Chapter 4 #2
Harrison set the cookie back on the platter, then started re-arranging the cheese rounds with unnecessary precision. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just loaded.
When he finally looked up again, there was something tentative in his expression. Pensive. Like he was deciding whether to step off a cliff.
“Since we’re saying things that might be offensive,” he began. “We’ve established beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am very gay, but what … uh …” He paused, and I watched him gather his courage. “What about you?”
“Oh.” My hand came up to scratch at the side of my jaw, a nervous habit I’d never quite managed to break, though you’d think sap stuck in my beard a hundred times would have done the trick.
“Yeah. No. Uh, I mean … I’m bi. Not really out, but not hiding it either.
” I cleared my throat, suddenly fascinated by the veining in his fancy countertop. “You didn’t know?”
“No,” he answered quickly. “I wondered, but I never … I didn’t want to assume.” He trailed off, and the air between us felt charged with all the things we’d never said out loud to one another before.
I forced myself to look up and meet his eyes. “We never really talked about that stuff. Back then.”
“No,” he agreed quietly. “We didn’t.”
Harrison shifted his weight, his fingers drumming once against the counter before going still. “Can I ask—” He stopped himself with a shake of his head. “Never mind. It’s probably too personal.”
“You can ask,” I said, surprising both of us.
Something had shifted between us tonight, some invisible barrier finally cracking, and I was curious to see where this conversation might take us.
“Did your teammates know?” His voice was careful, like he was genuinely worried about overstepping. “Or is that a stupid question? It’s not like I don’t know how hockey culture can be.”
I let out a rough laugh. “Yeah, it’s not exactly known for its progressive attitudes.”
My fingers found the camera hanging against my chest, and I fidgeted with the lens just to have something to do with my hands.
I’d never been comfortable talking about myself.
“I didn’t announce it in the locker room or anything, but a couple of guys knew.
Mostly I just kept my personal life personal, you know? ”
He nodded, like he was taking my words and fitting them into a puzzle he’d been trying to piece together.
“And later, in California?”
“The wine industry’s a bit more accepting, so yeah, I was out. Or maybe I just gave fewer fucks by that point.”
Harrison’s mouth curved into a small smile. “I can’t imagine you giving many fucks about what people think.”
“I cared what you thought.”
The admission hung between us, raw and unguarded. My heart hammered against my ribs. Too much. I’d said too much.
His lips parted slightly, but before he could say anything in response, I cut him off, my voice gruff. “I think we got what we need.” I lowered the camera, but kept scrolling through the images so I wouldn’t have to look at him as I fought to bring my heart rate back under control.
Harrison moved to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body as he looked over my shoulder. “These are incredible, Jer.”
My nickname spoken in his low, awed voice sent heat crawling up the back of my neck. He hadn’t called me that in almost two decades, and hearing it now made something crack open inside me that I’d thought was sealed shut forever.
I should have corrected him. Should have put that distance back between us.
Instead, I just nodded. “Yeah, they came out pretty good.”
A gust of wind rattled the windows, and we both looked up right as the lights flickered twice.
The snow was coming down in sheets now, so thick I could barely make out the dark shapes of the trees between our properties. The wind had picked up, too, howling against the house. “The storm came on quicker than I thought it would.”
“This is bad.” Harrison moved to the window, peering out into the white void. “You shouldn’t walk back in this.”
“I’ve walked home in worse.”
“Jeremy.” He turned to face me, his expression serious. He was quiet for a beat too long, a muscle working in his jaw while his eyes searched mine like he was measuring the risk of whatever he was about to say. His throat worked as he swallowed. “Don’t be stupid. Just … stay. I have a guest room.”
Every instinct I had screamed at me to refuse. To grab my camera and head out into the storm because staying here, in his space, with all these old feelings coming to the surface was dangerous.
But I wasn’t an idiot either. The storm was bad. I hadn’t seen snow like this in … well, decades.
“Fine,” I said, hating how the word tasted like surrender.
Harrison’s shoulders relaxed, like he’d been bracing for an argument. “Okay. Good. Are you hungry? I was going to make dinner anyway.”
My stomach chose that moment to growl. I’d skipped lunch, too focused on preparing for the photoshoot to bother eating. Too nervous about spending so much time around Harrison.
“I could eat,” I admitted.
“Great.” He moved to the other side of the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator door. “How do you feel about pasta?”
“I feel fine about it.”
He shot me a look over his shoulder, amused. “Such enthusiasm.”
“You want enthusiasm? Make me the best damn pasta I’ve ever eaten and I’ll give you a standing ovation.”
My words seemed to spark a challenge between us. That old competitive edge we’d always had. Growing up, we’d pushed each other constantly—faster skating, better grades, harder shots. Each of us trying to prove something—maybe to each other, maybe to ourselves.
We’d competed over other things, too, back then. Things I’d spent seventeen years trying to forget.
That thought led to more dangerous memories.
Like the time I’d challenged him to suck my dick for the first time, teasing him that he was too afraid. That it would make him gay.
The truth was, I’d been the one who was terrified.
I looked away, pushing those old memories aside and focusing instead on the blizzard raging outside. On anything except the heat pooling in my groin at the thought of Harrison’s warm, wet mouth wrapped around my dick.
This was dangerous. Being here, remembering, wanting.
But the storm had trapped us together, and for tonight at least, I couldn’t run.
And maybe, for once, I didn’t want to.