Chapter 2
Ash
“Red. Red!” The safe word comes ten minutes into the scene.
Everything stops immediately. One second, I'm focused on Riley and the dynamic we'd spent nearly two weeks discussing over text messages and coffee dates. The next, the word leaves his mouth and every part of my attention shifts toward making sure he's okay.
“Hey.” My voice softens instantly. The change is automatic. Years of experience, I guess. “What's wrong?”
Riley looks embarrassed. He combs back his brown hair, avoiding my eyes. Which is never a good sign. He shifts on the couch and rubs the back of his neck. “I don't know.”
I sit down beside him, dropping the riding crop to the floor. I pull a blanket from the back of the couch to cover his naked body. The room suddenly feels very ordinary.
No tension.
No anticipation.
No expectations.
Just two men sitting in a living room.
“Take your time.”
Riley exhales heavily. “I thought I'd like this more.”
There it is.
I nod slowly. I'm not surprised. He seemed like he was the type who just says yes so he could sleep with me. But when I asked him over and over again if he was sure he had insisted that this is what he wanted.
My shoulders sag slightly with disappointment. Not in him. Just in the situation.
“I appreciate you telling me.”
Riley laughs awkwardly. “You're taking this way better than I thought.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don't know. For you to be mad.”
I lean back against the couch. The idea is almost funny.
“Why would I be mad?”
His expression says he doesn't have an answer.
Neither of us says anything for a few seconds.
Eventually, Riley sighs. “I think I liked the idea of this.”
I nod.
That makes sense. It happens more often than people think. A lot of men are attracted to confidence.
Control. Authority. They see someone like me and assume they'll enjoy everything that comes along with it. Then reality shows up. Reality tends to be less sexy than fantasy.
“I'm sorry,” Riley says.
I hate that. The apology. The guilt. Like he's done something wrong.
“You don't have anything to apologize for.”
“I kinda do.”
“No.” I shake my head.
“Actually, this is exactly what you're supposed to do.”
He looks confused.
“If something isn't working, you stop. That's the whole point.”
The tension in his shoulders relaxes slightly. “You're not upset?”
I consider the question. The honest answer is complicated. “I'm disappointed.”
His face falls.
I immediately continue. “Not because you stopped.”
That gets his attention. “Then why?”
Because this keeps happening.
Because I spend weeks being transparent.
Because I tell people exactly who I am.
Exactly what I enjoy.
Exactly what they're agreeing to.
And somehow, they still look surprised when I turn out to be exactly who I said I was.
I don't say any of that.
Instead, I shrug. “I thought we had potential.”
Riley smiles sadly. “Yeah. So did I.”
An hour later, he's gone. The house feels significantly larger without him. Like the walls expanded with relief when he left.
I clean up automatically. Fold blankets. Straighten furniture. Put things back where they belong. Control has always comforted me.
Everything has a place or a purpose. Unlike people. People are messy. They leave. They lie.
I learned that lesson young.
The shower runs hot enough to fog the bathroom mirror. I stand beneath the water longer than necessary. The fucking disappointment lingers.
Not because Riley left. No, Riley isn't special. He's nice and cute but not special. He didn't really excite me. I shouldn't have been surprised that he left when he did. I think I knew we weren't a match.
This has been a pattern lately. Guys are attracted to me all the time.
The size.
The confidence.
The hockey career.
Those things draw people in. Then they discover who I actually am and suddenly they're backing toward the exit. I've gotten used to it. Mostly.
The water beats against the back of my neck. I close my eyes, hoping the hot water eases the tension in my shoulders.
Maybe I'm the problem. The thought isn't exactly new.
Maybe I'm too fucked up to crave people in a normal way. I don't crave soft kisses and missionary sex. I want my partner to give up all fear for me. To trust me with every piece of them so I can mold them into something else.
Maybe that's too much to ask.
I've always been the problem. My father certainly thought so. The old man spent eighteen years making sure I understood that. I was too loud, or angry. I was a stallion that couldn't be tamed with tender love or care.
I turn off the shower before those memories can get any louder. Tomorrow is opening day.
I don't have the energy to unpack childhood trauma tonight.
My alarm goes off at 5:30, but I'm already awake. Years of hockey have conditioned my body into submission. No matter how late I stay up, practice still arrives on schedule.
By the time I reach the arena, the disappointment from last night has mostly faded into the background. The rink always helps. The ice makes sense. People are harder. Hockey is simple.
You know where you stand. Most of the time.
The locker room is already filling when I arrive. Guys are talking. Laughing. Arguing about something stupid. Normal.
I toss my bag beside my stall and start getting ready. That's when I notice Kai Hayes.
Not because he's doing anything unusual. Actually, the opposite. Kai's entire existence is built around not drawing attention to himself.
He's sitting quietly at his stall, drinking one of those horrifying neon energy drinks he loves.
The thing looks radioactive. I'm convinced they dissolve internal organs on contact.
Hale notices them too. A few minutes later he's giving Kai shit about it. Kai responds with a joke.
The room laughs. Then the conversation moves on. Nobody really knows what to do with Kai.
The realization makes me uncomfortable. Not because anyone is being cruel. Nobody is. Not openly.
The problem is that everyone treats him like fragile glass.
They don't tease him or include him. I guess they don't know how.
And Kai doesn't exactly help. He's spent the last year building walls thick enough to survive a war.
I don't think anybody knows how to get through them.
Including me.
My eyes drift back toward him. Kai is objectively handsome. Dirty blond hair. Gray eyes. Strong jaw. Lean build. The kind of face advertisers love. If his life had gone differently, he probably would've ended up in sports commercials and cologne campaigns.
Instead, he's become hockey's favorite tragedy.
I hate that. Everybody in hockey knows what happened.
William Grove died because the sport is dangerous.
It wasn't fucking murder. It wasn't anything except terrible luck.
People act like freak accidents have never happened before, but they have.
Maybe once every decade a skate punctures the skin and a player bleeds out.
Rare. Horrific. But not impossible.
William just happened to be famous enough that the entire world watched it happen. And Kai happened to be standing closest when it did. That's the only reason anyone remembers his name.
I start pulling off my shirt. Halfway through the motion, I catch movement from the corner of my eye. Kai immediately looks away.
Interesting.
A smile threatens. I keep it to myself. This isn't the first time I've caught him looking.
Actually, it's become a fairly regular occurrence. Just little glances. The kind someone thinks they're hiding.
The first few times I wasn't sure. Now? Now I purposely take my time when strapping on my gear so I can see the pink flush of that pretty boy's cheeks. The funny thing is that Kai probably thinks he's subtle.
He's not. At all.
I finish removing my shirt. Very slowly. Entirely for scientific purposes, of course.
Kai looks again. I almost laugh.
Poor guy.
“Morning, Hayes.”
His entire face turns red. It's adorable.
“Good morning.” Then he immediately looks somewhere else.
My smile grows. Maybe the season won't be completely miserable.
The arena empties out surprisingly fast once practice ends. Coach gives us a few hours before puck drop, and most of the guys disappear almost immediately. Some head home to sleep. Others go out for lunch. A handful linger around the training room pretending they aren't nervous about opening night.
I think about driving back to my apartment. I immediately decide against it because the round trip would take longer than the nap.
Instead, I grab a sandwich from the concessions and spend an hour wandering around the mostly empty arena.
There is something calming about hockey buildings when nobody is inside them.
The noise disappears. The pressure disappears.
All that's left are concrete hallways, empty seats, and the faint smell of ice.
I head back toward the locker room to grab my phone charger from my stall. The showers are running.
At first, I assume somebody forgot to turn one off. I push through the doors and immediately spot Hayes standing beneath the spray.
The rest of the room is empty.
The shower water runs over his shoulders while he stares at the tiled wall in front of him. He isn't moving at all, like his mind is somewhere else entirely. Something about it unsettles me.
“Hayes?”
He jumps. The reaction is so immediate that guilt flashes through me. His head snaps around. The shower shuts off a second later.
“Sorry,” I say. “Didn't mean to scare you.”
“It's fine.” The answer comes too quickly.
Hayes reaches for a towel and wraps it around his waist. Then he just stands there, a pregnant pause forming between us. Water drips from the ends of his dark blond hair and tracks down his chest.
Standing here now, with nothing but a towel around his waist, it's impossible not to notice the pull of want in my stomach. Anybody with functioning eyes would probably feel the same.
Unfortunately, what catches my attention isn't his body. It's his face. His eyes. Hayes always looks sad. Like somebody stitched it directly into him. His gray eyes are the kind that seem permanently exhausted. Permanently haunted.