Chapter 5
Austin
The Nashville game is minutes away, and my entire routine is off, which is a bad sign They’re a tough team, and my head needs to be in the game. I tune out the locker room noise to mentally prepare.
But I can’t understand why Gray is so nonchalant about what I did to him, as if he’s more worried about me than himself.
Logically, it makes sense since he has no clue how much I loved marking his skin, and part of me was proud of the horrible red bruises.
He doesn’t know my dick gets hard every time I imagine sinking my teeth into his shoulder.
Or how much I love his long brown hair trailing over my body like silk.
How his skin tastes exactly like he smells: warm and sweet with a hint of spice.
He doesn’t know I dream about doing worse things to his body.
That I crave being inside him and being denied might kill me.
There isn’t a way to express remorse for those things without confessing them. He can never know how fucked up my brain is. No sane person fantasizes about fucking their best friend so hard it leaves them black and blue.
On the plane, he put his headphones on, cutting off our conversation, and I went to sleep as soon as we got to our hotel. My guilt argues that I avoided the conversation too, but I justify it as necessary for our game.
Hockey always comes first, and Grayson understands that.
Our text conversations are usually a steady stream—now my phone is silent. It’d be easy to text him, but today it feels impossible. My apology didn’t cover the depth of my regret, and Grayson has made it clear he doesn’t appreciate the word sorry.
Lucky and Benz pester me to dance for our pregame ritual, but I only manage a half-hearted attempt for the team. They claim we can’t win if I don’t dance. I’m already having trouble concentrating, so I won’t mess up their mojo on top of my issues.
“You guys played a helluva game in Vegas, and I expect the same effort tonight. Benz, you up for another goalie goal?” Coach asks rhetorically.
Usually before a game, I stop by Gray’s training room for my good luck routine: he claps his palms on my shoulders, taps his forehead against mine, and says “You got this.” It’s fast and silly, but I miss it. I’m sure he would’ve done it if I’d gone to him. But I didn’t and now I regret it.
The whiff of the ice and roar of the crowd help to get my head in the game.
The puck drops, Drake wins the face-off, and we speed down the ice.
It’s strange to play with Drake and Lucky now.
We’ve always had great intuition and awareness of each other, but now that they’re a couple, they’re extra in tune with each other, like they can read each other’s minds.
It’s true opposites attract. Drake looks like the standoffish blond Swede he is, and Lucky is all-American Midwest, dark hair with a dimple inviting a person to share his joke.
That skill has benefited all our playing, but sometimes I can’t support them when they’re doing their own thing.
Lucky feigns a pass to Drake, and the puck lands on my stick instead.
Muscle memory takes over and I shoot. The goalie is slightly out of position, not expecting the pass to me.
That fraction of a second reorientation from the goalie is all I need, and the lamp lights up.
Lucky wraps me in a hug and smacks my helmet as Drake slaps my back and uses his momentum to steer us toward the bench. The second line goes over the boards, and Gray passes me a water bottle with a smile.
I should stop inventing problems. Gray and I are fine. He’s my best friend. All I have to do is focus on my job and forget about how his muscles rippled under my hands. That he woke an insatiable part of me. That, no matter my attempts to find other men attractive, no one compares to him.
Nashville doesn’t make the game easy. We have to fight for the puck and every chance to score. One of their defenders trash-talks me and wants to fight. It’s not uncommon for hockey fights to be planned, but I’m not a fighter. All the teams know that, and opponents never ask me to throw down.
“Hit up number 23.” I point to Drake, who will fight him. Drake never backs down and most often starts unscripted brawls.
“He’s not my mark.” The Nashville player skates away, and I assume he’s going to drop it.
I’m wrong. On our next shift, he drops his gloves and takes a swing at me. I shove him away, but don’t take my gloves off or hit him back. That infuriates him, and a second before the buzzer ends the first period, he rips my helmet off and punches me in the face.
The refs immediately descend on us, and his players drag him away.
Coach sends me to the training room with Gray. He points at the exam table and snaps on gloves. I strip off my pads until I’m down to my base layer and sit.
His fingers lightly coast over my cheekbone and eye socket. Gloves are a mandatory part of his job, but I hate the barrier between us. It’s irrational, but his gloves add to the distance in our relationship. He has me complete the standard eye test.
“In my professional medical opinion, you’re gonna have one beauty of a shiner.” He grins at me.
“That’s how the professionals talk now?” My shoulders drop inches with the familiarity of his teasing.
“Yupper. That’s gotta hurt, eh?” He’s looking into my eyes, not at my injury, as his thumb caresses the swollen area.
I blow out a long breath. We rarely slip into Canadian expressions, but I need that connection with him. We grew up together, and whatever is happening won’t tear us apart.
“For sure. What’s the verdict? Can I keep playing?” I can’t let my team down.
“As long as the swelling doesn’t affect your vision.” He steps away to get an icepack, and I miss his nearness. “Keep this on until the start of the next period. I’ll have new ice ready every time your shift is over, and I’ll examine it. But you should be fine.”
Grayson pauses and the scar on his lip twitches. “You can fight back. It’s okay,” he says quietly.
“I can’t,” I say, harsher than I mean. “You remember why.” I hang my head to avoid looking at him. The day still haunts me.
He lifts my chin with his fingers. “One, keep your head elevated for the swelling. Two, that was a long time ago and has nothing to do with a pro hockey fight.”
His brown eyes bore into me as if he could either erase the memory or change my mind. Grayson was there, so it’s mindboggling how he can say that.
When we were kids, I was aggressive and would fight at the smallest slight.
After my twelfth birthday, we went to an away tournament, and a bigger kid kept shoving me into the boards.
He blocked one of my shots, and I saw red and attacked him.
I must’ve blacked out for a minute because the next thing I remember is being pulled off him as he screamed and cried.
I broke one of his ribs, and he never played hockey again.
For the second time in my life, the darkness in me took over and caused serious bodily harm.
The first time was with my sister, and I should’ve known I’m dangerous. Too violent for Grayson.
“Hey.” Grayson removes the latex gloves and places his warm hands on my shoulder. “What happened back then wasn’t your fault.” I glare at him, but he doesn’t relent. “That kid took that hit into the boards and had trouble breathing five minutes before your fight. It might not have been you.”
“No twelve-year-old can play with a broken rib.” I resist the urge to pull away because his hands on me are an indulgence I can’t deny myself.
“If you’re going to ignore facts, I’ll remind you of his rabid father screaming at him. That kid wouldn’t come off the ice unless it was on a stretcher.” He flinches at his words because that’s exactly what happened. “At least his father shut the hell up.”
“You always see the good side of things.” I lean forward to rest my forehead on his chest, and his hands curve around my back. Touch is part of his job, and he gives and receives it easily. For me, touch is more of a forbidden fruit. Once I have a little, I’m afraid I’ll need it—rely on it.
“And that kid became an oncologist. He makes a ton of money and doesn’t put his body at risk. He’s fine. If he knew you felt bad, he’d probably send you a basket of syrup and maple cookies.” He rubs my sweaty head, and I relish his hands threading through my hair.
“Don’t stereotype our people,” I grumble. Grayson’s right. The guy’s a doctor and probably doesn’t have to worry about what his father thinks about his career. Any father should be proud of their doctor son.
All the residual tension leaves my body, and I’m ready to play. He always knows how to get me in the right headspace when my mind veers off track.
“Back to my original point. You can participate in a fight and not worry about something bad happening. These guys are tough. They can take it. Just like I can take your aggressive side. You don’t need to hide it.”
He’s being sincere and honest. But he’s wrong.
New Year’s Eve was proof that I can’t be trusted.
He shouldn’t endure pain for my pleasure.
That’s despicable. He’s also forgetting I’m the reason his hockey career ended.
I refuse to take more from him with my selfishness. I’ve done enough harm in his life.
“If you hurry, you can show off your pretty eye to the team before the second period.” Gray’s crooked smile freezes the air in my lungs, and his thumb stroking my eyebrow while he cups my jaw causes my stomach to flip-flop.
It’s a simple gesture from a friend who isn’t afraid to touch people.
But for me, it’s so much more—an off-limits physical connection with a man I’m desperate for. I’m not safe for him, and I won’t harm him again. What I want doesn’t matter.
I smack my head, hoping to regain my senses.
“Careful with the precious merchandise.” Gray gathers icepacks and other things he’ll need for the rest of the game.
I lean into his body, soaking him in as I vow to protect him from me.