Chapter 20
Twenty
Got Somewhere to Be
Forest
The locker room is loud with post-game energy, guys stripping off gear and talking smack about the goals they scored.
I strip off my pads, but my mind keeps drifting to Beck’s face through the glass.
The way he lit up when I smiled at him. Like I’d given him something precious instead of just acknowledging he was there.
“Drinks at Murphy’s?” Javier asks, toweling off his hair. “First round’s on me since I got the hat trick.”
“Can’t,” I say, shoving my skates into my bag. “Got somewhere to be.”
Scully raises an eyebrow from across the bench. “Somewhere, huh? Wouldn’t happen to involve a certain blond goalie who was eye-fucking you through the glass tonight?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Shut up.”
“Come on,” Javier presses. “One beer. We crushed those guys.”
I pull my compression shirt over my head and head for the showers. “Rain check.”
The hot water feels good on my shoulders, washing away the sweat and adrenaline. But it doesn’t wash away the memory of Beck standing there, cheering for us. For me. I’ve been ignoring him, because there are too many other things in my life demanding attention. But he drove here anyway.
When I get back to my locker, most of the guys have cleared out. Scully’s still getting dressed, taking his sweet time.
“So,” he says casually. “This thing with Beck. Getting serious?”
“Fuck no.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “It’s just sex.”
“Uh-huh.” Scully pulls on his jeans. “Just sex. That’s why you smiled like a toothpaste ad when you saw him?”
I yank on my flannel shirt. “We have an arrangement. No strings.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
“Fine.” I grab my gear bag. “It’s where I’m at right now.”
Scully shakes his head. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That guy drove out on the coldest night of the year to watch you play beer league hockey. Is that part of ‘just sex’?”
I shoulder my bag. “What Beck wants isn’t something I can control.”
“Jesus Christ, Forest.” Scully stands up, giving me a look I’ve seen him give to drunk customers who are about to do something really stupid. “I never thought you were such a chickenshit.”
“I’m not,” I snap. “I’m protecting both of us.”
“From what? Being happy?”
I don’t have an answer for that, so I head for the door. “See you Friday.”
Outside, I note that it really is cold as balls. We got a dusting of snow earlier in the day, before the temperature started dropping, and it makes that weird Styrofoam sound underfoot that you only hear when it’s bitter.
My truck takes approximately seven years to heat up, so I wait, listening to the terrible grating sound the engine makes. “Come on, Bessie. Don’t fail me now.” I just need ’er to keep rolling for another two months or so.
Unfortunately, my finances are as precarious as ever. When I bought out one of the partners at Sportsballs, it gained me a significant share of a growing business. But it made me cash poor. Very cash poor.
I don’t mind living thinly if it means I get to work with my friends while building my future.
But then a certain incident last year cleaned out my savings, and I never really recovered.
Every dime I have goes toward the business, or Charlie, or keeping this truck in motion, or keeping food on the table.
Scully, who really ought to mind his own beeswax, wasn’t totally off base when he pointed out that Beck seems more devoted to our arrangement than me.
But it isn’t because I’m allergic to fun, and it isn’t because I’m a stupid guy.
I simply can’t understand why he’d want a piece of this.
He’s a young guy going places, and I’m a single dad just trying to keep the wolves from my door.
And one of these days he’ll meet someone else—someone younger and less of a disaster. And then his texts will just stop. I’m already bracing myself.
I put the truck into gear, wincing at the grinding noise, and drive two miles to the address that Beck sent me.
I was expecting a shitty little condo development, but it’s a little house on a snowy block.
There’s a warm glow coming from inside, and after I kill the engine, I sit still for a moment, thinking about how much I want to walk inside, but knowing I shouldn’t.
The front door opens, though, and Beck gestures to me. His expression says, this is the right house, idiot. So I haul my carcass out, and it’s not as easy as it should be. I didn’t do any post-game stretching, and I’m paying for it now.
So sexy.
I trudge up the carefully shoveled walk and meet Beck in the front hall, where he takes my coat and hangs it on a peg.
Weirdly, he doesn’t give me the happy puppy face I usually see when we’re together. The glance he gives me is warier than that, even as he waves me toward the living room.
Hmm.
I step past him and immediately stop short. This isn’t what I expected.
The living room is surprisingly grown-up—no pizza boxes or beer cans scattered around like I’d pictured. Instead, there’s a decent couch in front of a solid wood coffee table, and the walls are painted a warm gray instead of rental white. But it’s the details that catch me off guard.
There’s a small shelf dedicated entirely to hockey-themed snow globes for various NHL teams. They’re grouped by conference, of course. And the room is lit by string lights across the ceiling—in the shape of snowflakes.
Then there’s the low, sexy lighting, and the heartbeat thump of a hidden speaker somewhere. The song is “Need You Tonight” by INXS.
“Nice place,” I say, still taking it in.
“Thanks. Rigsy wanted to hang a neon beer sign, but I threatened to hide his protein powder.” Beck kicks off his shoes by the door, where there’s an actual shoe rack. “How about a drink? Fair warning—our fridge is like ninety percent energy drinks and Greek yogurt.”
How about a drink? I wonder how old I’ll have to be to hear that phrase and not suppress a shiver. “Just, uh, water would be great. Thank you for going to the trouble.”
He gives me another stern look. “It’s not trouble, Forest. Sit down. Let’s talk.”
Oh shit. Those words give everybody the shivers, right?
I take a seat on the sofa, and Beck disappears for a second, returning with two bottles of water. He sits down beside me and gives me a sideways glance. “Are you pissed I showed up at your game?”
“No,” I say immediately. “That was fun.”
He’s quiet for a second, his long eyelashes dipping. “You didn’t answer my texts, though. So that means I have to wonder whether showing up tonight makes me pathetic, or a stalker. Or, as you put it, fun.”
“I’m sorry,” I say immediately. “The week got away from me. The boiler at Sportsballs finally gave out, and I spent a lot of time trying to get it patched. And I’m trying to hire two new bartenders, so my text messages are like a portal to hell.
Today I interviewed a guy who asked if we have WiFi for his laptop because he likes to work while he tends bar. Work. While bartending.”
Beck blinks. “What kind of work?”
“His novel. He’s writing a novel about vampires who play professional hockey.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Beck bursts out laughing. “Wait, that actually sounds kind of awesome. Like, do the vampires have an advantage because they sparkle and scare the other team? And is sunlight a problem during morning skate?”
“Don’t encourage this,” I growl, but I’m fighting a smile.
“The woman I interviewed before him seemed promising until she asked if she could bring her emotional support pig to work.” I pause.
“A pig. Not a dog. Not even a cat. Anyway, I was going to call you, but I had Charlie’s parent-teacher conferences at school, and…
” I break off, rubbing my forehead. “I guess I could have just said that.”
“You could have just said that,” Beck repeats quietly.
“That was rude,” I admit. “I’m sorry.”
He puts his elbows on his knees and glances away from me. “My mother brines her chicken for three hours. There’s no cutting it short. If she gets a late start on dinner, we don’t eat until nine.”
I blink. “Your mother?” Is she here?
“Nah.” He flips his blue eyes back to me. “But that’s how you treat my texts—only responding after they’re thoroughly seasoned.”
Oh. I crack a smile, because I love the inside of Beck’s brain. But he has a point. “I can do better. I don’t mean to be such an ass.”
“I know you don’t.” He swallows. “And I know the drill, man. I was listening when you explained your terms. But sometimes I get the distinct impression that you’re managing me. Like you keep me at arm’s length so that I won’t forget my place.”
My heart drops into my gut. “Beck.”
“Makes me feel like a loser and maybe I should just let go.”
“You’re not a loser,” I say immediately. “Not one day in your life. You’re right. I’m shitty at replying to messages. Always have been. But I’m also not a dude who has his life together. That’s what you should take away from all this. And then you should fucking run.”
He gives his head a shake. “Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he says. “Because of this.” In one smooth motion he moves closer on the couch and grabs the flannel of my shirt. Then his mouth crashes against mine with zero warning, and my brain just… stops.
Holy shit.
The kiss is somehow desperate and slow at the same time, like he’s trying to prove a point with his tongue.
And fuck me, it’s working. My hands find his face without permission, fingers threading into his hair as he licks into my mouth like he owns it.
Like he’s trying to show me something I’ve been too stubborn to see.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, and there’s something fierce in his expression that I’ve never seen before.
“That’s why,” he says, voice rough. “Because every time we’re in the same room, I forget how to think.
Because you make me feel like I’m actually good for something besides stopping pucks.
Because when you look at me like that—” He gestures vaguely at my face.
“—I’d drive through a blizzard just to see it again. ”
I stare at him. My heart is hammering against my ribs, and there’s heat pooling low in my gut that has nothing to do with the string lights casting everything in a warm glow.
Then I’m on him again, kissing him like I mean it.
Which I do. Because it’s like this every time.
“Just sex” with Beck happens on a deeper level than I like to admit.
Sure it’s physical—hands sliding under his shirt.
My tongue in his mouth. But as I flatten my palms against his chest, I can feel his heart hammering to the same rhythm as mine.
We’re so in tune, and I don’t even know what to do with that. Meanwhile, the music pulses through my bloodstream and straight to my cock. “Fuck,” I breathe against his mouth. Because now I understand the problem. It’s not just Beck who needs this—it’s me.
That’s why I don’t answer his texts. Not because I’m managing him, but because I’m managing myself. Because every message from him makes my chest do this stupid fluttery thing that has nothing to do with my dick.
I told Scully it was just sex, as if Beck were just some hookup from my past. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself, too.
Except it’s not like that. Not at all. And I don’t know what to do with this attachment we have for each other. I don’t know how to process it. So I just haul him closer, my hands adventurous on his body. I tug his shirt off so I can see more. Touch more.
It’s not just that he’s gorgeous—though, Christ, he is. All lean muscle and sharp angles, with those blue eyes that see right through my bullshit. And the way he makes me laugh when I didn’t even know I was capable of that anymore.
He makes me feel like I’m not just some washed-up bartender counting pennies. When I’m with Beck, I feel like the man I was before I learned to be scared.
“Forest,” he whispers against my jaw, and I pull back just enough to look at him, at his flushed face and kiss-swollen lips. At the way he’s looking at me like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.
I’m so screwed. And I’m probably making a huge fucking mess of everything.
I just can’t seem to stop.