Chapter 16 #2
August couldn’t have cared less about pizza joints or Broadway shows, but the lively chatter helped steady his frayed nerves. Ever since he’d decided to mentally rejoin the team, the mood in the room had lifted, and the locker room no longer felt like hostile territory.
He was getting better at putting faces to names, too. It was sad to think that, despite being a Bigfoot player for his entire career, he couldn’t seem to remember anyone.
Logan Bradshaw, a forward on the second line, sat beside him on the bench and knocked their knees together. “Can I ask a very personal and nosy question without you punching me in the face?”
August took a second to pull his pants up because there was no way he was doing personal with his dick out.
“I can’t promise I won’t punch you,” said August, plopping back down and angling his body toward his teammate. “But ask away if you really need to.”
Bradshaw swallowed, determination wavering for a heartbeat, before he asked, “Are you and Niko dating?”
Were they…
What?
“Fuck no,” said Niko, joining August on his other side, thus saving him from having to answer the question. “He’s not even close to my type. I would kill him if we were dating. He’s too much of a diva.”
That was accurate, but also hurtful. They were perfectly matched for a brotherly relationship, but boyfriends? Fuck no was a pretty good way to say it.
“I’m not—” August began, but then snapped his mouth shut.
Was he really straight? Could he say that with enough confidence to believe it?
“We’re not together,” he finished lamely.
“Okay, sorry.” Logan knocked their knees for a second time. “You guys bonded super fast, and you’re living together, and you’re always hanging out. I figured I would ask, so if anyone started a rumour mill, I could have your backs.”
That was…actually very kind of him.
“Th-Thanks,” said August. “I think it’s safe to say we appreciate support.”
Logan was attractive for a guy. Cute dimples and perfect teeth—and the muscles…
“I think the guys were scared to confirm anything because they didn’t want to throw you two off,” Logan began, bending to slip his shoes on.
“I know personal lives are personal, but I heard someone on the staff whispering about how friendly you’ve been toward each other, and I wanted to approach the situation knowing the truth.
I hate when people theorize about shit like this, knowing how dangerous it can be. ”
“Not that it’s dangerous to be boyfriends anymore,” Skarsg?rd added in his heavily accented voice. “We just want to protect the game we’ve been playing recently, which has been phenomenal. No drama is allowed.”
There was a collective murmur of agreement from the guys still in the room, and many side-eyes were directed at flustered staff members. The team loved their staff, and they would be nowhere without them, but whispering about a player’s personal life showed a huge lack of professionalism.
August wasn’t bothered by rumours. If he could survive the year that he was supposedly dating Jin Park because they both dyed their hair, he could survive anything.
But still, just because Niko was gay and he was living with a guy, didn’t automatically mean they were dating, and he was proud of his teammates for taking issue with it.
August left for the hotel feeling lighter, and the constant pain in his head felt less like a hammer beating against the inside of his skull and more like a soft ache.
“Good to know I’ll be dating every guy I interact with,” Niko said in his grumbly, bitchy tone. “And if you’re worried—”
“I’m not,” said August, shutting that shit down before Niko could get the words out of his mouth.
Niko’s scowl stretched the scar on his mouth, and yeah, he was cute in an adorable way—a little brother way, but August felt nothing beyond friendship for him.
Besides, his eyes were the wrong shade of green.
When they made it to the hotel room, they spent their downtime watching highlights from games they had missed, and August napped. He was napping a lot lately. He chalked it up to the pressure of being one of the star players on his team, but fuck, he was exhausted.
It’s not like sleep was restful, either. His past had a nasty way of creeping into dreams of playing hockey and hoisting the Stanley Cup, turning them into nightmares filled with the cracking of a belt against his skin and his father’s cruel words.
His father’s hate.
His father’s gurgling sounds as he died with his hands covered in August’s blood.
But he preferred those dreams to the ones he had of Quinn. At least his father’s hate was expected, as was the anger and terror when August woke screaming. The dreams with Quinn were different, and there was nothing great about waking with his pillow wet with tears.
Those dreams were all the same, replaying their brief time spent together. The hand holding, the shy kisses, and the way Quinn talked about his future—a future that might have room for August if he was brave enough to ask.
When he was awake, August couldn’t remember any of these things, which made everything hurt worse.
Why? Why couldn’t he remember?
How could he not recall the warmth in Quinn’s eyes after their first kiss? He couldn’t remember the way Quinn’s guard always crumbled when they were alone, how the sarcasm and sharp edges melted away the moment August made him laugh.
And worst of all, he couldn’t remember the sight of Quinn’s body bathed in moonlight—the sheen of sweat glittering on his skin, the way his breath hitched when August’s hands finally traced the curves he’d dreamed of touching.
The pale stretch of his stomach, the pink flush rising to his cheeks, the tremor that ran through him when August whispered his name.
“I can’t remember,” August moaned into his pillow. “I want to, but I can’t. Do I like guys, or just you? Was it always just you?”
An amused chuckle. A flicker of a smirk.
“Is this a backhanded way of…asking me to show you?”
Show him?
In his dream, August reached out with a shaking hand and brushed a finger over Quinn’s nipple, watching his stomach muscles flex in response.
“Yeah. I trust you. I need to know before I go crazy.”
He needed to know if Quinn still loved him. He needed to know if the August who loved him back was the real him, or if the current August was who he was supposed to be.
“Come to my room.”
Room, right.
August knocked on the shiny, black door with the number 709 on the front, blinking rapidly when it opened to reveal…
Quinn.
“Hi,” said Quinn. His shoulders were rising and falling in a quick rhythm that gave away how breathless he was. “I won’t lie, getting that call from you—”
August’s knees buckled, and he flung his arms out, gripping the sides of the doorframe to keep himself standing. The wood was cool under his fingers, and he could feel the ache in his head pounding like a drum again, but this was a dream, right?
Or was this not a dream? How did it feel so real?
Quinn’s expression pinched, and he stepped aside, gesturing for August to enter. “Your nose is bleeding. Come sit down and put your head back while I find some tissues.”
August stumbled inside, finding the nearest chair next to the small dining table and falling into it. He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, trying to comprehend what he was doing and where he was.
This had to be a dream. Quinn wouldn’t be in New York, not unless he followed Callahan to his away games, which—
Fuck, he might not be dreaming.
Reality hit the moment Quinn returned and shoved a tissue against his nose. The touch grounded him, and August fell into his body with such blinding clarity that his fingers began to tingle.
“You’re a mess,” said Quinn, pinching August’s nose with the tissue until he got the hint and took over.
Their fingers brushed, and the faint tingling ignited into wildfire. Heat raced up August’s arm, spreading through his chest until his breath caught.
“Sorry,” Quinn muttered. “I forgot to tell you the cloth’s cold.”
August blinked, just now realizing that Quinn was dabbing at his face and throat with something.
“When I gave you my number, I thought you would text me random hockey crap,” said Quinn. “I wasn’t expecting a call mid-afternoon asking for help because you couldn’t remember if you were bi or not.”
Had he done that?!
“Fuck, I am so sorry.” August took the cloth from Quinn so he could press it to his burning cheeks. “I was having a dream, so coming here may have involved a bit of sleepwalking.”
“A bit of sleepwalking?” Quinn came closer, and August opened his eyes to look up into angry, bright green orbs. “If you’re being serious, that’s impressive because you sounded pretty coherent to me.”
August couldn’t remember, but what else was new?
Quinn offered him more tissues, but the bleeding had stopped, leaving August snuffling and feeling congested.
“At least you didn’t get much on your shirt,” Quinn muttered. “People are going to think I’m abusing you because you’re always covered in blood when we’re together.”
Quinn wasn’t making it any easier for him to calm the heat crawling up his neck.
August couldn’t tell if he was still dreaming or if this was actually happening, but he knew Quinn’s touch felt real.
Solid. Grounding. It rooted him in his bones, in the here and now, like his body had chosen Quinn as his source of gravity.
But the moment Quinn stepped back, the world tilted, the air went cold, and that fleeting sense of being anchored slipped away.
Terrified, August grabbed onto the sleeve of Quinn’s shirt, stopping him from putting more distance between them. “Wait—stay.”
Gross. He sounded so needy.
Quinn looked from August to the bloody tissues he was holding in his hand. “Can I at least—”
August took them from Quinn and tossed them onto the table, keeping his hand firmly on Quinn’s delicate wrist. He straightened in his chair and brought him closer, breathing deeply through his nose as he pressed Quinn’s hand to his brow.