Chapter Four #2
Howard turned his head, and the camera caught a pimple under the corner of his left nostril. His skin looked pale and a bit waxy, although that might have been the lighting. He swept his unruly curls off his forehead again. Truly, the people’s hero.
“Thank you,” Damir said. “But now people will ask me to address it.”
“Oh. I didn’t think of that.” Howard deflated, his lower lip jutting out a tiny bit. “I’m sorry.”
Damir took a breath, then another. He didn’t want to speak about the abuse he got online himself.
But over the years, he had sometimes wished anyone else, perhaps his teammates or coaches, would notice and mention it in the idle way every unhappy person longed for someone else to fix their problems. He hadn’t expected anyone to ever try, and he certainly hadn’t expected it to be Howard, but here they were.
“I’ve always assumed that would make it worse,” Damir said, “but maybe it will be a good thing. I don’t actually know. Thank you for saying something. You didn’t have to. It wasn’t a great hit.”
Howard mustered a small smile. “We’ve been over this, you apologized, it’s fine. Can we talk about more important shit now?”
Damir raised his eyebrows. “More important than racism and homophobia?”
“Well, I was going to ask if I’m gonna see you off the ice tomorrow, but now I feel like a shallow asshole.”
The Firecrackers’ flight left late in the morning, and they would only be in San Francisco—or rather, in the Radisson in Palo Alto—for one night before leaving for Vegas.
It would be stupid of Damir to use his curfew exemption tomorrow instead of saving it for Sin City, as Ketchup had made half the team promise to do.
Then again, in Vegas, he’d have to go out with the team. He would probably spend all evening babysitting drunk, high idiots, and he definitely wouldn’t get laid. If he used his exemption beforehand, he would have a valid excuse to stay behind in the hotel.
“Are you propositioning me?”
Howard smirked. “I mean, last time in Chicago, I tried to be subtle about it. But I guess that wasn’t working for you, so yeah.”
“Based on experience, I thought you would just beg to get fucked if you wanted it.”
Howard’s cheeks flushed, but he kept up his smile. “I’ve grown older and wiser since then.”
“Ah, yes, you’re all of twenty now, hm?”
“I was good enough for you last year.”
Damir considered him, all false bravado and unearned confidence. Should he feel guilty for enabling Howard? Fuck, should he feel guilty for hooking up with Howard again despite being six years his elder and a hell of a lot less na?ve?
On screen, Howard blinked his big blue eyes. “Wasn’t I?”
Entirely bypassing his brain, the words shot out straight from Damir’s libido. “You were such a good girl for me.”
Howard’s pink lips dropped open.
Damir wondered if he’d fucked up and crossed a line. It wasn’t as though they’d talked about it or negotiated a scene or anything healthy and sane.
“Please tell me you’re coming over after the game tomorrow night,” Howard said.
Hadn’t crossed a line, then. Good to know.
“Desperate for it, are you?”
Howard seemed to consider briefly, then shrugged. “I have no dignity to lose anymore. I’ve been dreaming about the way you fucked me for nearly a year, and no one else has come close. I need you to do it again and prove it wasn’t a fluke.”
Damir frowned at the thought of whoever else Howard was sleeping with not being able to satisfy him.
One of Damir’s favorite memories of last season was the sight of Howard melted into his hotel sheets, fucked senseless and unable to move.
At the time, he’d been ornery about it, but looking back, it had been a high point.
It pleased him to know no one else had given Howard the same pleasure, though he hated the thought of Howard being left unsatisfied.
Howard would have to learn to be more discerning about his partners.
“Please?” Howard added again.
“You beg nicely.”
“So you’ll come?”
“I certainly hope so.”
Howard groaned. “Ugh, mood ruined by dad jokes. Why would you say that? It was terrible.”
“Are you always this dramatic?”
Putting his index finger on his chin as if considering intensely, Howard said, “Yup. Pretty much.”
Damir was still chuckling a few minutes later when they hung up. Before he could think about it too hard, he texted Coach Simmons to let him know he planned to take his curfew exemption in San Francisco.
Ketchup popped his head out of the guest room door. He squinted at Damir suspiciously. “What’s going on?”
Damir, still at the kitchen table in front of the dirty dishes he hadn’t cleaned up in the last half hour, looked up from his phone. “Hm?”
“You’re laughing.”
“And?”
“You never laugh.”
“I laugh all the time. I laughed at you this morning when you fell on your ass during practice.”
Ketchup’s mouth twisted. “I’d describe that as a cackle. What’s got you so happy?”
Damir got to his feet and headed to the dishwasher. He didn’t even grimace when the door shifted slightly as he opened it. “Nothing. I’m going to hit the gym before bed. Want to come?”
“Ew. We were at the gym all morning.”
“We were on the ice; there’s a difference.”
“And then we went to the gym.”
Damir shook his head. “A cooldown after practice is standard, and we won’t manage a weight routine tomorrow since we’re traveling.”
“Nuh-uh,” Ketchup said, wrinkling his nose.
This was why he’d been sent down and then traded. He’d only cracked the main roster this year because no one good wanted to play in Chicago. “Do you even like hockey?” Damir asked skeptically.
“Love it,” Ketchup told him. “But you can’t only love one thing.”
He disappeared back into his room, leaving Damir wondering if he had just been given profound wisdom or if Ketchup would be relegated to the AHL again before his entry-level contract ran out.
Damir shook his head to clear it of stupid thoughts he couldn’t do anything about and headed for the gym in his apartment complex. Tomorrow was looking up.