Chapter 28
DREW
The knock on my door sounds like God himself has come to collect my soul, which honestly might be preferable to whatever’s about to happen.
I drag myself off the bed, every muscle screaming from that hit in the second period. The world tilts slightly as I shuffle to the door, and I’m vaguely aware that I’m only wearing boxer briefs, but my brain’s too scrambled to care. I yank the door open and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Coach Donovan fills the doorway, six-foot-two of solid muscle, blocking the hallway light.
The fabric of his white tank strains across pecs that rise and fall with each breath, the cotton worn thin enough that I can make out his nipples.
His sweatpants cling to thick thighs, the drawstring hanging loose, and I force my eyes up before they drift elsewhere.
He shifts his weight, and I notice he’s in a pair of generic white socks.
My cock, traitor that it is, twitches with interest even though I currently have the mental capacity of a concussed goldfish.
“Jesus, Larney, put some clothes on,” he says, but he’s already pushing past me into the room.
I close the door and lean against it, trying to process why my coach is in my hotel room at—I squint at the clock—11:47 p.m.
“Sit,” he orders, pointing at the bed.
I sit because what else am I gonna do?
“We need to talk about what happened out there,” he says, pulling the desk chair over and sitting directly in front of me.
“I played like shit,” I mumble.
“You played like someone whose head wasn’t in the game.” His hazel eyes bore into mine. “This about Jackson?”
My heart stops beating. “Why would it be about Jackson?”
“Because you’ve been off ever since Oliver announced that charity thing on the bus.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and Christ, I can see every ridge of muscle through that tank top. “Talk to me, Drew.”
Something in his voice cracks me open. “I can’t do it anymore. This thing with Jackson—I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t mean anything.”
Coach’s expression doesn’t change. “Who says you’re pretending?”
“It’s fake. The whole relationship is fake. And now there’s another event where I have to touch him and be close to him when—” I stop, running my hands through my hair.
“When what?”
“When I’m in love with him.” The admission hangs in the air, and I can’t take it back. Don’t want to. “I’m so fucking in love with him I can’t see straight. Can’t play hockey. Can’t think about anything except how much I want it to be real.”
Coach stares at me, his expression unreadable as the seconds tick by.
Then he stands, the chair creaking with relief.
His socks whisper against the carpet as he crosses to the mini-fridge.
The small door opens with a soft vacuum sound, bathing his face in bluish light.
Condensation glints on the plastic bottles as he pulls two out.
The plastic crackles in his grip before one sails through the air toward me.
I catch it against my bare chest, cold water beading against my skin as he lowers himself back down, his weight making the chair protest once more. “Drink,” he orders.
I crack open the bottle and take a long pull, grateful for something to do with my hands.
“You know,” Coach says, leaning back and crossing his legs at the ankle, “I used to be married. To a woman. Beautiful girl, smart as hell. I already told you we met in college, but what I didn’t say was that we had a shotgun wedding right after graduation.
” His eyes go distant. “I thought I loved her. Thought that was what I was supposed to do—find a nice girl, settle down, have kids.”
“Coach—”
“Let me finish.” He takes a sip of his water. “We were married until Alex turned three. Before I finally admitted to myself what I’d known all along: I was gay, not bi.”
My brain struggles to process this. Coach Donovan, the man who’s been a father to me for three years, is telling me he’s gay while I’m in my underwear.
“The divorce nearly killed us both,” he continues. “Not because we hated each other, but because we didn’t. She knew, deep down, that I’d always been in love with Gerard’s father, and even though he was happily married, I was not.”
“Does Alex know about this?”
“Yeah, he does. I keep no secrets from my son.”
“Why are you telling me all of this then?”
He narrows his eyes, those hazel irises turning to stone as his jaw tightens ever so slightly.
It’s the same look he gives right before benching someone who’s about to argue with him.
“Because I see you making the same mistake I did. Not the marriage part—Christ, you’re too young for that.
But the fear. You’re so scared of the emotions bubbling inside of you that it’s eating you alive. ”
“It’s not that simple,” I protest. “Jackson’s straight. He’s only doing this to help me out.”
“Is he?” Coach leans forward again. “Because from where I’m sitting, that boy treats you like a king.”
“So, you’re saying I should tell him how I feel? But what if it ruins everything?”
“Then it ruins everything.” He shrugs as if it’s that simple. “But at least you’ll know. At least you won’t spend the rest of your life wondering what if.”
The plastic of the water bottle crackles under my fingers, my knuckles bleaching white against the label.
A drop of condensation slides between my thumb and forefinger, tracing a cold path down my wrist. “I don’t know how to do this.
Relationships. Real ones. My parents fucked me up too badly for that. ”
“Your parents’ crumbling marriage has nothing to do with your ability to love someone.” His voice goes gentle in a way I’ve rarely heard. “You’re not your father, Drew. And Jackson’s not your mother. You’re allowed to want something real.”
“But what if I fuck it up?” The question comes out small, scared.
Coach pushes up from the chair with a soft grunt.
Two steps and he’s at the edge of the bed, lowering himself down next to me.
The mattress sinks, sliding me an inch closer to him.
His body heat radiates against my bare shoulder, and goosebumps prickle across my skin as I tug the sheet half-heartedly over my exposed thighs.
“You might,” he says simply. “Hell, you probably will at some point. But that’s what relationships are—fucking up and choosing to fix it together.”
“When did you become a relationship counselor?” I try for humor, but it falls flat.
“When one of my best players started playing as if he’d rather be anywhere else than on the ice.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Hockey’s important, Drew. But it’s not everything. Don’t let fear prevent you from trying for something that could be.”
“The charity event—”
“Is an opportunity,” he interrupts. “Whatever it ends up being, use it. Stop hiding behind the fake relationship excuse and show Jackson what he means to you.”
“And if he doesn’t reciprocate?”
Coach stands, his broad shoulders blocking the hotel room light. The hard lines around his eyes soften, and one corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Then you’ll hurt like hell for a while. But you’ll survive. And you’ll be able to move on knowing you tried.”
He heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “Get some sleep, Larney. And ice that bruise on your ribs—it’s turning purple.”
“Coach?” I call as he opens the door. “Thanks. For this. For everything.”
He glances over his shoulder and throws me a smile that makes me feel seen and understood for the first time in forever. “That’s what I’m here for. Well, that and making sure you don’t embarrass us on the ice again.”
“No promises on that one.”
The door closes behind him, and I’m alone with my thoughts and a heart that has grown too big for my chest. I flop back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as his words replay in my head.
Could it be that I’ve been so focused on protecting myself from getting hurt that I haven’t noticed Jackson might be doing the same thing? Could those moments at the roller rink have been more than bodies seeking something convenient?
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Jackson’s name lights up the screen.
Jackson
Still up for that FaceTime?
My thumb hovers over the screen as Coach’s advice pulses through me like a second heartbeat. Stop hiding.
Me
Yeah. Give me five minutes to put on a shirt.
Jackson
Don’t bother on my account