Chapter 8
Eight
Forest
I’d been attempting to reassure Beck that all my fear and bullshit doesn’t have a thing to do with him, but it’s not working.
“Look, I don’t talk about it. But I had a bad experience last year, and I don’t bring guys home anymore.”
He glances over at me. “So it’s like a trust thing?”
“Well, yeah. But it’s bigger than that. It was the kind of thing that made me realign my priorities. I’ve got an ex-wife, and a kid…”
“No shit?” He shoots me a glance that’s full of curiosity. “How old?”
“Thirteen. He’s with his mom most of the time. But when I invite someone into my life, it affects more people than me, you know what I’m saying?”
His handsome profile nods thoughtfully. I wasn’t joking when I told him he was my type. I like ’em pretty and willing, and he’s the whole package. And that was before I watched him demolish the Plague. So sexy.
“So, you’re…bi?” he asks.
“Yup. Married too young. Water under the bridge, though. My wife and I are still friends.” Most of the time anyway.
“You are full of surprises.” He shoots me a smile, and, fuck, that dimple might be my undoing.
“Not lately,” I mumble. “Being responsible is really boring. But that’s where I’m at.”
Another thoughtful nod. “Well, let me tell you where I’m at—besides getting tailgated by this mofo on 25.” He lifts a finger to flip off another driver. “I’m a closeted gay athlete in a big slump, with like, zero friends and a roommate whose entire personality is just vaping and Fortnite.”
I bark out a laugh.
“So, I hear you about trust. Because I’m really bad at talking to people, so mostly I just don’t try.
Then I found this bar called Sportsballs.
I didn’t even know such a thing could exist—a queer sports bar.
The first time I drove there I was too afraid to even get out of my car.
I just sat there watching other guys go inside. Like it was so easy.”
Oh, kid. I swallow roughly, because so many of us have been there.
“A week later I tried again. My balls were sweating, because I’d cranked up the heat and I had on some tight jeans that make my ass look fantastic…”
“That’s all of your jeans,” I murmur. “But do go on.”
He shoots me a grateful look. “You know how this story ends, though. I opened the door, and I might actually have been shaking. I don’t know what I was so afraid of—a lightning strike, maybe. Or just someone looking at me too close.
“But I walked in anyway, and there you were behind the bar, looking like every fantasy I’d never let myself have. Big guy. Deep voice. Nice eyes. And you treated me like I belonged there. Just put the coaster down and said, ‘What can I pour you, kid?’”
Oh, Beck.
“And then you and Scully started talking smack about the playoffs. You said you didn’t think L.A.
’s second line could mop up the floor together, let alone make any scoring opportunities.
And I’d had that exact same thought the night before.
Their coach should put down his clipboard and yeet himself directly into the sun. ”
“He should,” I agree.
“Right. Of course. But here’s my walking wet dream giving great hockey commentary like it’s no big deal.
Like you can sit at a gay bar and love all the same things I do.
Like hockey and beer, but also cocks. I spent my whole life thinking I was some kind of frankendude who didn’t belong anywhere. But I’m not, because you exist.”
I swallow roughly. “Wow. Not sure what to say. I’m honored.”
“You should be. But I swear it’s not like I imprinted on you like a baby duck.” He shrugs. “After that, I spent months watching you make drinks and break up fights and take care of everyone in the bar. Sportsballs is my safe place because of you.”
Okay. Weird. My eyes are stinging all of a sudden.
“So, yeah, that’s why I trust you. You’re not a stranger to me. And I’m sorry some fuckface ruined hookups for you. I’d like to crosscheck his ass into next Tuesday. Because you should have all the fun, Seth Forrester. You deserve it.”
I take a slow breath in through my nose as the GPS tells Beck to exit the highway.
Beck focuses on the next few turns, while I try to regroup. I’ve heard Beck claim that he’s terrible with people, but it doesn’t seem to be true, because I’m over here in the passenger seat with my soul turned inside out.
You deserve it, he’d said. But I’ve been living like a hermit. I’ve been living scared. My sex drive has been zero.
Well, until right now. I’m all too aware of his lean body, and how close together we are, and of the way his long fingers wrap around the steering wheel.
I take a breath, and my body remembers, suddenly, what wanting feels like. There’s this hum low in my gut, like someone flipped a breaker I didn’t know was shut off. It’s like waking from a long winter. I feel alive in my own skin again.
Come on, Forrester, I coach myself. He’s the least creepy guy you’ve ever met. Maybe it’s time to get back on the horse. “Beck?”
“Hmm?” He’s focusing on the street numbers.
“It’s that one. With the ugly truck in the driveway.” He pulls up in front of my house, and I take a breath. “And I think maybe you should come inside.”
His hands grip the steering wheel. “Like…” He swallows. “Inside, inside? I’m not great with contextual cues.”
“Yeah, you win, okay? You’re right. I don’t want you to go home just yet.”
He lets out a shocked breath, and it’s almost unbearable—this guy who just schooled an entire hockey team, now completely undone by a simple yes. “Wow. Okay. Let’s round some bases. Kinda annoyed that’s a baseball metaphor, when hockey’s the better sport, you know?”
I chuckle. “You don’t think we can do sex metaphors in hockey? And here I thought you wanted me to score in your crease.”
He opens the door of the Jeep and somehow leaps out in one fluid motion. “Yes. Yes. Do that.”
I don’t rush. I climb out of the vehicle and retrieve my gear from the back. “Let’s go through the garage.”
Beck follows me like a puppy. A tall, strapping puppy with a sexy gleam in his eye.
I discard my hockey bag in the garage and fit my key into the lock. He doesn’t have any idea how huge this is for me. Because the last time I opened the door to a hookup, I lost so much. Money. Electronics. My faith in humanity.
Tonight, though, I’m not going to think about any of that. Instead, I herd Beck into my kitchen. “You want...” the words “a drink” snag in my throat. “...anything?”
He shakes his head. “Unless it involves your naked body, I’m really not interested.”
“Good to know.” Then I add, “You’ve done this before, right?”
Beck leans against the kitchen counter and frowns at me. “Barely. But that shouldn’t matter, right? I know what I want.”
Record scratch.
“Wait, you’re a…?” The word gets stuck on the tip of my tongue. Because it can’t be true.
He squints at me. “A virgin. Like, it isn’t obvious? Do I strike you as someone with a lot of seduction experience? Or, like, any?”
My cock shouts, Noooo.
Okay, so maybe this was a truly bad idea. Or a bad joke—did you hear the one about the ex-party boy with PTSD and the virgin?
I must be telegraphing my discomfort on my face, because Beck actually rolls his pretty eyes. “What, like that’s scary to you?” He takes two steps forward and is suddenly right in front of me. “Everyone is a rookie at some point, right? You must have been, too.”
“I suppose,” I murmur. But it’s hard to remember any of that with Beck advancing on me, a determined look in his bright eyes.
“Maybe you’re worried that I’ll be terrible in bed,” he says as he unzips his coat and tosses it on a chair. “But I know you’re attracted to me, Forest.”
He’s right, and I’m not about to lie. But that misses the point. “Beck, I…” Whatever I’m about to say gets lost as he lifts the waffle-knit shirt he’s wearing over his head and tosses that onto the chair, too.
His abs ripple into view, and I can’t look away from washboard bumps that I’d like to test with my tongue, and a dusting of sandy-blond hair gathering above his navel and disappearing into his track pants.
“Maybe I’m not that good at reading people,” he says, a smirk in his voice. “But you might literally be drooling right now. Besides…” He takes a step closer again, and I feel my breath hitch.
There’s a pause. His intelligent eyes measure my reaction, and I see the moment he decides to go for it. Two warm hands land on my chest, and he licks his lips. “I’m shit at talking,” he says quietly. “But I’ve always been good with my hands.”
Before I’ve even digested this announcement, he leans in and drops a kiss on my shoulder, and it feels like a fucking lightning strike.
My whole body tenses—not from discomfort, not even close—but from the sheer jolt of sensation.
His palms are curious, reverent, like I’m something worth exploring. And maybe I forgot what that felt like.
Heat surges low in my belly. My cock stirs in a way that’s sudden and inconvenient, because God, I want to let him. Want to close my eyes and let those hands keep going and to go wherever they want.
But that’s not how this works. Not for me. Not tonight. If I’m going to survive this experience, I need to be in control.
I reach up, gently but firmly, and cover his wrists. “I’ll take it from here, rookie.”
He blinks, a little breathless, maybe a little proud of himself.
A second later I’ve got him pinned against the cabinet, my body crowding his. Not to intimidate—just to assert who’s in charge here.
He exhales like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
I lean in, lips grazing the curve of his neck. His breath hitches as I tongue the spot below his ear and then a little lower. He smells like shower soap and heat. It knocks me flat.
When I bite the tendon between his neck and shoulder, he moans.
“You like that? Unbutton my shirt,” I order, and it comes out sounding a little rude.