"I'm going to check your temperature," I said quietly. "Not because I'm going to escalate to anyone. Not because I think you can't handle this. Just because I want to know. Okay?"
Taz nodded slowly.
I pulled out the portable thermometer I'd started keeping in my pocket—a habit from the first game that I'd never broken. Pressed it to his forehead. Waited.
Eighty-six degrees.
My heart stuttered. That should’ve been impossible. That should’ve been fatal. And yet here he was, breathing, talking, looking at me like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"It's low," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "But you're conscious and responsive. Your pupils are reactive. You're not shivering, which—" I stopped myself. "Which I'm starting to think is normal for you."
"Normal," he repeated, something bitter in the word.
"Yournormal." I set the thermometer aside and took his hands in mine. "I'm not going to pretend I understand what's happening with your body, Taz. I don't. But I'm also not going to dismiss what I see just because it doesn't fit in a textbook."
His fingers twitched in my grip. "Most people would run."
"I'm not most people."
Chapter ten
Cross-Checking - Forcefully hitting an opponent with both hands on the stick (penalty).
Taranis
I wanted to do something normal with him, not just lurch from one crisis to another, but the press didn’t let up, and to make matters worse, I knew I had to see my agent who was here with the team. He repped Max, Cole, and Phoenix as well, and Weston was a good guy.
I was thirty-seven in three months. The trade window had closed, which was good and bad. Good because I felt at home with the Dragons—even before Cinder had arrived—and I had zero interest in playing for another team. Bad because I hadn’t been offered a contract extension. It was like they weren’t surethey wanted me, but they didn’t want anyone else to have me either. I knew I should walk… but then what? Hockey had been my entire life since I was ten.
I knew Marc, for example, was looking forward to retirement, as he had a huge family, including some vineyard in the Niagara peninsula he was all set to inherit if he wanted, and five kids. I was pretty sure his wife was pregnant with their sixth.
I didn’t have that. Family, that was. Not that I was interested in a wife. I’d known I was gay since around sixteen. And yeah, I was late to that realization, but it had been my first season with the U18s, and to get thrust from a tiny farm where we saw no one, into a full-on buffet of male hotness made every fantasy come to life. Not that I ever even dared look at them. And then hockey had become my life.
As dragons, we knew that at some point we had to withdraw from current life. The public weren’t ready for an eternal lifespan, and I knew dragons like Ignatius made it work by simply reinventing themselves every so often.
Well, it wasn’tsimple, but it could be done.
I just wanted another two, three years to get ready for something else. But I had friends now. Friends that understood secrets. And while being gay wasn’t something the hockey world exactly embraced, this particular team cared more about how many goals Cole scored, not who he had in his bed.
We were off today, and I had the meeting with Weston. I’d wanted to ask Cinder to stay with me last night, but he shied away with the number of reporters about, and I didn’t blame him. We also had to talk about us, because I wanted more. I’d had the best night of my entire life with him, but I didn’t know how he felt. That, plus the huge glaring secret between us.
Weston's hotel suite was nicer than mine—corner room, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor, the kind of space that said "successful agent" without screaming it. He'd orderedcoffee and pastries, laid out on a table by the window like we were having a civilized business breakfast instead of discussing the slow death of my career.
"Taz." He stood when I entered, his handshake warm and firm. "Good to see you. How's the knee holding up?"
"Fine." I settled into the chair across from him, accepting the coffee he poured. "Better than fine, actually. No issues since the first game."
"Good. That's good." He studied me over the rim of his own cup, something thoughtful in his expression. "You look different. More... settled."
I didn't know how to respond to that, so I just shrugged.
Weston set down his coffee and pulled out a tablet, scrolling through what I assumed were my stats, my contract details, all the numbers that reduced a twenty-year career to data points on a screen.
"I'll be straight with you," he said. "The front office hasn't made any moves toward extension talks. They're watching. Evaluating."
"Evaluating what? I've been solid this season."
"You have." He nodded slowly. "But you're also nearly thirty-seven in a position where most goalies retire in the thirty-three to thirty-five age range. They're being cautious."