Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
zane
I haven’t slept since the night I saw Tate at that restaurant.
Every time I close my eyes, his accusatory look pops into my mind.
The hurt and betrayal in his gaze is something I can’t forget.
And I sure as hell can’t forget him with that man, leaning in to listen to whatever poison was being whispered in his ear.
I did nothing. I sat at that table like a fucking coward while criminals recruited the only man who’s mattered to me in years.
My phone’s been buzzing all morning with texts from Morrison that I continue to ignore. He wants updates on “the situation,” wants to know if syndicate contact has been made.
As if I’m going to tell him that I watched it happen only a few feet away.
My phone buzzes and I let out a groan, ready to send the call to voicemail when I see Coach Enver’s name flash across the screen. I stab at the screen to accept the call.
“Zane, we’ve made a decision about Barnes. We’re giving him another start this Thursday against Calgary.”
I sit up straighter in my chair. “Thursday?”
“You’ve been working with him closely. You convinced us that he was ready for another shot.”
I swallow past the growing lump in my throat. “His technique’s solid and his confidence seems to be improving.” Christ, these lies are going to bury me. “I think he can handle it.”
“Good. That’s what we hoped you’d say. The work you’ve been doing with him is paying off.”
After Enver hangs up, I stare at my phone. It should be good news. Tate getting his starting position back might mean he doesn’t need whatever Petrov’s offering. Maybe he’ll decide to walk away from that business card and the empty promises that come with it.
Or it might mean the syndicate now has a starting goalie in their pocket instead of just a desperate backup.
Practice that afternoon is torture. Tate’s movements are sharp, focused.
Every save is clean, every movement purposeful.
It’s like he was injected with a dose of confidence after getting his position back.
This is the player who should be starting every game, the talent that got buried under performance anxiety and pressure.
He’s good. Really fucking good. And watching him play like this makes everything worse, because I know what’s coming.
And I’m going to help them do it.
“You looked really good out there,” I say as he comes off the ice. “Nice work.”
“Thanks.” He pulls off his helmet, his hair slick with sweat. “I’m starting against Calgary.”
“I know. Enver mentioned it.”
He furrows his brows. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? After everything I’ve been through?”
I look at him. Hope flickers in his hazel eyes, along with the excitement about getting another chance and about proving he belongs. But underneath that, anger swirls, and I know it’s because I’m not reacting the way he wants me to, the way someone who cares about him should react.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that you’re happy for me? That you think I’m ready? Something that tells me you actually give a shit about my career?”
I glance around the empty tunnel. We’re alone for the moment, so I lead him around a column.
I place a hand on the wall next to his head. “Of course I give a shit. You think I’ve been putting in all this work because it’s fun for me?”
“I honestly don’t know what to think anymore. You’ve been acting like I don’t exist for the past week.”
“My father’s dying.” The words tumble out before I can swallow them back.
I didn’t know what I was going to tell him, but I can’t feed him little breadcrumbs anymore.
He’s too smart for that shit, and he deserves to at least have some version of the truth.
“Dementia. The care facility he’s at costs ten grand a month.
I’ve been scrambling to keep up with payments, dealing with debt collectors, trying to figure out how to keep him alive.
After my injury stole any hopes for a pro career, I started taking on these freelance coaching jobs that barely keep his payments current. It’s been stressful.”
Tate’s expression immediately softens. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“The gambling thing I told you about? It was all for his medical bills. I made some bad choices, and now I owe some really bad people money.” I shrug. “It’s been weighing on me and I didn’t want to drag you into that mess.”
“So you just shut me out.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not okay, Zane. You think I can’t handle your problems?”
“I think you’ve got enough of your own.”
“Maybe I do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help with yours.” He steps closer. “Come over tonight. We can talk.”
I should say no. I need to stay away from him, now more than ever.
But I can’t. I never could.
“My place. Nine o’clock,” he says.
Maybe I can find a way to warn him. Maybe if we’re alone, away from the arena and the team and all the people who might be watching, I can figure out how to tell him enough to keep him safe.
“Okay,” I finally say. “But not at your place. Too risky.”
“My place is fine. No one’s going to—”
“My hotel room. Nine o’clock.” I lean in close, my lips brushing against his ear. “And Tate? Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. And make sure nobody follows you.”
I spend the rest of the day trying to figure out what I’m going to say to him.
By nine o’clock, I’m no closer to an answer. So I think that’s my answer.
No answer at all.
He shows up exactly on time, looking nervous and hopeful and so fucking gorgeous in a black t-shirt and jeans that hang low around his hips. He makes my mouth water and my chest ache.
His lips quirk upward when I don’t speak.
“Are you gonna invite me in?” he murmurs. “Or just stare at me all night?”
“I could stare at you all night,” I say, pulling him inside. “But that wouldn’t be much fun.”
Fuck, I could stare at him forever and never get my fill.
“I came here to talk,” he says.
“Is that all?” I reach for his hand, intertwine our fingers. “Because I had other things in mind.”
“I don’t want to play any more of your games, Zane,” he says. “You’re shutting down, disappearing, icing me out. Either you’re in this or you’re not. And I need to know now what your answer is.”
“I want to be with you more than anything,” I say, sweeping a hand through his hair. “But I can’t give you what you want. Not yet. Not until I get some things figured out. But…”
“But what?”
“But please, just give me tonight and let me remember what it feels like to want something that’s not going to destroy me.”
It’s true. Wanting him has been the most destructive thing I’ve ever done, and also the only thing that’s made me feel alive in the past two years.
“Okay,” he says softly. “I’ll give you tonight.”
I push him against the wall before pressing my lips to his.
I cup the sides of his face, parting his lips with my tongue and delving into his hot and hungry mouth, taking my time to memorize the shape of his lips, the taste of peppermint on his tongue, the sounds he makes when I nip at his lower lip, the desire he pours into the kiss that touches my soul and ruins me for anyone else.
After leading him into the bedroom, I back him against the bed, my frenzied hands sliding up and down his body, trying to lose myself in the feeling of his heat flush against me.
“I missed you,” I rasp, my fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt and yanking it over his head, because it’s true and because I might not get another chance to say it.
“I missed this,” he says, and I immediately get his meaning. Missing me is dangerous. Missing this…our physical connection, the release, the temporary escape from reality…is safer.
And we both know it.
“Lie down.” I push him onto the mattress and run a hand down the front of his chest. The scent of his cologne, some heady mix of lemon, mint, and grapefruit, swirls under my nose when I dip my head to breathe him in.
My tongue traces the thick black lines covering his pecs, his muscles tensing under the path of my lips.
I take one of his nipples between my teeth, then move to the other one when he shudders.
He pulls open my pants and shoves them to my ankles.
I take off my shirt and toss it to the floor, then kick off my pants and straddle him.
He gazes up at me and reaches for my ass, grasping it hard.
The tip of my hard cock glistens with precum.
My mind is woozy with lust. I lower myself on top of him, grinding my cock against his.
I tighten my thighs around him, my chest grating against his, our pulsing, dripping cocks pressed together.
My breath hitches as his hands work their way to our cocks. He strokes them both, precum spilling over the tip, coating us both. His hand is pure torment as he squeezes, tugs, and jerks with growing intensity.
Tate moans into my mouth when I slide my hand between his ass cheeks then press two fingers inside of his tight hole. I drive them deeper until he cries out, his cock throbbing against mine.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he chokes out.
“This is nothing. I’m gonna give you everything.”
He cries out again, louder this time.
But before he comes, I pull my hand away.
“That’s not everything,” I whisper.
He runs his free hand over my thighs and then gives my ass a slap when I don’t move. “Do it now. Fuck me, Zane.”
Holy fuck, that was hot. I’ve never been spanked before but it just made my cock swell and drip down the front of his chest. And I fucking need him to do that to me again and again.
I’m so screwed. This man has my head in such a goddamn twist. If I let him, he could undo me with a look and a word.
“You’re taking too long. Are you going to fuck me now? Because I don’t know how much longer I can wait for that cock to fill me.” He reaches around me, pressing his hands into the small of my back, forcing me closer.
With a thrashing heart, I reach past him and pull open my nightstand drawer for a condom and some lube. I roll on the condom, slather the lube on my cock, and prep his ass as he writhes under me.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he moans. “Just fuck me. Now.”
I line myself up and press into him, stretching him slowly as he tenses.
His eyes darken, his gaze heavy and lust-fogged.
When I bottom out, I still for a second, buried deep inside of him, the place I love most in the world.
Heat coils through my insides as I begin to rock my hips against him, the slow push and pull setting off fireworks deep in my groin.
He picks up the pace, urging me to fuck him deeper and harder until his body spasms around my cock.
That’s when I know I’ve hit his spot. He clutches me, digging his fingers into my back, clawing at my skin as his eyes roll back in his head and tremors rocket through him.
I lower myself on top of him, our skin slick with sweat, the air heavy with all the things we can’t say but feel.
He moves faster, harder, meeting me thrust for thrust, and I really hope he’s seeing the same stars I am right now.
“Fuck, that’s so good,” he rasps as we tremble against each other. He clutches me tight as I move in and out of his ass.
“Come for me,” he says. “Give me all of you.”
I’m already there. White flashes blast behind my eyes, my brain short-circuiting as the orgasm consumes me, body and soul.
I thrust my hips a few more times, losing myself in him. My cock jerks as I fill him, giving him everything, just like I promised. His own orgasm explodes. Ropes of cum paint my chest. With a breathless moan, I collapse next to him and he rolls into me.
I tangle my fingers in his hair. “Isn’t it crazy how much better the sex gets every time we do it?”
He looks at me. “Don’t ever leave me again,” he says, his voice shaky.
So I do the only thing I can do. I lie to his face because the truth would destroy him.
“I won’t,” I tell him, knowing it’s a promise I’ll never be able to keep.
Afterward, we lay tangled on my bed, his head on my chest, my arms wrapped around him. It feels like something we could do every night if we were different people living different lives.
“I should go,” he says.
“You promised you’d give me tonight.”
“I did,” he whispers. And then he slides his leg over me and burrows into my chest. “As long as you still want it.”
“I do. More than anything,” I whisper.
Tomorrow, Tate will probably hear from Petrov again.
He’ll take another step toward a trap that I helped set up.
I’ll have to keep pretending to be his coach while watching him get recruited by people who will use him until he’s no longer useful, then throw him away. And that’s the best-case scenario.
Tonight was supposed to be about remembering what it felt like to want something good. Instead, it just reminded me of what I’m going to lose when this is over.
I let my eyes drift closed, trying not to think about the promises I just made. About the future we can’t build.
Everything is on the verge of crumbling.
I just hope there’s something left to salvage when it’s all over.