Chapter 10
Tanner
Iwake up with my head resting on Lou’s good shoulder. I don’t move. I don’t even open my eyes. I lie there, wrapped in the woodsy scent I now recognize as Louis Tremblay.
Strangely, my panic is gone. In the light of day, I can see that my terrible performance didn’t put an end to my career. And even though I crossed a giant red line by hooking up with a teammate, I feel calm. Steady.
I open my eyes.
The room is gray with morning light. Louis is asleep, propped up in his pillow nest. I’m not usually a cuddler, but neither of us moved an inch last night.
Louis looks younger like this. The ice pack has slipped, revealing the angry purple bruising spreading like spilled ink across his chest. A brutal reminder of the difficult road he’s facing.
He shifts, a small groan vibrating against my cheek. His breath hitches, and his eyes flutter open, dark and unfocused.
“Hey,” I whisper.
He blinks, trying to orient himself. His eyes meet mine, and I brace myself for him to pull back. For the “morning after” panic to set in.
But he doesn’t move. One corner of his mouth twitches up in a half smile before he lets out a long, shaky exhale, his head falling back against the pillows.
“Truck,” he mumbles, voice thick. “Feel like I got hit by a truck.”
“A truckload of hockey players fell on you. It’s kinda the same thing.”
He huffs a weak laugh that turns into a wince. “Too soon, Rook.”
“You want your meds?”
“Yeah. Please.”
I extract my numb arm and roll out of bed to fetch the pills and water. When I turn back, he’s struggling to sit up, his face gray as he tries to leverage himself without his left side.
“Stop.” I cross the room in two strides. “Let me.”
I put a hand on his back to get him upright. His skin is clammy. He swallows the pills dry, chases them with water, and hands the glass back.
“Thanks.”
There’s no awkwardness. This routine feels weirdly familiar already.
“I need a shower,” he says. “I feel gross.”
I hold out a hand. “Come on.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re gonna help me shower?”
I grin. “No. I’m gonna take a shower with you. Different.”
He snorts, then takes my hand.
Under the bathroom lights, his bruising looks violent. I guide him into the shower and step in behind him. Some of his tension seems to bleed out when the hot water hits his back. He groans, leaning his forehead against the tile.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. God, that feels good.”
I lather my hands. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
I run soapy hands over his muscles in slow circles. His skin is slick and warm. He leans back into my touch, and something in my chest flutters. I’m making him feel good. He trusts me not to hurt him. The knowledge goes right to my head.
“Sinc?”
“Yeah?” I knead a knot on his good side.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m focusing.”
“You’re overthinking.” He tries to turn his head but gives up. “Spit it out. What’s that big brain telling you?”
I pause, my hands on his lower back. The water cascades over us like a warm curtain.
“You don’t seem… freaked-out?” It comes out as a question.
“Do I look freaked-out?”
“No. But until a few days ago, you thought you were straight. Usually, there’s a panic phase.”
He sighs, a heavy sound. “Tanner. Look at me.”
He shuffles around until he’s facing me, his left arm pinned to his torso by the compression bandages. His wet hair is plastered to his forehead, and water droplets cling to his dark eyelashes. He looks broken and beautiful.
“My chest is torn open. My career is on ice. I can’t put on my own socks right now.”
He reaches out with his good hand, resting it on my neck. His thumb brushes my racing pulse.
“I’m not a deep thinker, Sinc. I don’t overanalyze everything like you do. I never questioned my sexuality because I never had a reason to.” He shrugs his good shoulder. “I just didn’t see it. Until you showed up.” He grins. “Apparently, you made it impossible to miss.”
He leans in, resting his forehead against mine.
“I don’t know what label fits me, and I don’t care. I just know I don’t want to stop doing this with you.”
The knot in my chest unspools. “Okay.”
“Good.” He tugs me closer and plants a soft kiss on my mouth. Before it gets too heated, he pulls back. “Now, are you going to wash my hair, or are you gonna stand there and watch me struggle to do it one-handed?” He winks.
I huff a laugh. “Shut up and tilt your head back.”
He closes his eyes, and I work shampoo into his scalp, enjoying the noises of pleasure he makes. It doesn’t take long before we’re both visibly enjoying it, our dicks plumping up.
“I wish we had more time,” I murmur, rinsing the suds from his hair. “But the bus leaves in half an hour.”
He sighs. “I know. Surgery in two days. I hate going under.”
“You’re gonna do great.”
“Yeah. And you’re gonna do great while I’m out.” He throws my words back at me, challenging me to disagree.
“I’ll handle it,” I say firmly, channeling his confidence. “You work on healing.”
I turn off the water and reach for the towels. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
The team plane is quiet. Normally, our flights are full of chatter—card games, guys chirping each other, movies blaring. Today, it’s eerily subdued. Coming home with back-to-back losses and our Vezina-winning goalie broken isn’t great for creating a cheery atmosphere.
We’re sitting in one of the mid-cabin club sections, four massive leather recliners grouped around a height-adjustable table.
It’s usually the prime spot for high-stakes poker, but right now, it’s serving as Louis’s recovery ward.
We kept the walnut table lowered to give him legroom, and he’s propped up on a mountain of pillows I raided from the flight crew.
Every time we hit turbulence, my hand twitches, ready to steady him.
Mine. The word flashes in my mind like a neon sign.
The thought is totally reckless. I’m a rookie fighting for my life after two terrible games. But looking at his sleeping face, dark circles under his eyes, hair damp from our shower, my panic recedes, and I feel grounded.
“How’s he doing?”
I jump. Rylan is standing in the aisle. He looks like he’s aged five years in the last forty-eight hours.
“Doc gave him the good stuff,” I say, keeping my voice low. “He was out before we took off.”
Rylan nods, eyes softening as he looks at his best friend. He slides into the empty seat across the aisle. “Good. He needs it. He’s terrible at being injured. He gets…”
“Bored?”
“Annoying,” Rylan corrects with a ghost of a smile.
I snort. Louis stirs, letting out a pained grunt. I freeze until he settles.
“You good, Sinclair?” Rylan asks.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
“Last night was rough.”
“Yeah. Well.” I pick at a piece of invisible lint on my pants. “It won’t happen again.”
He holds my gaze. “I know.”
Movement toward the front of the plane catches my eye. Carson Wells is walking down the aisle, followed by Coach Shaw. Coach is clutching his ancient leather day planner like a shield.
Carson looks tired. His tie is loose, and the top button of his shirt is undone. It’s rare to see him not perfectly put together. They stop at our table, Carson sliding directly into the empty, rear-facing seat opposite Louis while Coach drops into the seat across from me, completing the square.
Suddenly, this isn’t just a check-in. It’s a meeting.
“He awake?” Carson nods at Louis.
“In and out,” I say.
“I’m awake,” Louis rasps.
I turn. His eyes are glazed and heavy as he blinks awake. He shifts, wincing.
“Hey,” I whisper, adjusting the pillow behind his back.
“I’m good,” Louis mumbles. He blinks up at the brass.
“Not as good as we’d like you to be,” Carson says, with a wry smile. “We want to talk about our situation.”
“Situation is an understatement,” Coach mutters, flipping open his planner.
Carson takes a breath. “As you both know, we’re up against it.
The trade deadline is looming. I need to know where your heads are at so we can plan.
” He looks directly at me. “Tanner, I’m not going to sugarcoat it.
Can you carry the load with McWhittier backing you up?
Or do I need to go shopping for another goaltender? ”
My stomach drops. Being asked to justify your existence by the GM at 30,000 feet is a new level of pressure.
Before I can answer, Coach Shaw speaks up. “He can do it.”
Travis Shaw’s steely gray eyes drill into mine. “My gut says he’s ready. Sinclair’s a hell of a goalie.”
I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“But,” Shaw continues, pivoting to Louis, “his success depends a lot on you, Lou.”
Louis blinks, struggling to track the conversation. “Me?”
“You heard me,” Coach says. “Sinclair provides the body. You can provide the brain.”
Ouch. Fair, but ouch.
“Tanner’s got the talent,” Shaw goes on, his gaze flicking to me before settling firmly on his starting goalie. “But he doesn’t have the miles. He needs your experience—we need your experience. So as soon as you’re through the surgery, you’re not just a goalie on injured reserve. You’re coaching.”
Louis frowns. “What? You want me to coach?”
“We want you to mentor,” Carson clarifies. “Travis and his staff will handle the technical stuff. You’re going to handle the mental stuff. The pressure. You’re the best there is at that.”
Coach Shaw nods. “Truthfully, a lot of what we’re envisioning is stuff you’d already be doing if you weren’t injured anyway.
But this will make it more official. You’ll travel with the team, take part in video sessions.
You’re going to act like Tanner’s mental and emotional training wheels.
Without your help in this, I don’t think we make the playoffs. ”
Jesus Christ on ice skates. No pressure or anything.
Beside us, Rylan lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
I snap my head toward him. “What?”