6. Jon
CHAPTER 6
JON
It was a good thing I knew these roads so well, because Drake in that suit was completely distracting, enough so that I had to force myself to focus on the roadway, rather than snatch glances of him. It was bad enough that I’d fumbled and dropped my keys when he’d walked down the stairs looking like that. I’d always found him attractive, and certainly had appreciated his appearance when he’d walked into Hideaway, but this morning the good looks had been on another level.
Maybe it was the weight that had been lifted off his shoulders from the morning’s conversations, or the quality of the light streaming in from the living room. All I knew was that his curling blond hair matched the bright gold of his tie and pocket square, and the blue of his suit only enhanced the color of his eyes. Stunning. Beautiful. Mesmerizing.
And yeah, I snatched a glance or two while I was driving. Drake was—relaxed. Peaceful. Maybe even content.
“God,” he said, “I haven’t road-tripped to a game in an actual bus for so long. Glad it’s not one of those sixteen-hour road trips.”
“Thankfully, we only have a few that are more than eight. Most are like today—less than five. And we fly sometimes—especially during the playoffs.” Not that Drake would be here for those. Hell, I didn’t know if he’d be here through Christmas or New Year’s.
“I don’t mind. I didn’t mind back then.” Drake shifted in his seat. “You were right—about loving hockey. I used to love those trips. Being with my buddies. Bonding on the road. Playing in different arenas.” I heard the smile in his voice as he added, “Beating the crap out of those teams and shutting up their fans.”
“Oh, that part is always fun, isn’t it? The way the arena goes silent when you increase a lead, or the other team kills a penalty and you score anyway.” Those had been goose bump moments in both my career, and watching Papa win his Cups. “We usually do well against the Pickaxes. We’re their curse team, I guess.”
That got me a bright laugh as we pulled into the players’ lot at the Otters’ practice rink. Once we were parked, I was able to turn my attention fully to Drake. “It’ll be fun tonight, I promise.”
How could someone go so fully from being the personification of a rainy, cloudy day to one full of light? But that was how Drake looked now. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said.
We got out and headed into the arena. The team’s social media person, Monica, was out with her camera taking photos as we walked in, and I hoped that Drake’s photo made it out onto one of the channels today, because asking her for a copy would be embarrassing.
I still might do that, though, because goddamn .
I wasn’t the only one who thought he looked good, given the whistles when we entered the arena.
“Dragon’s giving Jonny a run for the fancy pants award,” Hardy said.
A flush of red touched Drake’s cheeks. “Dragon is better than Duck,” he murmured.
I just chuckled, feeling pleased as punch for that blush, that little smile, and the sunshine that had chased away Drake’s clouds.
On the ice, Drake was a new player—or rather, he was the player he’d been up with the Lions for two seasons. Controlled. Fast. Skilled. His wrist shot was deceptive and wicked and his skating sublime.
Mac pulled me aside when I came in from the ice. “I don’t know what you did, but that kid’s skating like someone cut a weight from his neck.”
“He did that himself,” I said. But a part of me worried—telling his therapist about the appearance of his sperm donor and sharing that with me must have lightened his spirit. But the psychological weight of that was still there. Yes, he was handling it now, rather than bottling it up, but these types of shakeups had their highs and lows.
Hopefully, Drake had the tools to deal with the lows. Maybe playing good hockey again would help that.
We were back in our suits for the bus ride to the game in Harrisburg. Drake set the suit jacket and tie aside. A lot of guys, including me, did that. They’d get put on when we got close to the Pickaxes’s arena.
Drake caught up to me as we were milling around, waiting for the bus to pull up. “Hey,” he said. “Where’s the best place for me to sit? I know teams have their spots on the bus and plane and all that… I don’t want to cause any more problems. ”
“A couple of the guys move around a lot, so there’s not exactly a whole reserved space thing with the team. I mean, except with Clancy and Ivan, but they’re goalies, so they’re weird.”
Ivan cuffed me gently on the back of the head, and said in beautiful Russian-accented English, “I heard that, Mr. Biker Leather Daddy.”
God. Embarrassment rose like heat from a July parking lot. “I’m not a leather daddy.”
Drake raised his eyebrows. “I’ve seen you in leather.”
And didn’t that get the boys oohing and ahhing. I rolled my eyes. “A leather jacket and chaps doesn’t make you a leather daddy. I’d just rather not lose skin if I bite the road, that’s all.”
There was more chatter and ribbing, but that ended when the bus pulled up and we helped the equipment guys load our gear.
“So,” Drake said, “sit anywhere?”
“Sit with me,” I replied. “Unless you hate the window. I sit in the aisle, usually alone. Hate the window.”
His lips quirked into a smile. “I love the window.”
Good. Very good. I grinned back. “It’s all yours, then.”
Settling in next to Drake felt normal and right. Alfie eyed me as he boarded, but shook his head and smiled. Bruda punched me on the shoulder. “Do we have to collect yet?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but no,” I answered. He cackled and moved on.
“What was that?” Drake asked, poking his thumb toward the back of the bus.
I shook my head. “Bets. Whether you and I will hook up. It’s a thing that happens. Not just with me, but whenever anyone is obviously interested in someone. Or when someone starts dating someone, there’s sometimes a pool for how long it’ll take until they get engaged, that kind of thing.”
“Oh.” I looked over, and Drake had this amused expression on his face, and he flicked his gaze over my body, and shit did that send a bolt of lust through me. “But we haven’t even been on a date yet.” He paused, and that smile of his widened. “Right?”
God. I didn’t usually get flustered, but I was in the deep into it now. “Right,” I stammered out. Damn me for running my mouth that first night. And damn Drake’s mouth now, because I wanted to kiss those lips. This was going to be a long bus ride.
But as the bus lurched forward and we got onto the turnpike, the rowdy crowd that was the Otters settled down. Conversations fell to murmurs under the rumble of wheels over road, and some of the guys settled in for a nap. I’d usually nod off myself, but my mind was whirling through what I’d learned today and wondering what I could possibly do to help Drake out, besides just…listen.
Then again, maybe all I had to do was listen. Still, a thought popped into my head. It was absurd, maybe even irreverent, given the circumstances. Of course I opened my mouth. “Hey, I have an idea of how you can score a goal tonight.”
Drake started at my voice, and turned from the window, where he’d been watching the scenery—such as it was—speed past. Apprehension flitted across his face, and I regretted disturbing him. Too late now, so I plowed ahead. “You know those giant cutouts of heads people bring to games?”
His brow creased. “Yeah?”
“So, imagine one of those behind the Pickaxes’s goalie, only it’s that asshole. And then hit him with pucks. Repeatedly”
Drake stared at me, unmoving but for the little bumps and shudders of the bus, then the consternation morphed into confusion, exasperation, and then he started laughing. “Oh my God, you’re weird.”
“I am not. I mean, I am, but not like that. I’m just saying—a little visualization could go a long way!”
“Yeah.” That lovely smile shaped his mouth into something truly delightful. “It could.” He slipped his fingers into mine and squeezed. “Thank you. For thinking about me.”
“I—” My brain caught up enough to stop the words from flowing out. I always think about you. “You’re welcome.” His fingers were warm and heavy in my hand. The connection felt like a live wire, like electricity sizzled between that touch.
His smile softened. “Gonna take a nap,” he said before leaning back into his seat and closing his eyes. He—didn’t let go of my hand. I didn’t let go of his. I’d never felt more dizzy and dumbfounded in my life. I didn’t get this way over anyone , let alone someone I’d known for a handful of days.
A few breaths had me closing my eyes as well.
Mom used to talk about how she knew my father was the one the moment he said hello to her at a charity event. She’d been the event planner, dressed in boring black slacks and button-down, as she put it, but she said something passed between them in that moment, and hours later, once the event was done, he asked her for her number. And that was that.
And this was—this. Terrifying. Exhilarating. Unexpected.
The only thing I could do was hang on and see where this led us.
For this game, I was in my usual spot on the left wing of the first line, with Bruda centering me and Alfie. Despite having played most of his life on the bigger Olympic-sized rinks, Alfie’d taken to the faster-paced game over here in North America and was one of our fastest players. Great on the forecheck. A sneaky shot. I suspected he’d end up on the Lions next year. Maybe be a black ace, if the Lions made a playoff run.
Mac started Drake on the third line with Smitty and Bike. Another test. See if he could bring the energy needed to mix things up with the Pickaxes, who had the well-earned reputation of being bone-crunchers. Drake was?—
Drake was Drake Williams. From the moment the puck dropped for the faceoff in the defensive zone, he played like he had the first two seasons of his career. A decisive faceoff win, and the puck came to him during the breakout into the neutral zone, he danced through the defense and evaded the back-check, and probably would’ve scored, if the Pickaxes’s goalie hadn’t been a number-two draft pick. As it was, the kid barely made the save, and we were all over them until the goalie managed to cover the puck in the mad scramble around the net.
The look Drake had when I skated past him was one of sheer focus and determination, not anger, not even frustration. His mission was to get a puck behind the goalie. Wasn’t going to be easy. Their goalie was on tonight. A fucking wall. I was sure Alfie was about to score when the goalie twisted in a way that shouldn’t be possible and snagged the puck out of the air.
We skated back to the bench. “How the fuck…?” Alfie shook his head and banged his stick on the board .
“Hey.” Drake patted him on the arm. “It was the right idea. Make him move side to side. Just got to do it more. That was close .”
“But not in,” Alfie said.
Drake nodded. “We’ll get him.”
I caught Mac watching the exchange, and he caught me watching him. A tiny tick up of his mouth was the only sign he was pleased. A couple shifts later, Drake’s line went out once more for another defensive zone faceoff. Drake conferenced with the guys, then got set. Whatever he said—holy shit, it was beautiful. His win. The breakout, the speed and long passing. Bike bearing down on the other team’s goalie, then the series of short passes that put him out of position, and the beautiful shot by Drake from one knee that sent the puck into the open net.
I yelled. We all did. Drake led the line for fist bumps. When he settled into his spot on the bench he turned to Bike. “What a pass! Perfect. You’re great, man.”
This time, Mac actually smiled. A tiny one, but yeah. Drake had certainly turned around from the grumpy, seemingly arrogant player who’d arrived a few days ago.
Unfortunately, the Pickaxes tied it up near the end of the period. “Don’t worry, boys,” I said. “We can get it back.”
“Goalie’s rattled,” Drake said during intermission, to no one in particular. “We get some chances off the rush, they’ll go in.”
Nods around the room at that.
Drake was right. Early in the second, when Alfie and I got chance on a two on one, I faked a shot, passed to Alfie, and he slammed it home. Top shelf. All because the goalie overcommitted to me. Thank God my pass had been on point. It wasn’t always .
When I got back to the bench, I ended up next to Drake. “Nice sauce on that pass,” he said.
“Luck,” I replied.
“No. You knew what you were doing.” He said it so mater-of-fact that I nearly believed him. Felt like our role had somehow switched, and he was encouraging me.
Of course, the home team would not go away quietly, so of course they scored once more near the end of the period.
“Fuck,” I muttered. Goddamned screened shot. Not a thing Ivan could’ve done about it. “We’ll get it back.”
During the second intermission, Mac shook up our lines, and suddenly, Drake was with me and Alfie on the top line. No one complained. When we went over the boards to take a faceoff outside the Pickaxes’s defensive zone. Drake won it back to our D and, as Drake entered the zone, I saw the play unfolding. The way he and Alfie rotated. The way the puck was passed back to the D then up and I knew exactly where I needed to be, especially since not a single Pickax player was watching me.
It was only a surprise to the home team when I skated to the crease, planted my stick, and tipped Drake’s shot past the goalie’s pads. A moment later, I was engulfed in a hug from Drake. “Yeah!” he shouted, “Let’s fucking go!” The rest of the guys crushed me and patted me on the head, then we skated toward the bench for fist bumps.
The arena went silent, but for the cheers of the smattering of our fans in the stands and our bench.
This time, the Pickaxes didn’t score near the end of the period, even when they pulled their goaltender to go after us at six on five. After a broken faceoff, Lou managed to get the puck to Drake and he flung it at the empty net with such precision that it hit dead center, even though he was on our side of our blue line .
Game over. We won four to two. Drake had played like the pro he was. I’d even gotten a goal. Alfie was all smiles and the locker room was a riot, as if we’d made it into the playoffs. The boys were all yelling “Dragon!” and congratulating Drake on his three-point night.
I stood back, taking the time to watch them and him and soak in that smile of his. He was as bright as his blond hair and blue eyes. High summer, that man. Not a cloud in his sky right now. This was what I’d set out to do, put that smile on his face.
Hopefully the confidence would lead to more points and more goals and the continuation of that happiness. Drake wasn’t built to be storm-cloud gray all the time. This was so much better.
When I moved to my stall to strip off my gear, his gaze met mine, and he crossed the room to pull me into a hockey bro hug and whispered, “Thank you,” into my ear.
“Are you kidding? That was all you.” I gripped his shoulder and met his gaze.
Fire there, among the joy. “Not all me. Your visualization helped, too.”
Exactly what I wanted.
After we’d all cleaned up and devoured our post-game meal, Mac pulled me aside. “Don’t get your heart broken,” he said.
That was not at all what I expected to hear. “Me?” was all I could get out with my mind whirling.
Mac snorted. “I see the way you look at him, and I’ve seen that look before on people.”
Uh oh. “I’m not… he’s not… we’re not…”
“Yeah, you are, Jonny. In deep. Kid’s gonna go back up, you know that.”
I did. And Pittsburgh was a world away for me, more or less, despite its closeness. “My heart’s fine. And he’s fine. And I know they’re going to call him up. That’s the whole point of this.” I waved my hand. “Of me being captain. He’s not the first guy they’ve sent down for us to patch up and give back.”
Mac snorted again. “He’s the first one you’ve ever looked at like he’s the moon and the sun for your sky.”
When the hell had Mac gotten poetic? “It’s fine. I’ll be okay.”
“Mmmhmm. I’m just saying.” He nodded toward the exit. “Get on the bus, Jonny.”
I rolled my eyes and headed out to join my teammates.
The ride home was its usual quiet self. Most of the guys fell asleep—a combination of the adrenaline wearing off, how late it was, and the lulling motion of the bus. Normally, I’d have been completely out by now, but the conversation with Mac had me wondering exactly how obvious it was that I was serious about Drake. More so than just for a tumble in bed.
It was a longing that I’d never felt before. Mom’s story ran through my head again. Papa had also recounted that night, and I closed my eyes to better listen to the deep rumble of Swedish in my memory. He’d known, too, the moment he’d met Mom. She’d had the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen—and she hadn’t even been looking at him. But he’d known then that he’d do everything in his power to spend the rest of his life trying to keep her smiling like that.
Oh shit. I was just like Papa . Fuck.
Weird thing was, if Drake never made a move, if we never hooked up, hell, if he wasn’t into men—I’d still want that smile on that face.
In the seat next to me, Drake stirred in his sleep, turned a little, then slumped against my shoulder. The contact was warm. Soothing. Perfect. Mac was right. I was in deep. And maybe I would get my heart broken—but maybe not. There were ways not to. Assuming Drake was interested in more than a fling.
And if he wasn’t? Well, yeah, my heart might hurt. But I wouldn’t have a single regret—that I knew, too.
Perhaps it was Drake’s warm body, or just my brain deciding it had run long enough today, but weariness finally overcame me, and I joined the rest of the team in passing out after a well-fought win.