Chapter 33
Rhys
“Blake.”
Silence from the living room.
“Blake, I fucked up.”
More silence.
“Blake, I need you right now this is serious—”
A grunt. A shuffle. My door swings open and Blake appears in the frame looking like a man who was deeply asleep and is not happy about it, hair sideways, squinting at me with pure undiluted resentment.
“Well?”
I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed clutching my pillow like a life raft.
He just stands there and watches me. “Okay so.” I pick at a loose thread on the pillow.
“You know how we talked about Jamie and how I was sort of planning to ruin his life in like a sexy, fun way?” Blake’s face does not move, so I take this as enthusiastic engagement and support.
“So first I blew him in the locker room and he came in my mouth — victory, obviously — but then he broke it off, which pissed me off, so I made him jealous, cornered him at the bar last night, and—” I hold up the side of my neck to show the hickeys, “—I came in his hand.” I pause for effect.
“Who do you think is winning right now and why?”
Blake sits down on the edge of my bed. He has the expression of a man who made one wrong turn several weeks ago and has been lost ever since.
Like a divorced father raising three kids all alone.
“Rhys,” he says, tentatively. “Sweetheart. I say this with love. Even though I am not involved in this and have been actively begging you to remove me from the daily updates chat—”
“I can’t do that, you’re my emergency contact and the only one who knows about us—”
“You’re both fucked.” He says it simply. Clinically. Like a doctor delivering a diagnosis. “You supposedly hate each other. And you keep—” he pauses, visibly steeling himself, “—coming all over each other.” He grimaces. “That was hard to say.”
“Interesting. Continue.”
“Maybe.” He looks at me sincerely. “And I’m just throwing this out there. Maybe you don’t actually hate each other?”
I scoff. Because that is the most ridiculous thing Blake has ever said.
Jamie Nash has hated me since the moment I set foot on the ice.
He has been hostile and controlling and insufferable from day one, which made me want to get under his skin, which made him hate me more, which is a perfectly self-sustaining cycle that has absolutely nothing to do with feelings and everything to do with the fact that we are two incompatible people constantly forced into close proximity.
I hate him because he hates me. That’s the whole thing.
Blake watches me work through it and says nothing because he has known me enough to know when I’m about to talk myself into a corner. “Maybe,” he says carefully, “you should talk to him. Not fight. Not whatever else you two are doing. Actually talk.”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s wound up so tight I can’t even squeeze a sentence out of him and every time we try to talk we end up yelling, and then lately one of us finishes, and it’s hot, but still.” I wave a hand. “Impossible.”
Blake stands up. His work here, apparently, done.
“Blake wait—” He’s already heading for the door. “Don’t you want to hear phase two of the plan?” Gone.
I’ll update him in the chat.
――――――――
Later that night I decide Blake might be onto something.
Not the feelings part. That part is ridiculous and I’m not entertaining it.
But the talking part — clean, simple, adult conversation that doesn’t immediately devolve into one of us pinning the other against a surface or punching each other — that might be worth attempting.
I just need to stay calm. Ignore the easy openings.
Don’t take the bait. Don’t piss him off.
Easy.
Despite what happened at Eldridge, I think things could maybe be different with Jamie. He’s stoic, dependable, trustworthy. He says what he means and means what he says. I don’t think he would ever do that to me. And besides, things are different this time.
I’m different.
――――――――
I’m next to him in the locker room before practice and I clear my throat.
“Jamie.” I keep my voice light. Friendly even.
Trying to remove my usual sarcasm. Trying not to poke the bear.
“Last night was fun, right? I mean—” I lower my voice, “—the bar. Obviously. Not the bathroom. Which was way more than fun—” I stop myself. “That’s not what I meant.”
Jamie slams his locker shut and turns the full force of his glare on me. I press both hands into my face. Four seconds. Four seconds and I’ve already derailed this. Fuck. I take a breath.
“Anyway.” I drop my hands and regroup. “I wanted to grab a beer after practice. Just talk. No — anything else.” I hold his gaze. “What do you think?”
He looks at me for a moment. Something contemplative moving through his expression that isn’t the usual wall — like he’s actually considering it, which might be the most surprised I’ve been since maybe the Grindr incident.
“Maybe,” he says.
And walks away.
No insult. No middle finger.
No telling me to go fuck myself.
Maybe.
I’ll take it.
Practice is good. Better than good actually. We’ve been finding something lately — a rhythm between all of us that hasn’t been there all season, built game by game and session by session into something that feels like a real team rather than a collection of guys wearing the same jersey.
I’m working through shooting drills at the far end, still running the sequence Jamie corrected weeks ago — less force, let the blade do it — when Kowalski materializes next to me, gliding easy across the ice.
“Everything good with you and Nash?”
I look at him sideways. “Yeah, why?”
“Just noticing it’s been different. Less tense than before.” He shrugs. “Whatever you two are doing — keep doing it. The whole team feels it.”
I beam on the inside. I cannot wait to tell Jamie that the entire team is basically rooting for us to fuck—
The sound hits before I have time to process it. A slam. Hard and wrong, the sound of a body hitting the boards at a bad angle, and then a sharp — “Fuck!” I’m moving before I’ve decided to move.
Jamie is on the ice, one hand gripping his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut.
Bryce is standing over him looking horrified — caught him wrong coming out of a drill and drove him shoulder-first into the glass without meaning to.
The shoulder. The same one that’s been a little wrong for weeks, the one he winces on and hides and pretends isn’t a problem.
I get there first. I crouch down next to him and reach out—
“Don’t.” His voice is tight and he doesn’t open his eyes. “Fucking. Touch me.”
I pull my hand back. “I’m just trying to see if you’re—”
“I said I’m fine.” He shifts, wincing against the pain, sweat already dotting his forehead. “Back the fuck off.” The team is crowding around him now. Fitch is already off the bench moving fast, calling for space. I stand up.
He won’t look at me. Won’t even let me near him.
I try to help and he flinches away like I’m the last person he wants close and I don’t know why that lands the way it does — we’re not anything, we’ve established we’re not anything, so I have no right to feel it — but I do.
There’s no winning with him and this is starting to feel familiar.
I step back. Watch Fitch get to him, hand on his back, guiding him carefully toward the bench. I turn and skate to the other end of the ice before anyone can see my face. I was trying to be decent for once. Every time we almost become real, one of us ruins it. Fuck him.