Chapter 8
Tanner
The room is washed in the flat, gray light of a northern Alberta winter morning.
Just looking out the window makes me shiver.
Beside me, the other bed is a fortress of pillows, with Louis still buried in the nest I built him.
His hair is a mess against the white linens, and his dark eyelashes contrast against his still-pale skin.
And Jesus, why the hell am I noticing his eyelashes?
Ugh. He does look peaceful though. Of course, that’s a big lie.
The second he wakes up, the pain meds will have worn off, and the reality of his chest muscles being ripped apart will come rushing back.
My gut twists.
I scroll through my notifications. A text from Rylan.
How’s our man doing? Hope you both got some sleep. Big two points tonight. Need you dialed in, dude.
I switch to the NHL app, where the current standings glare back at me.
We’re sitting right on the wild card bubble.
If we lose tonight, we’ll drop out of the spot.
And while team ownership hasn’t specifically said what they will consider a big enough improvement to keep the team together, most of us feel like as long as we make the playoffs, we should be safe for at least another season.
If not, the Everton family, the owners, told Carson that they would start a full team rebuild, which means breaking up the core group of players and starting from scratch.
And Louis isn’t playing in this hugely critical game. I am.
I slide out of bed, the hotel carpet rough under my bare feet.
My routine kicks in automatically. It’s how I keep my anxiety locked down so it doesn’t spiral into panic.
Most of the time, it’s a pretty reliable system, but today is different.
For a lot of reasons. I go through the motions anyway.
First, a nice, hot shower, followed by thirty seconds of icy-cold to wake up my nervous system.
I shave, brush my teeth, and put on deodorant in the exact same order as always before stepping out of the bathroom.
I pull on my Sasquatch warm-up suit and pack my bag. E-reader, headphones, iPad, clean socks, and underwear if I want them after practice. Everything has a place. Control what you can control.
Lou’s still sleeping, which is weird. Those must be some good drugs since he usually always wakes up while I’m getting ready. I move to the side of his bed.
“Louis,” I say gently, my hand hovering over his good shoulder. “Time to get up.”
He rumbles a groan and cracks his eyes open. They’re unfocused and glassy with sleep, before the clarity—and pain—hit him.
“Oh, fuck,” he rasps, cringing with pain. Again, my stomach churns, and I wish more than almost anything that I could do something to help.
I don’t bother to ask if he’s okay, since we both know he’s not.
We move into the weird routine we’ve somehow established last night, neither of us hesitating anymore. It’s intimate in a way that makes my skin prickle. It’s like we’re a unit. It’s not fun, but it is efficient, and we get him dressed and ready quickly.
When he’s dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking pale under the fluorescent lights, I hand him the coffee I had room service drop off before I showered, and he closes his eyes as he takes a sip.
“Fuck, Rookie, nice job on my coffee. This is perfect.” He forces a grin, but it’s a shadow of itself. He’s not complaining, not even mentioning the pain, but the tension around his eyes tells me he’s working hard to act like he’s okay.
I shrug. “I pay attention to shit.”
He nods. “Thanks.”
I putter around, making sure things are neat and everything is put away before we leave the room, even though housekeeping will come in later. It calms my mind.
“Edmonton has a heavy forecheck,” he says, his voice gravelly. “They like to crash the net. Don’t let them rattle you. And Boulton likes to go high glove side on the rush. Make sure you don’t cheat the post.”
I stare at him. He’s about to go find out if his career is over, and he’s giving me a scouting report.
“I know the book on Boulton, Lou.”
“Just saying. You have a tendency to do it when you’re screened.”
“I’ll handle the pucks,” I snap.
He presses his lips into a thin line, focusing on his coffee mug.
I huff out a breath. “Shit, I’m sorry.” I run my hand through my hair in frustration, suddenly wishing I didn’t keep it so short because it would feel really good to pull on it right now. “I guess I’m a little nervous.”
He nods. “It’s okay, kid. I get it.”
I guess I’m back to being “kid” or “Rookie.” Sigh.
He opens his mouth to say something, but a sharp rap on the door cuts him off.
“That’ll be the doc,” he says grimly.
I grab his heavy winter coat and drape it over his shoulders like a cape so he doesn’t have to struggle with the sleeves. My knuckles brush his throat as I zip it up, and his pulse is thumping, fast and anxious.
He looks at me, his confident mask slipping for a second, giving me a glimpse if the terrified man underneath it.
Dr. Kendall is waiting a few feet away, checking his watch. “Morning, gentlemen. How are we feeling?” he asks as Louis grabs his phone and steps into the hallway.
“About as well as expected,” he answers.
“Well, this is the first step in getting you back up and running, so let’s get to it,” Doc Kendall says with an encouraging smile. “Your chariot awaits, sir.” He winks at Lou as they turn toward the elevator.
“Hey, Lou,” I call, my voice embarrassingly creaky.
They both look at me. “Just, um—wanted to say good luck.”
He manages a crooked, half-assed version of his trademark smirk. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “See you at naptime, Rook.”
He walks down the hall without looking back.
I make it through morning skate, and even through the team lunch with the guys in the hotel restaurant without anything terrible happening, but I still haven’t heard a word from Louis.
When I get to our room, the blackout curtains are drawn tight, strangling the watery afternoon sun that’s trying to creep in.
It feels less like a hotel room and more like a cave.
Louis is lying on his back in his pillow nest. His eyes are open, but he’s just staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t move when I drop my bag.
“Well?” I ask. My voice is loud in the quiet room. “What’s the verdict?”
He turns his head slowly to look at me, and even in the dim light, he looks wrecked.
“It’s a grade 3,” he says. His tone is flat, like it’s been stripped of all his usual emotion. “Surgery at the end of the week. Out four to six months.”
The words hit me like a gut punch. Four to six months. That’s the rest of the regular season and the playoffs, if we make them. Plus part of the off-season.
I walk over to the bed. “Lou…”
“Don’t,” he croaks, turning. He looks back up at the ceiling. “Don’t give me the ‘we’ll get through this’ speech. I can’t hear it again. I swear to god, if you tell me to keep my chin up, I might actually punch you with my bad arm.”
I huff out a chuckle. “Okay.” I kick off my shoes. My normal game-day schedule tells me I should be meditating right now, visualizing the crease and seeing myself stopping every puck that comes my way. Instead, I’m climbing onto the bed beside him. “No speeches.”
I lie down facing him, careful of his left side, stealing a slice of the pillow nest. The antiseptic scent of the doctor’s office clings to his clothes, mixed with his own coffee-and-sandalwood warmth.
He turns his head toward me, and the expression on his face hits me right in the solar plexus. His eyes are almost haunted, blown wide with something that looks like panic. He’s terrified. His funny, optimistic joker mask is gone, and the guy underneath is staring directly into the abyss.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I have no idea who I am without hockey.” My heart breaks for him. His pain is so raw and real, and the only thing I can think about is taking it away.
I reach out, cupping his jaw with my hand. His stubble is rough against my palm. My thumb brushes his cheekbone, tracing the tension there.
“You’re gonna figure it out,” I whisper, and I mean it with my entire soul. He will. But he can’t see that right now.
I don’t think about it. Acting on pure instinct, I move toward him. I don’t ask for permission. I crush my mouth to his.
He doesn’t hesitate, returning the kiss with all the coiled-up energy inside him. It’s not soft or gentle or romantic. It's frantic and urgent. He makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat and grabs the back of my head with his good arm, pulling me down and deepening the kiss.
He’s drifting out to sea right now, but I can be his anchor. I can do this for him. I angle my head, drinking down his panic and swallowing his moans. He tastes like coffee and sadness, but it’s the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever tasted.
“Tanner,” he gasps when we finally break apart for air.
“I got you,” I murmur, moving my mouth to his neck and drawing a slow, hot line of kisses along it.
“Fuck, yes. God, yes,” he groans, urging me on.
“Careful,” I murmur against his lips when he moves to arch against me. But I don’t stop. I slide my leg over his, pinning him gently to the mattress so he doesn’t twist his torso. “Don’t move. Just let me…”
Our mouths collide again, frantic and wet, his tongue tangling with mine. This isn’t the same as the almost-kiss from the other night. That was curiosity. This is survival. He’s drowning, and I’m his oxygen.
And god help me, I want to be.
My usually noisy brain, cluttered with constant stats and analytics, goes completely silent.
The only thing I’m aware of is Louis. The slide of his lips, the feel of his tongue, the heat from his body.
I slide my hand from where it’s still cupping his cheek to the back of his neck, tangling my fingers in his hair, holding him in place as I devour him.