Chapter 9 #2
I read him instinctively. Adjusted when his breathing hitched. Went slower when his jaw clenched, faster when it released. Thumbed across the head of his cock on an upstroke and watched his whole body react, stomach tensing, thighs tightening, and a sound caught low in his throat.
He gripped my shoulder hard enough to leave marks.
"Heath—" My name in his mouth.
I kissed him as he came. Swallowed the sound, raw and uncontained.
He recovered quickly, reaching for me with a confident grip. He stroked with a perfect rhythm that unraveled me.
"Like that," he said softly.
"Fuck."
"A little faster?"
"Please."
I came with his name caught between my teeth.
Kieran pulled the duvet over us. "We have a game tomorrow."
"I'm aware."
"Does that mean I should—"
Neither of us moved. One of Kieran's legs settled between mine. I reached out to wrap an arm across his chest. The air conditioning cycled off, and the room was quiet enough that I could hear both of us breathing.
"Kieran."
"Mm."
"Your film study was good."
"Go to sleep, Donnelly."
I pressed my face into his shoulder. He wrapped a hand around the back of my neck and kept it there.
I fell asleep listening to his heartbeat.
At 4:00 AM, I woke to a room I didn't recognize.
A sharp, full-body jolt. I'd checked into the room alone, but there was somebody else in my bed.
Then Kieran's weight registered, his heavy arm across my chest. He exhaled against my shoulder.
I thought about the connecting door. Was it locked? If someone entered Kieran's room, they'd find a made bed where no one slept.
Morality clauses. Ownership's old-guard politics. Two players emerging into the same hallway at 6:40 AM. I calculated the math of a month without an NHL player's salary.
My dad's prescriptions. My family's mortgage.
Kieran's face was slack, his mouth slightly open. He looked like a man who'd fallen asleep in a place he trusted and wasn't braced for morning yet.
I closed my eyes and fell back asleep.
Light crept under the curtains at six. LA dawn.
Kieran was awake.
"Morning," he said.
"How long have you been awake?"
"Long enough to know you grind your teeth."
"Bus at nine?"
"Nine-thirty."
Kieran stood. Found his shirt beside the tablet on the carpet. He collected himself in pieces. He stopped at the connecting door and turned his head with a hand on the frame.
"Your reads are still elite."
Before I could respond, he stepped through, and the latch clicked behind him.
I showered and pulled on an Ironhawks hoodie.
At seven-fifteen, the hallway was empty. I pulled my door closed and walked toward the elevator.
The lobby was bright. Marble floors. Eucalyptus. I was halfway to the restaurant when the second elevator opened behind me.
I saw Kieran exiting in the reflection of the restaurant's glass doors. Fresh shirt. Not rumpled.
Julian Cross appeared. He moved through the lobby with the unhurried authority of a player who'd been in the league long enough to own every room he entered. He already had coffee in hand.
He walked past me and then glanced at Kieran. Seconds later, he sat alone at a table by the window and pulled out his phone.
***
That night, the puck dropped at 7:30 PM.
From the first stride, something was different. My fatigue was still there, but it settled into the background. My edges were clean and my hands were quick.
Coach Markel sent us out for the second shift. Kieran on my right. Cross at center.
Their defenseman picked me up at the blue line. Six-four, two-thirty-five. He got a hand on my hip and leaned in .
I absorbed it and stayed on my feet.
Kieran carried wide. Drew their weak-side D, and the lane to the net cracked open. I was already moving.
He hit me in stride. I tipped it. Rebound to Cross. In.
Second period. Their coach doubled coverage in front of the net. I got crosschecked twice and took an elbow that snapped my head sideways. No whistle.
On the next rush, Kieran drove to the net himself. Their defenseman stepped up and landed a hit designed to separate Kieran from the puck and his consciousness simultaneously.
Kieran took it square. Absorbed the contact through his shoulders and kept his skates under him. The puck squirted loose.
I was there, in the lane he'd created by pulling both defenders toward himself. Tape to tape. I one-timed it. Bar down.
The horn went off.
Kieran skated toward me. His tap on my shin pad and a brief collision of our shoulders constituted an acceptable display of affection in professional hockey.
What was only for me was the look in his eyes. It was the same as what I'd seen when I said tell me what feels good and he responded this—being the one who starts.
Third period. We were protecting a lead. I held the puck along the wall an extra beat. Let their forward commit. Slid it through his skates, back to Kieran. Two-on-one. He snapped a wrist shot far side.
His goal. My assist.
Pratt tapped both posts. Rook nodded once from down the bench.
The horn sounded. Final: 4–1.
The locker room was loud after.
"—two goals, two assists, and Donnelly is officially a menace," Varga announced. "I'm upgrading his nickname to The Architect of Mayhem."
"Architects build things," Rook said. "Donnelly's a wrecking ball."
"That's a kind of architecture! It's passive architecture!"
"That's not a thing."
I unlaced my skates and listened to the room. Varga filled the silence the way a Zamboni fills ice: steadily, with an engine noise that was both annoying and comforting.
Across the room, Kieran undressed at his stall.
I didn't watch him. I tracked his ritual by sound alone. The Velcro tear of shoulder pads unbuckled left then right. The soft thud of his skates set side by side.
I knew his body now. And I was supposed to unlace my skates and keep the twelve feet of distance between us.
Varga crossed the room to his stall, which neighbored Kieran's. Clapped him on the shoulder. "Two apples, Mathers. You and Donnelly are gonna make me a healthy scratch."
"No one's scratching you, Varga."
Varga lingered, which he did when he was thinking, which was less rare than people assumed. "Honestly, though—you two are different out there. It's not only the points. It's like you already know."
He said it cheerfully. Offhand. He meant on the ice, but the words lingered.
Kieran's reply was smooth and immediate: "Good linemates anticipate. That's all it is."
Varga accepted it and moved on. I went back to pulling tape off my fingers in strips, my hands steady while my pulse raced.
Pratt walked past in a towel. Dropped a single word, "Sharp," as he passed my stall. It was about the game, but the back of my neck still prickled, knowing I was holding secrets.
I showered. When I came back to my stall, Kieran was dressed. Dark suit. Posture correct, expression neutral. He was telling Rook something about the third-period forecheck.
I put on my suit and checked my phone.
Maggie: 4 points??? Who are you and what have you done with my brother?
Pickle: FOUR POINTS. I am taking partial credit on the grounds that I taught you everything you know about spatial awareness, which is a lie, but I'm committed to it now.
Hog says congratulations. Juno says she'll edit me back into the podcast intro if you get five next game. The woman is MERCENARY.
I set the phone down and smiled.
When I looked up, Kieran was at the door. Bag over his shoulder. I grabbed my bag and headed for the door as he left. The hallway stretched toward the loading dock, fluorescent and empty.
Our bus idled at the dock. I climbed on. Headphones in. Window seat. My shoulder had stiffened during the cool-down, and my shins carried matching bruises from the net-front traffic.
Three rows back, someone had opened a bag of beef jerky, and the smell mixed with the bus's smell of equipment bags and recycled air.
The city moved past. Brake lights and billboards.
My phone buzzed.
Kieran: Your second goal. The one-timer. Your hands were faster than the film predicted.
Heath: Maybe the film was wrong.
Kieran: The film is never wrong. You're getting better.
The bus paused in thick traffic.
Kieran: It scares me how much I like watching you play.