he slides his hands down to my ass and helps me set a slow, even pace.
I come like that—mouth fused to Grayson’s in sweet, slow kisses, while my pelvis drags across his in delicious friction. It’s not the all-out fucking I’d been imagining on the airplane here, but it’s perfect. And now I have five uninterrupted days to spend with him . Giddiness floods my system and I smile. He pulls back, breaking our mouths apart, and rubs his thumb over my bottom lip.
“What?”
“You’re here for five days,” I tell him, shrugging as my grin stretches wider. “I honestly don’t know if I want to go out and do things, or if I just want to stay here and fuck your brains out. ”
He laughs; the deep, rich rumble of it vibrating through my chest where we’re pressed together. I missed that, too.
“Is it too much to ask for both of those things?” His fingers trace over my forehead, playing with the longer strands of hair there. “I’ve been fantasizing about you on the beach.”
That perks me up. “Yeah?”
“Tan lines,” he explains. Smiling, I lean down to kiss him before pushing up off of him.
“We’re going to have to work on yours, Canada boy. That pasty skin is in desperate need of some vitamin D.”
He sits up as I step off the bed and stretch, arms above my head and back bowed. Nothing like an orgasm to get the juices flowing in the morning.
“I’m not pasty ,” he protests, smacking my ass as he walks past me toward the open doorway of the bathroom. I watch him go, shamelessly checking out his naked body and feeling thrilled that he’s not asking permission to use my stuff. Make yourself at home , I urge him silently.
“You shower first, and I’ll go downstairs and make sure everything is ready for your grand tour.” I lean against the doorframe of the bathroom and stare at his back as he pees. He glances over his shoulder at me, sees me watching, and laughs.
“Why are you watching me take a piss?”
“I haven’t seen you a few weeks. Literally everything you do is sexy right now, so sue me.” Walking up behind him, I plant a kiss between his shoulder blades. “I’ll be downstairs checking the house. Help yourself to anything you want, okay? Oh, and I’ll bring your bag up, too.”
I peek my head into all the bedrooms as I make my way through the house. I’m excited and a little bit nervous for Grayson to see this place. It’s ridiculously large, and a hell of a lot fancier than his place back in Calgary. But the beachside location affords me an excellent view, and with an entire wall of ocean-facing windows, the view from the living room is particularly stunning. The open floor plan and vaulted ceilings were also massive selling points for me—you can stand in the kitchen or living area, look out the west windows, and feel like you’re a part of the ocean.
When I get to the kitchen, I see that my mom filled the refrigerator with a plethora of food, as well as her homemade kombucha. There’s also a care package on the island addressed to Grayson, most likely filled with essential oils and whatever other homeopathic remedies she cooked up for him.
The last stop is the lower level. Flicking on the lights, I bypass the gym equipment and walk over to check the pool. I’m not sure Grayson will want to swim, but it’s ready for him if he does. Jogging back up the stairs, I get back to my bedroom just as Grayson is coming out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. I hold up his suitcase.
“Here you go. Mind if I hop in the shower? You can still use the bathroom if you need to.”
His lips quirk up into a smile as he crouches down to open up his suitcase. I watch the way the towel splits open over his thigh. Yum .
“Go for it. What’s the plan for today? I wasn’t really sure what to pack, so I just threw in a little of everything.”
Leaving the bathroom door open so I can shout through to him, I step into the shower. “You have board shorts, right?”
“Yeah.” A pause. “I ordered some after you invited me. ”
“Well, take the tags off and put ’em on. We keep it casual around here.”
I speed through my shower. Grayson is waiting for me in the bedroom, bent over near the bookshelf as he peruses the titles. His board shorts are plain and black, and he’s tossed a shirt on as well. Black, naturally. I grab the first pair of board shorts I touch and pull them on. Unlike Grayson’s monochromatic palette, mine tends more toward bright and tropical. He abandons the books and looks at me instead.
“Cute,” he says, nodding toward the blue-and-green shark pattern.
“What every man hopes to hear when someone is looking at their crotch.”
I don’t bother with a shirt. Plucking at his, I grin up at him. “Tour. Breakfast. Beach. Sound good?”