Chapter 8 #2
“Tanner,” he groans again, breaking the kiss to bury his face in the crook of my neck. His breath is hot against my skin.
Hearing my name from his mouth undoes me. I press my hips down, grinding my rock-hard cock against him, careful not to put weight on his chest but needing him to feel me. Needing him to know I’m here and solid and real.
“I’m here,” I grit out, sucking gently on the pulse thundering under his jaw. “I’m right here.”
He hums, a vibration against my throat, before turning to capture my mouth again. He sucks on my lower lip, biting down hard enough to sting, and a groan escapes me because fuuuuuck, it feels good.
It could be five minutes or five hours, I have no idea. We’re just heat and breath and desperation in the dim light. I forget about the game, the standings, and it’s possible I forget my own goddamn name. I don’t care.
Suddenly, a shrill, electronic beeping cuts through the room, hitting us like a bucket of ice water.
“Motherfucker. That’s my alarm. Bus in fifteen.”
Louis goes still beneath me, his chest heaving. His eyes are hazy, his lips red and bitten, and his dark hair is a disaster. He looks so fucking hot.
He blinks up at me, and it’s almost as though I can see the weight of reality crushing back down on him. He lets go of me, letting his good arm drop to the bed.
“Right,” he whispers. “The bus.”
I scramble off the bed, almost unsteady on my legs as I reach for the phone to kill the alarm. Once the annoying-as-fuck beeping stops, the silence that follows is almost worse.
Louis watches me, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Louis, I—”
“Let’s not do this now,” he cuts me off. “You got a game to win, Rookie.”
I hesitate, not sure what to do. We have to talk about what just happened, but I also have to get myself ready to play, both mentally and physically.
I hurry to gather my things, changing into my suit as fast as I’ve ever done it in my life.
But it’s like I’m moving underwater, and by the time I’m ready to leave, I’m cutting it close if I want to make the first bus.
I always prefer to be at the arena with plenty of extra time.
It helps me get my head on straight. Considering what we just did, I’m going to need all the time I can get for that.
I open the door, pausing and turning to where Lou’s still lying on the bed.
“Uh, are—are you gonna be there?” I manage to choke out, trying to hide how desperately I want him to be there. I need him there, as insane as that is.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice rough. “I’ll be in the press box.”
“Okay. Yeah. Good. That’s good.” I nod, knowing if I open my mouth, a bunch of words I shouldn’t say right now will come tumbling out.
The door clicks shut behind me, but as I hurry toward the elevator, it’s not the Edmonton Arctic Wolves and their red-hot power play that’s filling my mind.
Focus, I tell myself sternly. Lock it down. Now.
But it’s no use, because as I step into the elevator, I can still taste him on my lips.
***
The Edmonton visitors‘ locker room is loud, as usual when we’re all in pre-game mode.
Gino is today’s DJ, and he’s got old-school heavy metal cranked up while we get ready.
I’ve spent the last couple of hours desperately trying to get into a calmer headspace, but I’m not sure it worked.
At this point, I’m just hoping my instincts take over once I get onto the ice.
I’m working on positive self-talk, telling myself I’ve got this, but my hands are shaking slightly as I lace my skates. Instead of armor that makes me feel invincible, my gear feels restrictive and suffocating today.
Every time I close my eyes to center myself, like I’ve been trained to do since I was a kid, I don’t see the ice. I see Louis, his pupils blown wide as he looked at me with naked hunger, feel his body under mine, and taste the raw want on his lips.
Focus, Sinclair.
Rylan walks by, tapping my shin pads with his stick. “You with us, kid?”
I look up, forcing a mask of calm onto my face. “Yeah. I’m here. Locked in.”
He searches my eyes for a second, his brow furrowed. Before he can say anything else, Coach Shaw steps to the middle of the room.
“Okay, gentlemen, a couple of quick things here. First, I want to let you know Lou is going to be out for a while. Once he gets through the surgery, we’ll know more about when he’ll be back on the ice.
” There are a few murmurs around the room, but it seems like most guys heard the shitty news earlier.
“In the meantime,” Coach continues, “our excellent backup, Tanner Sinclair, is gonna stand tall in net for us while Tremblay recovers. And I also want to welcome our newest Sasquatch, Casey McWhittier, called up from the farm last night to back up Sinc. Congratulations, both of you.”
Everyone hollers and claps for us. McWhittier sports a huge grin, loving every second of it. I should be feeling the same joy, considering this has been my dream since I was nine years old. Instead, I feel like I’m about to throw up.
When the room quiets, Coach claps his hands. “Okay, boys. Five minutes. Stick to the game plan tonight, and we got this. We’re gonna show these guys what Sasquatch hockey looks like!”
Usually, the transition out of the tunnel into the bright lights of the arena is a sensory reset, allowing me to hone my focus and let go of everything that isn’t happening on this ice sheet.
But not tonight.
As I scrape my crease, roughing up the ice between the posts, I look up. High above the ice and the cheering crowd is the press box. Lou’s up there, watching me take his crease and stand in the spot he earned. The same crease he broke his body trying to protect.
Goddammit. Focus, Sinclair.
For the first period, my body moves on autopilot, muscle memory doing the heavy lifting. I turn away a slap shot from the point. I smother a rebound a minute later. We head into the first intermission with no score.
But my head isn’t quiet like it should be. I’m fighting off random thoughts, and partway through the second, I start to lose the battle.
Edmonton is cycling the puck, looking for a lane. I’m tracking it, sliding post to post. But for a fraction of a second, my mind flips to Louis. To the haunted look on his face when he said he was “finished.”
It’s a micro-hesitation. Like a tiny glitch in the machine.
Boulton, their winger, releases a wrister from the top of the circle. I see it coming, but my arm feels heavy. I’m a split second late.
Ping.
The puck skims the underside of the crossbar before going in. The horn sounds, and the light glows red. It’s 1-0 Edmonton.
“Shake it off, Sinc!” Austin yells, tapping my pads as he skates past. “You got the next one.”
I nod, squirting water through my mask, trying to wash the taste of failure out of my mouth. But it’s like I’m not playing hockey anymore; I’m fighting a war inside my own head.
Five minutes later, there’s a scramble in front of me. Bodies are everywhere. I drop into my butterfly, sealing the ice.
Suddenly, I can feel Lou’s hot breath against my neck and his hard body underneath mine.
The sensory memory is so vivid, I lose spatial awareness for a microsecond, drifting an inch to my left. It’s like I’m chasing the ghost of a feeling instead of tracking the black disc. The puck squirts through the gap.
It’s 2-0.
By the third period, I’m no longer a goalie. I’m a goddamn sieve.
Every time the red light flashes, it’s like a taunt. You wanted this job? You wanted to be the hero? You thought you could do this? Think again, asshole.
I let in a soft backhand that Louis would have stopped in his sleep. 3-0.
I misplay a puck behind the net because I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to face him later. And it’s 4-0.
The final minutes are a blur of humiliation. When the final horn mercifully sounds, the scoreboard reads 5-0.
I don’t look at the bench. I don’t look up toward the press box. I keep my head down, staring at the ice as I skate to the tunnel. The guilt is a physical weight, heavier than the soaked gear clinging to my body.
The locker room is like a morgue. No music. Conversation is minimal. It’s brutal.
I peel off my chest protector, feeling exposed. Rylan sits down next to me and leans over to untie his skates.
“Rough night,” he says quietly.
“I wasn’t good enough,” I grind out.
“Nope,” Rylan agrees, and the honesty stings, even though it’s better than a lie. “You weren’t. But you’re not the first guy to choke on his first start, and you won’t be the last.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I shouldn’t be here. It should be Tremblay.”
Rylan stops. He leans toward me, dropping his voice so the rest of the room can’t hear. “Louis isn’t here, Tanner. You are. So go ahead and feel sorry for yourself tonight. Wallow in it if you want. But tomorrow, it’s gone, and you get back to work. Because we fuckin' need you.”
He slaps my knee and stands up.
I sit there, half-dressed, staring at the floor. He’s right. But when I look down at my hands, they’re still shaking.