Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
tate
I lean my head back against the leather airplane seat, my eyes fixed on Zane’s neck three rows in front of me.
My knee bounces and I crack each finger on my left hand, unable to erase the vision of him on his knees in front of me last night.
Every second has looped through my mind since I walked out on him.
I can’t unsee the way he looked at me like I was something worth risking everything for. And I sure as hell can’t unsee the pained look in his eyes when I lied and told him it was only physical then left him there.
Maybe it’s a good thing we’re sitting three rows apart. It’s far enough away that I can pretend last night never happened.
Which, based on the cold reception he gave me earlier, is exactly what he’s doing.
“You okay?” Masterson asks, dropping into the seat next to me. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
That’s accurate. Because I haven’t. I spent the night replaying every second of what happened in the arena, every word we said, every touch.
The way his lips tasted, the way he worked my cock harder when I whispered his name.
The way he looked at me afterward like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right words.
What the fuck did he want to say? And would it have kept me from running?
Questions that plagued me for hours upon hours. They still do.
“I’m fine,” I say, staring out the window. “Just thinking about the game.”
“Well, get some rest. We’re gonna need you sharp tomorrow night.”
Right. Tomorrow night. Our game against Seattle. Coach is letting me start because of Zane’s report of my progress. Their backup goalie is getting his first start of the season. Should be an easy win if I don’t fuck it up.
That is, if I can stop thinking about Zane long enough to focus on hockey.
“Barnes.” Coach Enver’s voice cuts through the cabin noise. “Come up here for a minute.”
I unbuckle my seatbelt and make my way to the front of the plane where Enver and the coaching staff sit. Zane doesn’t look up when I pass him, but tension radiates off him. It crackles in the air, singeing my skin.
“Sit,” Enver says, nodding to the empty seat across from him. “We need to talk about tomorrow’s game plan.”
For the next twenty minutes, we go over Seattle’s power play setup and discuss the way their forwards like to attack the net.
It’s all stuff I should know by heart, but I find myself having to ask Enver to repeat things because my mind keeps drifting back to the hot as fuck goalie coach in my periphery who had his mouth on my cock twelve hours ago.
“You with me, Barnes?” Enver asks.
“Yeah, sorry. Just processing.”
“Good. Because we need this win. Seattle’s been struggling lately, and if we can’t beat them at home, we’re in trouble.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“I know you will. Your game’s been solid lately. Whatever Christensen’s been working on with you, it’s paying off.”
The mention of Zane makes my stomach flip. Because Enver’s not wrong. My game has been better since that practice session when we almost kissed. Since I started working with Zane one-on-one, stopped fighting him, and started trusting his coaching.
Started trusting him, period.
“He’s a good coach,” I say, because he shoots me an expectant look.
“He is. Knows the position inside and out. And he seems to understand what makes you tick.”
Oh Christ, if he only knew.
I nod and head back to my seat. But this time I catch Zane’s eye as I pass. Just for a second, but it’s enough to make my pulse spike and punch a hole through my throat. He looks tired too, like he didn’t sleep any better than I did.
Like he spent the night thinking about the same things.
The rest of the flight passes in a blur. Guys playing cards, listening to music, talking about the game. I try to join in, but I can’t concentrate. Can’t stop sneaking glances at Zane, can’t stop remembering the way he said my name when I came apart in his mouth.
By the time we land in Seattle, I’m forcing my mind to think about all possible dick deflators because every time I close my eyes and see his face, my cock aches for more.
And I can’t have more. I gave that up last night.
The hotel check-in is the usual chaos. Thirty guys trying to get their keys, equipment staff organizing gear, coaches dealing with logistics. I hang back, waiting for my teammates to clear out. A sidelong glance confirms Zane’s doing the same thing.
We end up at the front desk at the same time, which should be normal. Coach and player getting their room assignments, nothing weird about that.
Except for the way the desk clerk hands us our keys with a smile and says, “Rooms 412 and 414. Right next door to each other.”
Next door. Fucking perfect.
“Thanks,” Zane says. His voice is even and unaffected while my heart thrashes in my chest.
Fucking A.
We head to the elevators in silence, both pretending this isn’t the most awkward situation imaginable. The elevator ride to the fourth floor takes forever, the longest thirty seconds of my damn life.
The doors finally open.
“We should talk.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “No, we shouldn’t. We should pretend last night never happened and focus on hockey. That’s what you want, right? To keep things professional?”
“Is that what you want?”
My eyes fly open and I stalk out of the elevator, shoulders squared. I stop in front of room 412 and slowly turn to look at him. He’s standing by his door, his key card in his hand, a questioning look in his eyes.
“What I want doesn’t matter,” I say. “You made it clear that last night was a one-time thing.”
“I never said that.” His brow furrows.
“You didn’t have to. The way you looked at me afterward, the way you let me walk away. It told me everything.”
“Tate, you’re wrong. That’s not how I feel.”
“Save it. I’m not doing this with you in a hotel hallway where anyone could hear us.”
I wave my key card over the lock and push open my door. But I don’t go inside. I just stand there, looking at him, wishing like hell things could be different.
“Feeling something and being able to do something about it are two different things,” I say. “And I don’t trust that you ever will.”
I close the door before he can respond, leaving him standing in the hallway alone.
The team dinner is torture.
We’re at a steakhouse downtown, the whole team plus coaching staff crowded around a long table. I end up sitting between Cam and Jaren, which normally would be fine. Normal.
Except Zane’s sitting directly across from me.
And nothing feels fucking normal at all.
For two hours, I have to pretend to care about the bullshit conversation while trying not to stare at his mouth.
“Earth to Tate,” Cam says, nudging my shoulder. “You’re a million miles away.”
“Sorry. Just thinking about tomorrow’s game.”
“You nervous? Because you shouldn’t be. Seattle’s been shaky lately.”
“Not nervous. Just focused.”
It’s a lie, but it’s easier than explaining that I’m one hundred percent distracted by the man sitting across from me who’s been avoiding eye contact all night. I deserve it but fuck, it stings.
“Coach Christensen, how do you feel about the game tomorrow?” Masterson asks Zane. “You think Tate is ready to face off with Seattle?”
Zane steeples his fingers before slowly shifting his gaze toward me. My pulse jumps.
“I think Tate will have Seattle questioning their strategy,” he says. “He knows how to play the game with the kind of tendencies that will have them running circles around themselves, wondering how they can’t break through.”
Masterson claps me on the shoulder. “See? You’re golden, brah.”
I manage a tight smile, clenching and unclenching my hand underneath the table cloth. Heat rises in my chest, snaking through my insides.
When dessert comes and I can’t take it anymore, I push back my chair. “I’ll be back,” I mutter to Masterson.
I head to the bathroom. I need to get away from the table, away from Zane.
The bathroom is empty, thank fuck. I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look like hell. Tired, stressed, like someone who’s been thinking too hard about things he can’t have.
The door opens behind me, and I don’t need to look to know who it is. I can smell his cologne, feel the shift in the air that occurs whenever he’s around.
“We can’t keep doing this,” I say without turning around, my hands clutching the sides of the sink.
“Doing what?”
“This. Pretending we don’t want each other. Pretending last night didn’t happen.”
“I’m not pretending anything.”
I turn to face him. “You’re full of shit. Sitting across from me all night, not looking at me, acting like we’re just coach and player. Don’t lie to me.”
“We are coach and player.”
My gut clenches. “Coach and player don’t do what we did last night.”
“Maybe that’s why it can’t happen again.” I shudder at the chill in his voice.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
I step closer, and his jaw tightens. “You keep saying that. Can’t, won’t, shouldn’t. But you never say you don’t want to.”
“What I want doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“It shouldn’t.”
“Too late for that.”
We’re standing close now, close enough that I can see the pulse beating against his throat. Close enough that if I reached out, I could touch him.
I don’t. But fuck, I want to.
“This is killing me,” he murmurs.
“Then do something about it.”
“I can’t.”
“There’s that word again. The one I knew I’d hear, even if I hadn’t walked out last night.”
“Tate... ”
“No. Don’t you dare say my name like that. Don’t look at me like you want me if you’re not planning to do anything about it.”
“Someone could come in.”
“Let them.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“The fuck I don’t.”
For the longest minute of my life, we just stare at each other. The air is thick with want and frustration.
Then the door opens, and Carter walks in. We jump apart, both of us suddenly very interested in the paper towel dispenser.