Chapter 9
Louis
The hotel room is dim, lit only by the light from a single sconce between the beds.
My pain, which had been manageable at the game’s start, came back with a vengeance partway through, and by the time the final horn sounded, I’m not sure which pain was worse: the physical pain from my shredded muscle or the mental agony of watching Tanner completely fall apart in goal.
I’m propped up in my fortress of pillows, a bag of melting ice draped awkwardly over my shoulder.
My pec feels like someone took a blowtorch to the muscle and then tried to shred it with a cheese grater.
The pain meds I downed as soon as I got back have shaved off the sharpest edges of reality, leaving me a little floaty.
I know what a goalie looks like when his brain disconnects from his body. Watching it happen to Tanner was almost worse than experiencing it myself.
The lock beeps, and the door flies open, banging against the stopper. Tanner stalks in, looking like a thundercloud.
He doesn’t say a word or even look in my direction. He rips his suit jacket off his shoulders like it’s burning his skin, the fabric hitting the floor with a soft whump.
Usually, Tanner Sinclair is a machine. The guy folds his socks, for god’s sake. He lines up his toiletries in alphabetical order and treats his clothes like they’re ecclesiastical vestments. Right now? There’s a glitch in the machine.
He tears at his tie, but the knot refuses to give. A low, frustrated sound—half growl, half sob—tears from his throat. He yanks the silk loop over his head and flings it toward the desk, but he misses, the tie sliding into the trash can.
He keeps pacing, his energy wild and uncontrolled. Very unlike the Tanner Sinclair I’ve gotten to know over the last few months.
“Fucking useless,” he mutters as he kicks off his dress shoes without untying them, sending one skidding into the wall with a thud.
I stay quiet. I know this dance. The shame that radiates off him like heat waves off hot asphalt.
“Five goals,” Tanner snaps. He’s talking to the demons in his head, not to me. “Five. Fucking. Goals. On twenty-two shots. I’m a motherfucking sieve.”
He runs both hands through his hair, gripping the short strands tight enough to hurt. “They should’ve yanked me. McWhittier would have been better.” He chokes on a breath. “I’m nothing but dead weight to this team. To you.”
Shit. He’s so deep down the hole of shame and self-loathing he can’t see the light. His chest heaves under his crisp white dress shirt. The poor guy looks about ten seconds away from a panic attack.
“Sinclair.” I drop my voice to its deepest register, my tone sharp and demanding.
He freezes, his back to me. His shoulders are hiked up to his ears.
“Stop,” I say firmly. This isn’t my jokey, fun voice. It’s not the voice of the guy who tapes skate blades or makes fart jokes on the team bus. This voice means business.
“You don’t understand,” he starts, turning halfway toward me. His face is pale, his eyes wide and glassy. “That was a hundred percent on me. I cost us the game. I—”
“The score doesn’t matter.”
His jaw drops, indignation flooding his face as he rounds on me. “The score doesn’t matter? What the fuck do you mean it doesn’t matter? It’s the only thing that matters!” he yells, lashing out wildly. “This is your team! It’s your net! And I pissed all over it!” His voice cracks.
“I wasn’t watching the puck,” I tell him, keeping my voice low and steady. “I was watching you. I didn’t see a bad goalie, Tanner. I saw a scared one.”
The fight drains out of him all at once. His shoulders slump as his rage is suddenly replaced with exhaustion.
“I can’t do this,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m not you, Louis. I can’t—I can’t be what they need. What you need.”
My heart gives a painful squeeze, and it’s got nothing to do with the torn muscle fibers in my chest. I shift my weight, wincing at the movement, and pat the mattress beside my good hip.
“Come here.”
He hesitates, eyeing the bed like it’s a trap. “I’m sweaty and gross. I need another shower.”
“I didn’t ask for a hygiene report. Come here.”
He swallows hard before taking a tentative step toward me, followed by another, before sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from me.
His back is bowed, and the tension rolls off him in waves so thick I can almost smell it.
He’s waiting for me to tell him he needs to pack his bags and get the hell out.
I reach out with my good arm, placing my hand gently on the back of his neck. His skin is burning hot and damp with sweat.
The second I touch him, the dam breaks.
A shudder rips through him. He makes a broken noise, crumbling under my touch like he’s run out of strength.
I stroke the tense cord of muscle in his neck. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
“I fucked up,” he gasps, his head dropping back, exposing his throat. “I couldn’t focus. I kept seeing—I couldn’t stop—”
“I know.”
He turns to me, his blue eyes glassy and red-rimmed. “I wanted it so bad. To prove I’m good enough. To the team, to everyone… To you.”
The air in the room is suddenly thick.
We’re not talking about hockey anymore.
I take him in. This incredibly talented, intense, driven man who is utterly terrified of being a burden.
Suddenly, the clarity hits me harder than the painkillers. This is no longer about helping a teammate get over a tough loss.
It’s about comforting someone I’m starting to care about. A lot.
For weeks, I’ve been agonizing over labels. Straight? Bi? Confused? Just curious? But my injury stripped away the bullshit and brought everything into focus. I don’t care about the label or the optics or what everyone will say. I only care that he’s hurting and want to soothe his pain.
I want to erase that shitty game from his mind. I want to be the only thing he can think about.
I slide my hand from his neck to his jaw, brushing my thumb over his bottom lip.
He goes still, his pupils blown wide.
“Come here,” I command, tugging him down. “Let me take care of you.”
My words hang in the small space between us.
Tanner stares at me, his breathing shallow, like he’s searching my face to see if I’m lying, or like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I keep my hand on his jaw, grounding him.
Slowly, he leans into my touch, just a millimeter, like a plant seeking the sun. It’s a surrender.
I tug gently on his neck, urging him closer. He moves to follow, shifting his weight on the mattress, but then freezes. His gaze drops to the bulky ice pack wrapped in a towel and the swath of compression bandages peeking out from the neck of my T-shirt.
“I’m too heavy,” he says softly. “I’ll hurt you. Christ, Louis, you’re literally held together with tape right now.”
“I’m not made of glass,” I say, ignoring the throb in my pec that argues otherwise. I gently turn his face toward me, forcing him to look at me until our faces are so close I can feel his breath on my lips. “Just get close to me.”
He hesitates, his blue eyes wide and vulnerable, stripped of all their usual icy, detached focus, and I realize I was wrong.
This isn’t about helping him deal with losing the game or providing comfort—it never was.
This is about being close to him. It’s about connecting with him and tasting him and feeling his body against mine.
I pull him down and crush his mouth onto mine.
He freezes for a split second before melting into the kiss.
Our mouths move together urgently, until I lick at his lips and he opens for me.
I push my tongue inside his mouth, and damn if he’s not the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
He groans, and I swallow it down, sliding my fingers into his short hair.
“What—?” he gasps, breaking the kiss. “What is this?”
“It’s kissing,” I murmur, urging him closer and taking his mouth again. The only thing I care about is keeping his mouth against mine right now. This time, it’s my turn to moan, and his hand tightens on my uninjured bicep.
He shifts, swinging a leg over mine, and breaks our kiss, pulling back until he’s kneeling between my legs. I’m still propped up in the pillow nest he built me earlier, so I can meet his eyes without lifting my head or using any muscles in my chest.
He runs a hand through his damp, messy hair. “I’m burning up,” he mutters, plucking at the buttons of his dress shirt.
“Take it off.”
He pauses. “Are you sure?”
“I want to see you,” I say, surprising myself, because I do. I want to see him, all of him. This man who fights so hard to be perfect, stripped of his armor.
He nods jerkily, undoing the buttons with trembling fingers. He shrugs the shirt off, letting it drop to the floor.
My breath hitches. I’ve seen Tanner shirtless in the locker room a hundred times. We’re professional athletes; nudity is part of the job. But here, in the soft, low light of a hotel room, with the silence heavy between us? It’s different.
He’s leaner than me, corded with wiry muscle that looks carved from marble. His skin is flushed and slick with a sheen of sweat. Contrasted with my broken, bandaged body, he looks alive and powerful.
He looks me up and down, his gaze snagging on my waist. I’m still wearing my dress pants; I was so desperate to get ice onto my shoulder I didn’t bother to change into sweats. My hard-on is obvious through the fabric, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips, his eyes flicking back up to mine.
“What do you want, Louis?” His voice is low and husky.
“I don’t know,” I whisper truthfully. “I want to be close. Want to feel your skin against me.”
I reach for my belt with my good arm.
“No.” Tanner’s hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist in his firm grip. “Let me,” he growls. “That’s mine right now.”
His eyes burn with intensity he usually saves for the crease. He needs this. He needs to do something right, to feel confident and powerful after feeling like he failed everyone tonight.
“Okay. Show me,” I whisper, letting my hand drop.