Chapter 5
Louis
Islide into consciousness, the hotel blackout curtains doing their job so well I have no idea what time it is.
For a second, I consider pretending to be asleep until Tanner leaves for breakfast, avoiding the inevitable awkwardness that’s going to come after I trauma-dumped my sexual crisis all over him last night.
“Morning,” I mumble, my voice still rough with sleep.
The pause lasts a beat too long. “Morning,” he finally responds, the sheets rustling as he sits up.
I do the same, running a hand through my hair, which I’m sure is sticking up in every direction like a mad scientist.
“Sleep okay?” he asks. The forced casualness in his voice makes my stomach twist.
“Yeah, fine.” I clear my throat. “You?”
“Fine.” We’re like two teenagers the morning after losing our virginity on prom night.
“I’m gonna shower,” he announces.
“Cool, cool,” I respond too quickly. “I’ll, uh, wait right here.” Omigod, I’ll wait right here? As opposed to what? Jumping into the shower to join him?
He disappears into the bathroom, and I flop back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. Fucking hell. How is it possible that in all my years of locker room bullshit and casual hookups, this is the most awkward morning-after I’ve ever experienced?
And nothing even happened! Well, nothing physical happened.
Not technically. But I can still feel the way his cool hand felt against the overheated skin of my shoulder.
And the way his eyes dropped to my lips, the way he looked at me like he was a man dying of thirst in the desert and I was a cool drink of water. Jesus H. Christ on a piece of toast.
And he’s queer! Tanner Sinclair is pansexual.
That surprises me almost as much as my own queerness—or whatever it is that I am.
That word doesn’t feel like it fits me, but maybe it will in time.
Hell, after last night, when I wanted to kiss him goddamn bad I thought I might actually die from it, the word “queer” fits a whole lot better than it did before.
Of course, he had no trouble shutting that shit down. “We should probably get some sleep.” I cringe at the memory. Shot down with extreme prejudice. Smooth, Tremblay. Real smooth.
The shower runs for exactly seven minutes, because of course Tanner Sinclair times his showers, and I run my hand over my face when I hear him turn the doorknob to come out.
Fuck. Should I mention it? Thank him? Pretend I was sleepwalking and don’t remember our conversation?
When he emerges in a cloud of steam, he’s already dressed in team sweats, his hair damp and neatly combed. “All yours,” he says.
I nod and grab my stuff, darting past him into the bathroom, careful not to make contact.
I let the hot water beat against the back of my neck, trying to wash away the confusion.
Maybe if I take a long enough shower, he’ll have already left for breakfast when I get out.
But shit, what if he thinks I’m jerking it in here?
What if he thinks I’m jerking it while thinking about him?
Oh fuck. What if he thinks I’m going to be all over him now that I know he’s pan and I’m—whatever the fuck I am.
Fuck me sideways. How the hell did my life get so complicated?
When I come out of the bathroom after a relatively normal-length shower, Tanner’s sitting on his perfectly made bed, scrolling through his phone with intense focus.
Who the fuck makes their own bed at a hotel? Tanner fucking Sinclair. That’s who.
I dress quickly, pulling on my sweats and long-sleeved T-shirt. The silence is making me itchy. I’ve never been comfortable with quiet; I usually fill it with bad jokes or smart-ass comments, but at the moment, my brain is empty.
“So,” I start, with absolutely no idea how to follow it up.
He finally looks at me cautiously. “So.”
“Um, about last night—”
“We don’t have to,” he cuts in quickly.
We both stop before I wave for him to continue. “We don’t have to talk about it,” he says again, his voice careful. “You were stressed. I get it, it happens. Don’t worry, I won’t mention anything to anyone.”
“Right, yeah. Um, cool, okay.” I nod too enthusiastically. “Just, you know, thanks again for, uh, listening. And for, ah, telling me that stuff. About you.”
A flicker of hesitation crosses his face, but he shuts it down. “No problem.” His voice is clipped and professional. “Glad to help. Anything for the team, right?”
Anything for the team. His words hit me like a splash of ice water.
Right. Of course. Last night wasn’t an “us” moment.
It was a starter-and-backup moment. That whole thing was just crisis management.
Tanner was only trying to keep his starter in a good headspace so we don’t blow this game against Calgary.
And here I was, wondering if his hand on my shoulder meant something more.
Clearly not.
I force a grin, ignoring the weird, hollow feeling in my chest. Message received. “Well, I’m starving. Should we head down? I need about four gallons of coffee if I’m going to stop pucks tonight.”
Ping…
The unmistakable sound of the puck hitting the goalpost cuts through the crowd noise.
But the scrape of skate blades and the grunted curses of the guys surrounding me as they scramble for the rebound is my only focus.
The Broncos have pulled their goalie early, sending out an extra attacker with seven minutes still left to try and tie up the game to force overtime.
They’re coming hard, throwing everything they’ve got at me, but I’m in the zone.
My mind is crystal clear, and time has slowed down.
I’m in that weird hockey-Matrix where I can not only see the puck, but I can feel its energy.
I know exactly where it is and exactly where it’s going.
And the one place that little rubber disc is not going is into the back of my net.
The rebound pops out of the scrum toward Calgary’s top defenseman, who winds up for a slap shot.
I’m perfectly positioned, tracking the puck like a laser.
He fakes the shot, trying to draw me down low, and instead of shooting, he passes to one of his forwards, who’s hoping to get it past me with a quick one-timer.
They’re fast, but I’m faster. I know what they’re going to do before they do.
But as Villeneuve’s shot rockets toward me, my mind flips the channel, and suddenly, I’m back in my dream, only for some fucking reason, it’s not Rylan and Jamie I’m envisioning, it’s Sinclair and me.
Tanner’s hot, hungry mouth is on mine as he rails into me from behind, the same way Jamie and Rylan were against the couch.
Jesus fucking Christ. My focus wavers for one split second.
I recover fast, but it’s a fraction of a second too late.
I get my blocker up, extension perfect, ready to deflect it wide. But as the puck meets my glove, all hell breaks loose in front of me. Bodies crash together—Rylan trying to tie up their center and Austin colliding with Calgary’s winger—and suddenly, I’m caught in a tangle of falling skaters.
I try to pull my arm back, but there’s no time. Someone’s knee clips my shoulder, wrenching it at an angle it was never meant to go. Then the full weight of three giant professional hockey players comes down on top of me, driving my extended arm into the ice.
The sound that comes out of me is somewhere between a scream and a grunt as something in my shoulder tears. Not pulls. Not strains. Tears. I feel it rip like fabric, a wet, nauseating sensation that sends white-hot agony exploding through my chest and down my arm.
“Fuck!” The word barely makes it past my lips as I’m crushed under the pile of bodies, my shoulder screaming in protest.
The weight finally lifts as the guys scramble off me, and the arena erupts in cheers from the home crowd. The puck’s in the back of the net. The Broncos have managed to tie it up, but all I can focus on is the nuclear bomb of pain that’s just detonated in my shoulder and chest.
I lie on the ice, gasping for breath, cradling my arm against my body. Every inhale sends fresh waves of agony through me. It feels like someone took a machete to my pec and shoulder.
Rylan appears in front of me, his face so worried that I can see it even with my vision obscured by my mask.
“Lou? Louis! What happened? You okay?” The roaring in my ears is so loud it sounds like he’s yelling at me while I’m underwater.
“My—shoulder,” I gasp, unable to form more words as waves of nausea roll through me. “Something’s… wrong.”
I’m dimly aware of Rylan signaling the bench for help, and seconds later, Gabe and Joey, two of our trainers, race onto the ice.
It’s okay. I’m okay. It probably feels worse than it is. But when I try to move my arm even an inch, another bolt of pain stabs through my chest, and I fall back to the ice with a strangled groan.
“Don’t move,” Gabe says, kneeling beside me. “Where’s the pain?”
“Shoulder. Chest.” I gasp out as another alarming jolt of agony shoots through me when he carefully tries to assess the injury. “Feels like something… ripped.”
The guys gather around my net, forming a protective circle as Gabe shines that stupid, bright light into each of my eyes to make sure I don’t have a concussion.
It’s not a fucking concussion, I want to snap at them, but I’m gritting my teeth so tightly I can’t speak.
I’m worried the only sound I’ll be able to make if I unclench my teeth is another scream of agony.
“Think you can make it off the ice with help, or should we get the stretcher?” Gabe asks, and the fact that I have to think about it is one of the scariest things I’ve ever experienced.
“The stretcher? No. No fuckin’ way. I’ll skate off, or I’ll crawl off, but I’m not taking any goddamn cart.”
Gabe and Joey get help from Rylan, Austin, and Gino to hoist me to my feet. Gabe tries to give my fucked-up arm some support, but it doesn’t do anything for the tsunami of pain that’s swamping me. Every tiny movement sends fiery stabs of pain through me.
This isn’t good. I’ve never felt this type of pain before, so I have no idea what’s wrong, but it’s pretty fucking clear it’s bad.
Even though the pain is excruciating, there’s no way in hell I’ll allow myself to get carted off the ice like a corpse in front of a full house in Calgary. Not a goddamn chance.
“I’m okay, I got it,” I mutter when Joey goes to take my non-fucked arm to help guide me.
He cocks an eyebrow at me, but I push off gingerly.
As I make my way slowly across the ice to the bench, with Rylan on one side of me and Gabe and Austin on the other, Tanner skates past us, on his way out to take my place in net.
Our eyes meet briefly, and his are filled with concern and determination. He’s ready for this.
“You got this, Rookie,” I manage to grind out as we pass. It’s what a good teammate would say, what a mentor should say. But even as the words leave my mouth, my gut twists with the knowledge that this could be bad. Like, really bad.
“Hang in there, Lou,” Rylan says, his eyes dark with worry as he helps the trainers get me off the ice. “We’ll finish it for you.”
I can’t do more than give him a nod.
I get a round of applause from the crowd as I’m helped off the ice, and the last thing I see before disappearing into the bowels of the Calgary Broncos’ arena is Tanner Sinclair sliding into the crease—my crease—settling into position as the linesman gets ready to drop the puck for the face-off.
I’m in the worst pain I’ve ever felt, but the cold dread that’s snaking its way up my spine is almost worse. I feel like I may have lost a hell of a lot more than just this game.