Chapter 9 #2
He got back at nine am. I heard the click of the door and my chest went tight. I didn’t know if he’d want to see me. Maybe he’d just go straight to his room and lock the door. I didn’t plan on moving from the couch. I’d made my bed, literally, and I was going to stay there until he kicked me out.
But he didn’t.
He came in, set his bag down, and just stood there for a second, staring at the floor like he was trying to remember what came next.
He looked so tired, the kind of tired that lived in your bones, not just your muscles.
The kind I’d carried for years, but it didn’t suit him.
I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what.
So I just sat there, silent, and waited.
He noticed the food on the counter first. The plate I’d made up, still covered with foil to keep it warm.
He peeled it back, just a little, and then I saw his shoulders drop, like maybe he could finally let go of holding onto the defeat.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just kept his head down, hands braced on the kitchen counter. The silence felt like a living thing, breathing between us. I hated it. I hated that he looked so tired, like someone had wrung all the hope right out of him. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”
I stood. “You need to eat something.” I didn’t even try to sound gentle. I just walked over, opened the foil on the plate and shoved it toward him, then fixed a glass of water. “And don’t say you’re not hungry. You barely ate yesterday.”
He looked at me, green eyes dark with exhaustion, but didn’t argue. Just sat at the counter and started eating, like it was easier to obey than fight me. Maybe it was. Maybe he was just that tired.
He didn’t say a word. Just ate, slow and steady, clearing the plate like he hadn’t tasted real food in weeks. I stayed on the other side of the counter, arms folded, trying not to stare but not able to look away either.
When he finished, I pushed the glass of water toward him. He drained it in three gulps. I grabbed the painkillers Nancy had left out, shook two into my palm, and put them next to the glass I refilled. “Take these. You look like you’re about to fall over.”
He took the pills, swallowing them without comment. Then he just sat there, elbows braced on the counter, eyes fixed on the far wall. Like if he stared hard enough he could disappear into it.
I got it. I’d spent years staring at blank walls, wishing for the exact same thing. After a while, I broke the silence. “You want to talk about the game?”
He shook his head.
“Fine. You want to sleep?”
He nodded, just once.
I gestured at the couch. “You want the bed, or…?”
He shook his head again. “Here’s fine. I don’t want to move.”
I almost laughed, but it came out tired. “All right. Stay there. I’ll get you a blanket.”
I grabbed the softest one I could find, the one from the foot of my bed. I brought it back and draped it over his shoulders, careful not to touch him too much, but he jerked anyway. Not away from me, but toward me. Like he wanted to crawl into the fabric and never come out.
But then he just sat there, wrapped in my blanket, eyes half-shut.
I made myself a cup of tea, because I couldn’t think what else to do.
I sat across from him, sipping it, watching the way his hair fell over his forehead.
He looked younger like this. Softer. I wanted to reach out and touch him, but I didn’t.
Instead, I said, “You played well. Even if the score didn’t show it. ”
He glanced up at me, surprised. “Did you watch?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
His mouth twisted, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to smile or cry. “You saw the penalty?”
“I saw Marchand baiting you,” I said. “He’s an asshole."
He didn't even blink. "So am I."
It almost made me smile, even though I could see he didn't mean it.
Not really. Cole Armstrong, who played through pain and let himself get hammered by a guy like Marchand just because he thought it was his job to take all the hits.
He was the least like an asshole of anyone I'd met, but if he wanted to hide behind that, I could let him.
He finished the last of the water and pressed his fingers into his eyes, like he could grind the exhaustion out through sheer will.
I slid the plate away and rinsed it, careful not to make too much noise.
The urge to fix things for him was so strong it felt stupid, but I couldn't help it.
I wanted—I didn't know what I wanted. To make it so he didn't look so hollowed out?
To make it so he knew someone cared if he came home or not?
So I did what I would have wanted someone to do for me.
"You should go sleep," I said. "I'll clean up here."
He didn't move. Just sat there, head in his hands, letting the silence get heavy. I couldn't stand it. I walked around the counter and, without thinking, touched his shoulder. For a second, I thought he'd flinch away, but he just...leaned into it. Not a lot, just enough to let me know it was okay.
"You did everything you could," I said, voice quiet because sometimes that was all you could do. "You can't make the puck go in by force of will, you know."
He snorted. It was barely a sound, but it was something. "You'd be surprised."
I didn't let go of his shoulder. "You want to sleep, or shower first?"
He looked up at me, and something in his eyes made my chest ache. "I don't want to be alone," he whispered.
There it was. Raw and soft and terrifying, because I knew exactly what that felt like. The way every empty room could swallow you up. The way guilt didn't let you sleep, but exhaustion made you want to curl up anyway.
"You don't have to be," I said, and this time my hand slid down his arm, right to his palm.
He let me, fingers trembling. For a long moment, neither of us said anything.
The city was gray outside the windows, and it felt like the whole world had shrunk to just this: two guys at a kitchen counter, both pretending not to be broken.
"I should shower," he said, but didn't move to stand.
I squeezed his hand. "Come on," I said. "I'll help."
He let me lead him down the hallway, and I tried not to think about how ridiculous this was, him with shoulders like a rugby forward, me a pale imitation, but him with eyes that looked like he hadn't slept in a year.
In the bathroom, I turned on the water, made sure it was warm but not scalding.
For a second, I hesitated. Was this too much? Was I crossing a line?
But when I turned, he was just standing there, looking at me, and I realized maybe he needed the help as much as I needed to give it. I didn’t ask if he wanted me to stay. I just did.
He looked so tired. Just stood there in the center of the bathroom, shoulders hunched, like he was bracing for something bad to happen.
Maybe he was. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I ran the water, checked the temperature, and then turned to look at him.
He watched me, eyes unreadable. His hair was a mess and there were shadows under his eyes deep enough to get lost in.
I tugged my shirt off. He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
So I stepped closer and started undoing the buttons on his shirt.
My hands shook, which was ridiculous, but I wasn’t used to being this close to someone and not having to fake it.
Not having to pretend I didn’t care. I did care. That was the problem.
He let me undress him. Just stood there and let me peel the sweat-damp shirt off his shoulders. His skin was warm, not like the last time I’d been this close, not with me cold and shivering. Just…warm. Solid. I wanted to press my face into his chest and breathe him in.
Instead, I worked the button on his jeans. It felt weirdly intimate. My knuckles brushed his hip, and I heard him catch his breath. I didn’t say anything. I just got rid of the jeans and the briefs, careful not to look too desperate about it, then stepped back so he could climb into the shower.
But fuck his cock was fine, and I shivered with the thought of where I wanted it. I was a bottom which was why I daren't. It was too risky, too vulnerable.
He stood under the spray for a second with his head tipped back, water running down his face, and I thought he might cry.
But he didn’t. He just braced his hands on the wall and let the water beat the night out of him.
I tried not to stare at the muscles in his back or the way the lines of his body looked almost too perfect to touch. But I stared anyway.
“Come here,” he said, voice rough.
I hesitated. I was wearing just my shorts and t-shirt, and when I reached for the hem, my hands shook.
He saw it. Reached out and caught my wrist, pulled me in so I didn’t have to do anything but lean into him.
The water was hot, but his hands were hotter.
He eased my shorts down, careful of the yellow bruises on my side.
I was embarrassed at how skinny I was, how banged up, but he didn’t look away. Not once.
I stepped into the shower and the steam closed around us. I was shaking, partly from nerves, partly from the way he looked at me. Like I was the only thing that mattered.
He reached up and cupped my face. His thumb brushed my cheek, gentle even though I knew it probably hurt to look at.
He didn’t say anything for a long time, just held my face in his hands and let the water run over both of us.
He looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t have the words. I knew that feeling.
My hands found his hips, fingers digging in just to anchor myself. I fit against him weirdly well, considering how much bigger he was. I wanted to melt into him. The heat from the shower was nothing compared to how hot his skin was against mine, and I couldn’t seem to stop shaking.
He must have noticed, because he wrapped one huge arm around me, hand splayed over my ribs, careful not to squeeze too hard.