35. PARKER
THIRTY-FIVE
PARKER
My jaw is on the floor.
I can’t believe this.
There is no goddamn way I’m seeing what I’m seeing.
Is this a hockey record? Because I think it might be a hockey record.
Two periods in, and we’re up by seven. LA hasn’t been able to find the net, and it’s like every time Connor hits the ice, magic happens. If I were the type of guy to make loose and fast bets, I’d put my billions down on this being the game of Connor’s career.
I’m also ninety percent sure Macklin has given him more ice time tonight than he saw in the playoffs last year.
I’m not going to lie, seeing the way his large body shoots up and down the ice, commanding every play, slamming against other players so hard he almost sends them through the boards … my very basic instinct, my primal brain, is attracted to him more than ever.
It’s the first time all season I’m glad for my very big, very empty suite because no one can see me getting inappropriately hard in these pants.
I felt bad about saying all that win the Cup for Dad stuff yesterday because, first, hockey players are superstitious as hell, and second, it’s not fair to put that kind of pressure on him, but it doesn’t look like he’s melting down over it.
No. It’s doing the opposite.
I actually jump to my feet and scream when Connor shoots for goal and the puck sails right past Dotrosky and into the net. Eight-nothing. We’re up eight zip.
Music pounds, and the crowd roars along with the lyrics.
I’m so swept up by how excited I am—for the team, for Connor, for myself—that I barely notice the buzzer signaling the end of the second period.
The team funnel off the ice, and I’m hit with a stupid idea.
A really messed-up, don’t-do-it idea.
I need to see Connor.
Maybe it will fuck with his mojo, or maybe he’ll be thrilled to see me, but I need two minutes of his time before I creep back up to solitude. Celebrating isn’t as fun when you’re doing it alone.
Especially when something feels off with your boyfriend.
He didn’t stay over last night, which I think might be a first for us. We’re deep in the season, and there’s more pressure put on every game, so I understand that he’d be tired. Obviously. It has to be the exhaustion thing and not being sick of me. Has to be. I don’t even think we’ve been together long enough to be sick of someone, but Connor is breaking all his records tonight, so he might as well be breaking that one too.
I’m just so proud of him. A little bit in awe. A lot in feelings. Ever since Connor said he was falling for me, it’s like my heart went, “Perfect, hold the parachute,” and launched itself out of a plane. Being with him is the sweetest kind of pain. When he’s not around, it’s the worst kind.
I might have done a super-sneaky, kinda creepy lurk earlier while he was signing those Pride jerseys, and I wasn’t prepared for how my mood would dip knowing that Connor wasn’t doing it as his full self. Is he playing like he is because of it being Pride night? Is it a coincidence? Does he wish that he could come out, and if he isn’t, is it because of me?
I jog down the stairs into the lobby and move as quickly as I can to the back. I text Connor, hoping he’ll see it, but if he doesn’t, I’ll have to make do with addressing the whole team and giving him puppy dog eyes while I do it.
I’m panting by the time I reach the hall to the locker room, sweat building under my suit, and it’s not the most attractive way to be seeing him, but it’ll have to do.
I’m giving myself a minute breather before going inside when Connor steps out into the hall. He’s wearing his pants and socks, with base layers on top, and even half-dressed and kinda disheveled, he looks good enough to lick.
“Hey,” he whispers. One corner of his lips kicks up, and he goes to reach for me before stopping himself.
But his eyes hold a hint of worry, and this isn’t the greeting I’m used to from him.
I swallow hard. “You are … you’re doing …”
“Yeah.” The response is so short I don’t know how to reply. I’d been expecting Connor to be bounding out of his skin, but my scruffy, overenthusiastic puppy of a man doesn’t even seem happy.
“I thought you’d be more excited.”
“No, I am.”
“You’re having an amazing game.”
He huffs but doesn’t reply.
I blink up at him for a moment. “Are you clenching your jaw?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m not .”
“Is everything okay? You seem …”
“It’s fine, Parker.” He glances around like he’s suddenly paranoid. “Just playing the game that I love. So much. So, so much. ”
“Then why are you being so snappy?”
“This isn’t snappy. I’m focused. Now I need to get ready to go out there and win a game. For you.”
“Con, that’s not what I?—”
“I’ll see you later.” He turns on his heel and storms back inside.
I have half a mind to follow him, to drag him out here and make him talk, but this is not the time.
Even if I desperately want it to be.
That one night apart could be dismissed. Connor’s schedule is insane. But considering how well he’s playing and that he seems mad at it … at me … The insecurity I was keeping at bay over Connor not spending the night develops into full-blown panic mode. Because it’s obvious something is wrong. If he was playing badly or the team was losing, I could put it down to that, but this … No. There’s definitely something up with him, and I can’t help assuming it’s me.
How did I fuck it all up so quickly? How the hell am I supposed to go another whole period without knowing where I stand? How am I supposed to sit there and cheer for him around this lump building in my throat? I’ll go back up there, to the very empty stands, to my very empty suite, and be reminded of everything I don’t have.
The team doesn’t need my software; they’re winning enough games on their own. And Connor doesn’t need me. Not like I need him.
I’m heading back to that dangerous headspace I was in a month or two ago, and I’m determined not to have that happen again. I can’t rely on Connor to be the only one filling that loneliness inside of me.
So instead of dwelling on the what-ifs and the maybes and placing all this pressure on him and our relationship, I square my shoulders and head for the main arena.
I spotted three people in the stands earlier tonight, who were all there to cheer for the Kiki brothers. It takes me a second to get my bearings without the high viewpoint I normally have, but it doesn’t take long to spot the tall man with strawberry blond hair halfway up the stands.
“Knox?”
It takes him a minute to hear me, but when he does, his face splits into the kind of smile I was expecting from Connor.
“Hey, Parker!” He shuffles sideways along the row and pulls me into a quick, one-armed hug. “What are you doing down here?”
“Coming to see if you and Mr. and Mrs. Kikishkin want to come up to my suite.” I’m holding my breath, almost scared he’s going to say no.
“You have beer up there?”
“Uh … yeah.”
“Fucking awesome.” He yells out to Connor’s parents. “We’re going to see how the other side lives.”
And while it might be the beer luring them up with me, some of the anxiousness building in my chest settles. I don’t have to be alone. Maybe these people are linked to Connor, but after tonight, I’m going to make more of an effort with people. People outside of the team and Connor.
Because if his attitude earlier was any indicator, I’m worried I won’t be able to rely on him forever.
I’m trying not to dwell on it, trying not to get too far ahead of myself, and I’ll deal with that conversation when and if it happens.
Unfortunately, being logical doesn’t help lessen the pit in my gut.
“Wow,” Mr. Kikishkin says as we walk into the suite. “You have this every game?”
I shift awkwardly, reminding myself that I’m interacting with them as the team owner, not their son’s boyfriend. “Yeah. You, uh, as you can see, I have a lot of spare seats, so if you ever wanted to be up here … like, for every game …”
Knox helps himself to a beer and passes one to Mr. Kikishkin. “Oh, we’ll be taking you up on that. Look at the view.”
The two of them move down into the seats, and Mrs. Kikishkin lingers.
“This is a very generous offer,” she says.
“Not really. The seats might as well be used.”
“That’s true …” She hesitates, and I can tell she has something else to say.
“We’re on a night off,” I say, holding up my hands. “Just enjoying the game, no need for professionalism. No owners or agents up here.”
There’s something about her expression that’s so much like Connor. “I got the feeling that the last time we met, you didn’t like my son much.”
Way to get straight to the point. “You were right,” I say carefully. “I don’t know if you knew that we went to school together. We had … a difference of opinion. But we talked and sorted it out.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I was worried for a minute that any friction between you might impact his career.”
Her choice of words does not make me feel comfortable. There’s still plenty of friction between us, the explosive kind, but it could impact his career in an even worse way. “I would never let something personal impact the team.”
“Good.” She swaps her bag to the other side, and the professional mask slips. “Was he a good kid in high school? Not mean to anyone or …”
She’s not asking me as his agent. Mrs. Kikishkin is obviously a smart woman, and I think she’s put together what some of our issue was about. She wants to know if her son was a bully, and it takes a brave person to face the truth.
The me who bought this team would have been fast to tell her that Connor was the worst. To blame him for how shitty my schooling years were. And no, he wasn’t a saint. There were a lot of ways he could have pulled up his team and held them accountable, but he was also a kid. High school dynamics are the fucking worst, and maybe I understand now some more of the pressure that Connor was under.
So the current me has it in him to be gracious.
“I didn’t have it easy in high school. I was the nerdy, gay kid, and there wasn’t a lot I could do to hide that.” This is where I pick my words carefully. “Unlike some others on his team, Connor never targeted me over it. He was focused on hockey and looking after his brothers. That was it.” I manage a short laugh. “Everyone in school knew that if you started on one of the little Kikis, you’d end up with the big one. You raised a very loyal brother and a pretty okay guy. You should be proud.”
I’m not sure if she buys it, but she thanks me and heads down to her husband.
Even if Connor could have done more, I stand by what I said. He’s an incredible, big-hearted person now, and focusing on the past won’t help anyone.
Including me.
Having those three seats filled is already doing a lot for my mood, even if I can’t count on keeping it up after how I left things with Connor.
He has something on his mind. Something most likely related to me. Or that’s what my insecurity is telling me anyway. And this period cannot go fast enough for me to see him and talk it out.
If he wants to end things, I’ll respect that. I’ll be confused as hell because everything was so good between us, but I won’t force him to be with me.
If it’s something else, I’ll be there for him too.
Connor needs to start learning that he doesn’t have to do everything himself. We might not be public, but I’m his partner now.
For once in his life, he has someone on his side.