Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Freedom Mansion
Shay
I lie on my back in bed stargazing through the skylights. I study the endless night sky, loving how safe it makes me feel.
I am small in the face of its looping infinity.
The Bay Rebels tied with the Penguins this evening, forcing the game to go into sudden-death overtime.
We had been so close to winning.
Well, until we lost.
I bite my lip.
Yet the stars don’t care. Cosmic campfires, which are almost as old as the universe itself, the stars may not know that I am warming myself at their side every time that I look up at them. But they still keep me company on nights like this when I can’t sleep.
Because as small as it should feel that we lost in a hockey game, it is still bloody important to me.
And I am always alone with my insomnia.
I sigh, squirming further under the sheets.
Yet the harder I try to fall asleep, the more awake I feel.
I’ve tried everything over the years: avoiding caffeine and screens before bed, deep breathing exercises, and drinking warm milk.
D’Angelo even set up a Fifteen Minute Rule.
If I didn’t fall asleep within that time, then I was to get up and move to another room in the house and do some light chores off a list that he wrote out to calm my mind and wear me out.
D’Angelo’s idea sometimes works, as do the times that he orders me to kneel beside the bed, which sends me into a relaxed subspace.
Yet I don’t want to wake him up tonight for that or leave his side.
After the game, I’m desperate to feel close to him.
Also, Robyn has both her legs thrown over mine, and I won’t risk waking her.
Yet my mind is racing.
I’ve run the game through my head four times already.
We should have won.
The entire team came together. Zach was on fire in goal. Grayson stepped up and scored. D’Angelo was focused and determined, leading us with an edge of brilliance.
I scored twice too.
Yet Wilder scored three times.
I hiss out a frustrated breath. Then I smack my lips, trying to spit out Robyn’s hair that has worked its way into my mouth.
How much of her long hair must I accidentally eat at night, when I spend so many hours wearing her hair like a fiery mustache?
I grin. I should take a selfie one night like this to show Robyn.
I am bathed in the calming moonlight, while around me I am surrounded by the soft, sleeping breaths of my family.
I am caught between the woman and man who I love.
My brother sleeps on the far side of Robyn with his arm slung around her waist, spooning her.
I shake my head, trying to clear it.
…Wilder smirks, raising his stick to hit the puck…
I grit my teeth.
What did the Bay Rebels do wrong?
Zach was legendary in goal. It wasn’t his fault, no matter how much coach tore him a new arsehole after the game.
D’Angelo stood up for Zach, who looked like a beaten dog.
Zach is as loyal to D’Angelo as everyone else on the team is. He tried his fucking best.
Yet no matter how many times I go over the game, I don’t think anyone was at fault. The Penguins are just a bloody elite team. I may hate them for how they’re treating D’Angelo, but they’re still one of the best teams in the NHL.
They’re as good as we are.
Possibly, better.
Until this season, everybody would have laughed to think that the Bay Rebels could have won a single game against them. Nobody would still bet against the Penguins winning and making it through to the final.
They’re the favorites to win the Stanley Cup.
“No way is Wilder getting his hands on the bloody Cup,” I mutter.
Yet my mind is looping with thoughts, as I replay one of Wilder’s goals again. I imagine every move in my mind.
When I have insomnia, this is what I do. I can’t let what has happened in the day go. It plays on repeat.
When I was Blythe’s sub, I would lie awake obsessing over my mistakes that had led to her punishments.
Could I have stopped Wilder scoring?
“D’Angelo blocks the shot with his shinpad from the middle of the ice.
” I raise my hands, waving them in front of the skylight, imagining the stars are lining up on the rink.
“Textbook. But instead of clearing safely to the boards, it landed in front of the goalie, giving Wilder the second chance. That was bad bloody luck.”
Or is it just that teams like the Penguins will make you pay for the smallest mistake?
We can play at our best and still lose.
Wilder believes in that manifesting bollocks, right? He’s been dreaming of drinking champagne out of the Stanley Cup, while I was still in the English version of middle school.
What if his desire to win and see D’Angelo lose is stronger than ours to see the reverse?
I squirm onto my side, and my gaze drops to the purple and black bruises that cover D’Angelo’s stomach and chest.
I think that I invented some new cuss words, when D’Angelo stripped off his shirt in the restrooms to allow Michael to examine him on Friday night.
Michael’s cussing was unexpectedly just as creative.
He wanted D’Angelo to be checked out at the hospital and have an x-ray in case he had fractured ribs, but D’Angelo refused. He’d been too concerned that any recorded injuries would stop him playing.
I study D’Angelo’s sleeping face and his long, black lashes that fan onto his cheeks.
He’s bloody beautiful.
My Sir.
I smile softly, reaching out to trace over the severe bruising.
This wasn’t a couple of punches. I’ve been beaten enough to know that. This was vicious.
It also took place in the locker room showers, where everybody has a right to feel safe.
D’Angelo should have nothing but pleasant memories of the Bay Rebels showers. They are one of his favorite places to push me to my knees, and for me to worship his cock, while we’re both on a high.
I love looking up at my hockey god, who I have crushed on since college, through the streaming water. His cock bruises my throat ruthlessly, and I allow him to fuck my face, while I lose myself in his taste.
D’Angelo shouldn’t be frightened or held down like he holds me.
He has my consent.
Fuck Wilder for not understanding the meaning of the bloody word.
There is a special place in hell for hazers.
My hand shakes.
There is no bloody way that Wilder wants to win more than I do. I don’t care if he’s dreamed of victory since he was in diapers. He’s hurt the man who has accepted my twin and me into his home and heart.
The man who has treated us like we’re worthy.
No one hurts a man like D’Angelo.
He should only be glad that I am holding back my twin from taking revenge.
Eden sat in bed with his book propped on his knee, brow furrowed in confusion, when D’Angelo returned tonight and started to drag off his tie.
“I was cornered and given a message by Wilder,” D’Angelo simply said.
Eden’s dark gaze held D’Angelo’s, while D’Angelo jerkily pulled off his shirt to reveal the damage.
Eden’s eyes burned with a look that I was coming to recognize. “When are we sending a message back?”
Despite his obvious stiffness and pain, D’Angelo’s lips curled into a dangerous smile. “Tomorrow on the ice.”
Except, what message did we send? That we can hold Wilder back for a little bit but not stop him?
This will be much harder than we thought.
My heart hurts, as I place my palm on the largest bruise on D’Angelo’s side that looks like a boot print.
I shuffle down in the bed, resting my head against his bruised chest.
Why did he hide this from me?
Doesn’t he know that subs care for their doms too?
When he hurts, it hurts me.
D’Angelo spends so long planning how to care for his partners that he has forgotten that he needs support too.
I am happy that he has Fleet and his other friends, the Kinks, who act like a support network for him. But I want to be there for him too.
I am his boyfriend, right? Or did he hide this because despite what he promises me, he’ll only ever see me as his sub?
I shiver, desperately listening to the thump — thump — thump — of D’Angelo’s heart.
He’s alive.
I can hear the beat of D’Angelo’s heart, racing now. Feel the warmth of Robyn behind me, her breath on my neck, and her legs still thrown over mine.
Nothing will break us apart.
Right?
…Wilder winking at me…Little Birdie…
I nuzzle closer to D’Angelo, trying to quieten my mind.
It’s not working.
Exhaustion drags at me, but it makes no difference.
I’m not going to sleep tonight. I can feel it deep in my bones.
D’Angelo was the brave one during the game, however, despite his injuries. Nobody would have known that he had bruises underneath his jersey.
He wanted to hide them from the rest of the team.
Yet I shook my head. “They’re brothers, right? They’re going into battle for you. They deserve to know.”
I smile at the memory of the chirp that Neve texted to me before the game.
She is helping me to become more savage during games with words, rather than actions. I have promised both Robyn and D’Angelo that I won’t be kicked into the sin bin again.
I don’t want to see Eden’s disappointed expression again either.
Neve’s text simply said: Coo like a pigeon.
Followed by the pigeon emoji.
For Wilder, you hit the narcissist in his fragile ego.
A pigeon is a player who only eats trash, the points left over by better players. Every time that he touched the puck, I cooed at him.
The first time this happened, it startled Wilder enough that he lost the puck.
Grayson and Lucas both laughed, while Wilder reddened with humiliated fury.
Sudden-death overtime is bloody brutal.
I thought that we had a chance to pull ahead of the Penguins, until the moment that their puck crossed the line. No matter how many times I replay the angle of that shot from Wilder all that matters is it hit the back of the net, before I was able to score against him.
They won. We lost.
Hockey is a bloody simple game sometimes.
Yet Robyn’s speech from the bar replays through my mind. She looked bloody sexy, riled up and fiery in defense of D’Angelo and her own independence.
I’ve always known that she was strong.
It’s one of the first things that attracted me to her, along with her curves and gorgeous emerald eyes.
Yet this side of my Robyn has been growing over the last few months, and I can’t wait to explore it with her.
Would Robyn like to claim me, as D’Angelo does?
Own me as thoroughly?
My cock hardens at the thought. A shiver runs down my spine, and I struggle not to palm my cock.
My body isn’t my own…to touch…to pleasure…
It belongs to D’Angelo and my Robyn.
I moan at the thought.
Then to my shock, D’Angelo shifts underneath me. He moans as well but not in pleasure, as if he’s in pain.
I pull back, worried that I am putting too much pressure on his bruised chest and stomach.
I scan D’Angelo’s face in panic, but he’s still firmly asleep.
I can see his eyes flitting behind his closed eyelids. Then he stiffens, turning his head from side to side. The muscles in his neck cord.
“Stop…” D’Angelo whispers. “Don’t…”
He sounds pained.
Young.
My mouth dries. My chest tightens.
D’Angelo is having a nightmare.
I shift to wrap my arms around him. His heart is beating faster. He’s panting in fear.
I know not to wake him up. It’s normal for me to have nightmares. And sometimes, Eden too.
But not D’Angelo.
Why is he suddenly having nightmares?
He moans again. “Stop! No, no… I scored…”
This is about hockey? Hazing?
Wilder?
I stroke D’Angelo’s sweaty hair behind his ear.
I wish that I could do more. At least I am awake. I’m here. I’ll stay awake and watch over him.
I would spend my life doing this for D’Angelo, if he only wants me enough — and doesn’t send me away.
“It’s okay, darlin’,” I murmur. “It’s just a dream. I’m right here. Robyn and Dee too. You’re safe.”
But the problem is, he’s not.
Are any of us?
It pierces my heart.
Someone helped Wilder to attack D’Angelo. Someone wants us to lose on the ice and to be destroyed off it.
As D’Angelo whines in distress, while I hush him, I know that something is more wrong with him than I know.