Chapter 10
Lars
D ylon never disappears on me. And he wouldn’t ride back with someone else without telling me. He’s not in the locker room or showers, and the car is locked, so I search for him.
The shame of listening to him pleasure himself last night plagues me. His moan drew me to the wall separating us, and my ears strained to hear every sound.
The imagined visual brought my climax within a minute of his. Our living arrangement is taking me to a place I swore I would never go again. But the alternative is worse. I cannot let him go. I’m too selfish.
While searching for Dylon, I hear his raised voice and follow it down the cold linoleum hall to an empty training room with stale air and old equipment. He’s sitting on a therapy table with one knee bent and drawn up to support his elbow and arm holding his head.
He’s fresh from the showers, and I drown in his body wash, which reminds me of exotic vacation spots. Without thinking, I inhale deeply, catching his natural musky scent underneath, and step closer for more.
“Mom, I understand it’s a tradition to go to Uncle’s bar after I play in Detroit, but I’d like to move the party to a restaurant so he can enjoy it without working.” Dylon’s grinding his teeth, and my anger for his unsupportive mother boils .
He doesn’t see me, but I don’t want him to think I am eavesdropping so I clear my throat and hold up my keys to communicate I will wait in the car. But he reaches out and stalks toward me. My heart rate picks up.
“We always go there, and his customers will expect it. If you’re not there, he’ll lose business. You don’t want that, do you?” She sounds reasonable through the speakerphone, but I don’t trust her motives.
Dylon grabs my wrist, anchoring himself to me. Or me to him. I’ve lost sight of everything except what he needs.
“I’ll buy the bar a round so he doesn’t lose the money, and I’ll still pay your tab.” Dylon bangs his forehead on my shoulder, and the bone-on-bone contact hurts. I cup the back of his head to prevent bruising on either of us.
“Don’t you dare make this about me. I can pay my own bills, and this is about supporting the people who got you to where you are. This family sacrificed so much for your hockey. The least you can do is stop by your uncle’s bar. I raised you better than to be so self-centered.” His mother’s words hit Dylon, and his body deflates.
“Mom, I don’t drink, and I can’t be in a bar,” he pleads.
After Dylon made the commitment to get sober, he hasn’t wavered. I am so proud of his progress and the way he has handled all the challenges. His family falls into the challenge category. Sometimes I think they want him to fail and return home so they can feel better about themselves.
“You had a slight issue with pills after your injury. There’s no reason you can’t go to a bar. You’ve never had a problem with alcohol. Everyone is expecting you. I told them you’re coming.” His mother has no respect for his recovery. She’s one of the top five reasons I asked Dylon to move in with me after he got out of the hospital. I could help him and keep her away.
“It’s more than that. I love hockey and won’t put myself in a position to jeopardize that.” Dylon rubs his cheek along my shoulder, and it’s so hard not to pull him fully into my arms.
“So you’re going to choose hockey over your family? Again! I should’ve known you’d pull something like this. ”
“What?” Dylon suddenly yells. “Be right there.” Then he lowers his voice. “Coach needs to talk to me. I gotta go. Bye, Mom.” He hangs up without waiting for her to respond and straightens, taking a few steps back. My arms rise, remaining outstretched for a beat.
She gaslights him at every turn, playing on his guilt, and I wish I could heal his pain.
It would be so easy to tell him his mom only cares about bragging about him to her drunk family and friends. She doesn’t care about his health and well-being, but we’ve had that conversation and he is not ready to admit it.
Every instinct wants to wrap him up and console him so I don’t hold back. He needs someone to care about him and sympathize with his pain. This time, when I hold out my arms, he collapses, bringing us chest to chest. His heart beats out of rhythm while mine races.
“You must be really worried about me to offer a hug.” I can hear the smile in his voice, and I grunt, making him laugh. “You’re more likely to stand in the goal for Patrik without pads than physically touch someone.”
The five o’clock shadow under his chin prickles through the base layer of the shirt on my shoulder, sending shivers through me. My cock remembers last night when he got hard, and his noises when jerking off. I shift my hard-on away from him.
For extra space, I throw my head back to laugh and push on his shoulders. “No more hugs for you if you are going to make fun of me.” This is the type of situation I have been trying to avoid. Even if he is not straight, I cannot risk our friendship. Our team chemistry is a huge part of our success.
And it’s disgusting to become turned on when his mother berates him and he needs emotional support.
“Nope.” Dylon lunges and envelops me in a hug, swaying us side to side. “Hugs are now a daily thing. You opened the door, and you know I’m a hugger,” he says in a singsong voice.
“Great.” I pretend to hate it. He hugs strangers and fans all the time. It’s mind-boggling to me. I prefer to keep my distance .
“Let’s go home.” I memorize his arms and chest plastered to mine before he lets go and the cool air takes his place.
“I should talk to Coach about my mom’s plans and make sure I won’t be doing something against the team’s code of conduct. It’s a little different for me now.”
“I will be in the car.” I formulate a plan as I walk. Starting the engine, I pull up my contact for Jayce McKenna, our Director of Player Development. He found Dylon the night he overdosed and is one of the few people in the organization who knows the full story about what happened and his time in rehab.
Me: Dylon’s fighting with his mom about his sobriety and she wants him at the family bar
Jayce: I’ll handle it. He will have a team commitment that night
All the pent-up tension leaves my body in a sigh. Jayce is a true friend outside of hockey. He has met Dylon’s mom and witnessed her tantrums. Jayce doesn’t need all the details to understand how this could hurt Dylon’s recovery.
Me: Thank you
Jayce likes my message, and I store my phone away. It won’t be easy for him to concoct an event so quickly, but I trust his word.
Now I have to decide how to rewire my brain so I am not attracted to Dylon.
“Thanks for waiting.” Dylon eases into the leather seat beside me, bringing his body wash and musky scent into the enclosed space. My SUV is much larger than the godforsaken rental, but any confined space with Dylon makes it difficult to breathe.
“I will never leave you.” The words are to reassure him I won’t strand him at practice, but they mean so much more. I do not think I am capable of leaving him. There is no rehab for my addiction to him. I have no desire to be away from him .
This is why I should ask him to move out. Give us space as friends and teammates. To let my crush die. The problem is that I no longer have a crush on Dylon.
I have been falling harder and harder for him each day. The parts of himself that he hides from the world are the best parts of him. He is not the chill, happy guy everyone sees. He is tortured by his past, and his sobriety has been hard won. I am privileged that he trusted me to help him through the cravings, anger, and denial. Only his sponsor and therapist saw glimpses of Dylon as a whole man.
Dylon stretches with his arms over his head and bumps me. “I love this car. Take me home, James.” He tells me that is a line from a movie, but he cannot name it.
Regardless, we head home for another night together, and I am unsure how to act around him.