Chapter 19
Milo
The locker room is somber as we dress down from the game. Sad men in various states of undress surround me.
It was, of course, Davis who got the game winning goal.
The puck rimmed hard around the boards and popped loose at the bottom of the circle. Davis collected it on his backhand, head up just long enough to sell the shot. And I bought it, dropping early, sealing the ice.
All it took was one quick toe drag, pulling the puck through Oskar’s skates, shifting it from backhand to forehand in one smooth motion. Oskar’s stick swept through empty air. I lunged across, scrambling to recover, but he was already sliding past the post.
The fucker, instead of shooting, delayed, just a fraction too long for me to reset.
Then he slipped the puck in between pad and post, banking it off the inside of my skate.
I felt like I let down the whole team.
It was my fault. I know it was. After watching Beau walk down the tunnel, I was a wreck. They probably could have just skated right up and slid the biscuit in the basket with no problem. I couldn’t focus, not with him gone and his teammates knowing.
Because they were acting like they knew exactly what had happened between us, like they somehow knew every intimate detail. They teased and poked at me, chirping about something they knew nothing about.
Because they didn’t. They couldn’t.
There is no way they know anything. Not anything beyond speculation.
Beau wouldn’t have told people like that. He wouldn’t have trusted them with our secret. I honestly don’t think he’s trusted anyone but me with the fact that he’s bi. Definitely not anyone on his former team, in the homophobic capital of America, Texas.
I don’t think he would have, not the way he wailed into Erickson.
Erickson, who was the most unbearable all game. He had a lot of slurs he wanted to throw at me.
I just look at the swelling where Beau punched him and take a deep breath. I picture Beau there, punching him again and again, and it makes all the slurs roll off like water off a duck’s back.
Honestly, it’s a miracle I didn’t let in more pucks with how hard Dallas went after my apparently faggot ass. But this fag locked them out for a whole game, and it was only in overtime, only because Beau was gone, that they got one past me.
They were feeding off the energy on the ice. The energy Beau put out in the rink with the savage way he protected me.
Fuck, the way he threw Erickson off me was so intense, so heated. Thinking about it now makes my cock jump a little. Thank God I’m still mostly dressed at the lockers and not completely naked, dick swinging in the showers.
I can only imagine how embarrassed I’d be getting caught hard in there.
I’m only in my base layers, a moisture wicking compression shirt and leggings, my cup hiding the obvious chub I have. The pressure against the plastic builds as I keep daydreaming about Beau.
The rage in his eyes was electric, a jolt straight to my groin and, somehow, to my heart too.
There’s movement to my right, and Kirill is there, shuffling nervously. He has his phone in his hand, typing out what looks like a full paragraph to someone. I must be feeling some kind of nosy because I recognize the name.
Clarke.
He’s a player on our farm team that I’ve seen hanging out with Kirill and this tall woman I assume is one of their girlfriends.
He’s kind of adorable, with big, unassuming eyes that look like they see everything, even things that may not be there. His smile is small and secretive. His hair is absolutely wild, not curly, just a longer mess on his head.
Kirill is typing a mile a minute, and as I watch him, I suddenly realize I’m basically eavesdropping. I immediately school my features and look away, back toward my locker.
Kirill is an interesting man. Tall, covered in tattoos, but so quiet, always keeping to himself.
He looks up and catches my eye, dropping his phone to his side and meeting my gaze.
“What?” he says, his accent thick. I smile at him, but he doesn’t return it.
“Nothing, just… Sorry. I accidentally saw your phone.” I point down to the offending piece of technology. “Haven’t seen Clarke since we recalled him a few weeks ago, right? How’s he doing?”
Kirill’s eyes narrow, his shoulders squaring.
“What?”
“Sorry, Kirill, I just saw you were texting him. Clarke Wyatt, right?” I take a small step back, because somehow I keep saying the wrong thing if the ragey look in his eyes is anything to go by.
“What do you mean by that?” he asks, his voice steady, quiet but firm.
“Um…” I start.
Kirill’s eyes stay on me, waiting. I have no idea what to say.
Then I see him out of the corner of my eye. Beau. He’s standing, talking to the PR team and Coach Waldor. I’m sure they’re trying to come up with a way to spin this as a positive.
I apologize to Kirill, who just grunts at me and goes back to his phone. Typing a mile a minute.
I hear “highlight reel” thrown out, and I know that’ll fix it. Hockey fans love a highlight reel of anything, even fights. Even if they’ll have to dig for quite some time to find any other fights of Beau’s, because Beau doesn’t fight. At least, he never did when he was playing for Dallas.
I could probably count on one hand the number of fights he was in when he was in Dallas.
But here, in the land of hockey, he’s suddenly a different player. A player who fights. A player who fights former teammates. A player who fights people he was once friends with.
Our gazes meet as I walk to the showers, and I feel a thousand pounds lighter.
His eyes say I’m sorry.
And I believe him, but part of me is sad about it. What is he sorry for? Is he really sorry for protecting me? Maybe he’s just sorry for the mess he made?
I can barely hear Coach laying into him. That’s one of the things I like about Coach Waldor. He is always able to get the point across without eviscerating your entire being.
Don’t get me wrong, his tirades are devastating. They are just at an appropriate volume. There’s nothing worse than being screamed at in front of everyone.
“I know no one touches the goalie, but maybe leave that type of mentality to Volkov or Jagger.” Coach pats his shoulder gently, as if he’s afraid he’ll spook him. “We just can’t risk losing you in a game this tight.”
I know it wasn’t just that mentality. I heard all the nasty vitriol Erickson was spitting. Not just at Beau, but at me as well.
I go through the motions of undressing as I think this through, walking toward the showers for a quick rinse before we leave.
I stand under the hot stream of water and let my mind wander. Beau isn’t the kind of guy to get into fights just for the sake of it, right? So I need to chill the fuck out and accept that he got into this fight for me. He fought his former teammates for me.
He has feelings for me.
Now I just need to hear that from him.
An hour later, and I’m still waiting to hear that from him.
The silence in the truck is louder than any words.
The car ride home is tense, the air between us heavy.
Beau has been heavy-handed on the wheel like this ever since driving home in his brand-new F-150.
I tried explaining to him how bad of an idea it was to get another truck, even a strong, capable one like Buck (his words, not mine) for the icy winters of Minnesota.
I tried explaining fishtailing to him, only to be extremely alarmed to find out he not only knew about it but was, quote, very good at getting out of it, unquote.
Beau alarms me, in almost every way imaginable. The way he behaved during the game tonight. The way he came to my rescue. I think what alarms me the most, though, is how much I wanted it, how much I want him. Because I want him.
I want Beau.
Fuck, I want him so bad.
I know I want him, obviously. That’s what this whole plan was about, wanting him. Teasing him. Showing him exactly what he could have if he’d just admit his damn feelings.
If he would just say he wants me just as badly.
If he would just be honest with himself.
If he would just be honest with me.
I think his feelings were pretty clear tonight.
Pretty obvious in how he protected me. In how he burst into the crease like a demon -possessed man.
The rage I saw in his eyes. The rage I saw as he pulled Erickson from the crease.
The rage that overtook him as he pounded his face, into someone that just a few short months ago, he was teammates with.
He did that for me.
He did that because of what he feels for me.
He didn’t just do it because he’s a passionate player. He’s not that kind of guy.
I guess the only way to know for sure is to test the waters.
I look over at him carefully, and he’s staring daggers at the car ahead of us. I want nothing more than to reach out my hand and take his, squeeze it, and tell him I’m here. Tell him I saw him tonight.
“So,” I start, dipping my toes in. “That was some game tonight.”
He scoffs—legit scoffs—at me.
Wow.
His shoulders are tight and high, and he clearly is not happy about tonight. I guess I should leave it be?
The night air is cold, but he has the windows cracked anyway. Icy air blows around our faces, filling the cab. My eyes tear up, but it’s only because of the air blowing in my face and has nothing to do with that scoff.
I should have guessed that he wouldn’t want to talk about it. That he would be about as thrilled to talk about his outburst as I was to see the aftermath.
But I don’t want to let him get away with simply scoffing away his problems. I want him to face them, and I want him to face them with me. I’m not going to let him shut me out. Not tonight.
I open my mouth to say something else, but it turns into a scream. The hum of the tires vanishes, replaced by a thin, hollow hiss, as if the road has turned to glass. The truck sways, just slightly but enough that my stomach drops before my brain can catch up.
My scream is all I can hear as the truck slides.