Chapter 14
Lars
T he bright sun streams through the curtains we forgot to close yesterday. His warm body stayed tucked into my side all night. I slept the best I have in years with him in my arms. He is always on my mind, and I obsess about the littlest details. If he has eaten enough calories to sustain a hard workout, if he has pushed himself so hard during the workouts that it affected his shoulder, if he has had enough water. But when I hold him, all those worries disappear.
His steady breathing becomes the rhythm and balm lulling my anxiety into submission as our hearts beat in sync. I cannot see all of his face, but he’s relaxed and at peace. I wish we had time to stay in bed and kiss every inch of each other, discovering each dip and curve of our bodies.
There’s commotion and I know it’s at least a few team members rolling their suitcases down the hall. Checking my watch, we have fifteen minutes to be on the bus to the airport. Coach has said he is not afraid to leave us behind if we are not responsible enough to be on time.
Waking Dylon feels like a crime. “Dylon.” I stroke his cheek and am rewarded with sleepy, lust-filled eyes and a dimple. “We have fourteen minutes to get on the bus.”
He leaps out of bed as if on fire and begins throwing the clothes from the floor into his suitcase. I pluck my shirt out of his bag and put it on.
“Hey.” I tug him in for a hug, trying not to worry about his wild eyes, and place a lingering, closed-mouth kiss on his lips. “I’ll see you on the bus. ”
He chases my mouth for more kisses, but we do not have time. Once I start with him, I cannot resist.
“Okay.” He shakes his head. “Last night was real, right? I didn’t dream it.”
My heart skips a beat, determined to eradicate his insecurities. “It was a dream, but it was very, very real.” The tips of my fingers run down his arm as I back away.
The only thing propelling me away from him is the threat of missing the bus to the plane.
As I exit his room, Ace opens his door with his suitcase in tow and a surprised expression when he sees me.
“Fell asleep watching a movie,” I say, not understanding his confusion.
While gathering my toiletries in my room, I catch my reflection in the mirror and see the red scrapes from beard burn. An uncharacteristic hysterical laugh leaves me. Hopefully Ace isn’t familiar enough with beard burn, and I can play it off as an allergic reaction to the pillow.
I am being ridiculous, but lotion takes away some of the redness. I don’t have time for a hot towel or anything else.
Before last night, I would have thought anyone finding out about us would be the worst possible thing. Today, after sleeping with him in my arms, that threat’s less significant than never having him again.
I will pick him every time unless he changes his mind.
My heart soars as if the two of us are an obvious conclusion, but realistically, Dylon could change his mind. He was upset about his family last night, and I am his source of comfort. In truth, my heart has to slow down for survival more than the impact of Dylon’s issues. I trust him, not me.
I would never take advantage of him and tried to remove myself from his room. Although every cell in my body ached to kiss him, I never would have kissed him first. This has to be his decision every step of the way.
The past has taught me to learn from my mistakes. I would rip my heart out with my bare hands before harming his recovery or pressuring him before he’s ready .
Most of my clothes are packed, and I remember to grab the suit from yesterday out of the closet. Dylon isn’t on the bus when I drop into a window seat to save a place for him. I check my watch, and my anxiety spikes as the driver boards the bus. We’re about to leave.
“Where’s your boy?” Gray asks from the aisle seat across from me.
“He should be here.” I debate texting or calling him, but that will only slow him down.
“Did he oversleep?” Gray presses.
I shrug because if Ace didn’t tell Gray I was in Dylon’s room, it is not my duty to explain. The fewer people who know, the better for Dylon until he is sure about us.
My shoulders fall in relief as he runs out of the hotel in his wrinkled suit with his ball cap on backward. He has to ask the driver to reopen the undercarriage to stow his luggage.
“Dude.” Benz laughs as Dylon huffs down the aisle. “You look like you just ran out of a puck bunny’s room and threw on the same suit.”
“Funny,” he retorts without his usual comeback, but he offers me a shy smile.
No one thinks it’s odd that Dylon is wearing yesterday’s suit. He has done it in the past, and that takes the pressure off him to make up an excuse. We don’t talk as the bus pulls away from the hotel.
I do not regret last night and have hope for the future for us, but I fear I’m not doing the right thing. My therapist would offer advice, but because of our extended road trip, I am missing my appointment this week. We couldn’t coordinate a time. Therapy has helped me process my loss, and I am dedicated to it, but I will not do a session where the team can hear.
Dylon slouches in his seat and spreads his legs so he’s pressed against me. When he leans over, his hand squeezes my calf, branding me with his touch.
We don’t get a private moment to talk all day, but he’s chipper and cannot stop grinning. In a stolen moment, I explain what Ace saw this morning. We agree that spending the night together on the road is risky, especially since we live together .
I hate the separation but need some space to talk my heart into a neutral response. Dylon has never been in a relationship with a man. He understands the logistics of men having sex, but being a participant is different. Kissing and grinding on each other cannot prepare him for what will come if he decides.
During our pregame ritual, the team atmosphere has improved since Detroit. We enjoyed a team lunch outside on a sunny Tampa restaurant patio. Sunshine can lift the darkest souls and shift a hockey player’s mindset.
At the rink, Ace stands on a bench in the middle of the team. “Listen up. It’s a new day and a new game. Play how I know you can, and we’ll come away with a W.”
“He means keep your head out of your asses.” Liska pounds his stick on the floor.
As we skate onto the ice for warm-ups, we’re met with deafening boos. It fires me up, and when I glance at Dylon, he grins ear to ear. We love to shut up hometown fans.
The puck drops, and with tunnel vision, I pass it to Ace, who streaks down the ice. Our passes are crisp, and the defense is a step behind us. Dylon’s shot hits the pipe, the goalie gets his stick on it, and we’re racing to intercept the puck.
Our line gets called in with no score, and the cycle repeats itself until the last second in the first period. Our defender pokes the puck away from the Tampa forward and skates against the clock. Griffin is ready for the pass and in scoring position, but our defender takes a shot and the lamp lights up as the buzzer ends the first period.
Coach is not happy that the team did not execute the set play but congratulates the defender on the goal. The message is clear: it worked out this time, but do not do it again. The team slaps his back, and Ace messes with his sweaty hair.
This time when the puck drops, I am half a second too slow, but Dylon gets his stick out to interrupt the pass. After chasing the puck, Tampa slams him into the boards to gain control. My movements are second nature as I strip the puck, passing it to Ace while accidentally tangling with their center so he goes down. No trips or checking, only a barely perceptible hip twist so he eats ice.
We skate as a unit, and when Dylon passes to me, my wrist flick sends the puck into the goal. Our two-goal lead only lasts a few minutes. Everyone does their job, but Tampa fights like hell to win at home. The crowd stays involved, which makes us dial in, and the game gets physical. I never tolerate my teammates receiving unnecessary hits into the boards.
At the end of the second period, the score remains one to two in our favor.
“Watch out, the dragon’s on the ice tonight.” Liska taps my stick as I pour water down my throat.
“Looking out for my teammates,” I acknowledge with a nod. My reputation as the Enforcer of the Enforcers has been earned through hard hits and occasional fights. The nickname, the dragon, stuck, and I do not know if they realize it is part of the translation of my last name.
Richardson did not click with the second line and has not taken being demoted to the third line well. They don’t trust each other, and Coach severely limits their playing time. Richardson blames everyone else for their inability to score, but he is a cancer on the team. Coach should have traded him.
The third period has more aggressive hits, and one earns me time in the sin bin. I try to remain under the ref’s radar, but everyone is physical and I cannot retaliate for each hit. They tie the game up during the power play.
As soon as the clock releases me, I am determined to score. We read each other’s minds, and it takes fifteen seconds for me to find the back of the net and put us in the lead again.
We are all playing to our fullest abilities. This is not a game we can coast through. Our defense and Liska shut down all their shots, but we do not score again. With five seconds left on the clock, their left wing takes a shot from outside the circle, but our defender is in Liska’s line of vision so he does not have enough time to react to stop the puck.
They tie the game, and we go into sudden death overtime. Coach sends the second line out for the face-off. They win and our defense isn’t prepared for their speed. Liska blocks a shot but can’t clear the puck, and in a scramble, it slides into the goal.
I am stunned. We should have won the game.
The mood is somber, and I am forced to do the official press conference. One reporter asks me if I think my penalty cost us the game since they scored. I almost say “ Din j?vla arsle! ” and then “fuck off” so they will know what I think of the question.
But with years of training and Finn’s lectures in mind, I say, “We win and lose as a team. I made mistakes, as did others. We will watch the film and get better.”
Liska grunts when asked almost the same questions. “Ve are a team and vork together to vin. I am proud of how our men played.” His scowl and thick accent convey his anger.
Returning to the locker room, one glance at a half-dressed Dylon has me fleeing to the private showers. This will be a problem for me.
Dylon did not distract my game tonight, but under the cold spray, I count the days and hours after our next road game until we can return home, away from the prying eyes of our team. It is the nature of a team—we live in close proximity and know each other’s business.
Jamal King sneezed, and his roommate bought him Emergen-C, not wanting to risk him getting sick. We take care of each other but also gossip like little old ladies. The puck bunny stories get told and exaggerated each time. Liska gets lots of curious questions about his relationship with Trevor. I do not want that type of scrutiny.
I want to take Dylon home, lock the door, and hoard him for myself for days.