I snort and roll my eyes, some of the heaviness breaking apart. “Afraid my cock only works for one guy now. Sorry to disappoint.”
Trevor clicks his tongue, mock disappointment flashing across his face. “Bummer.” He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder again. “For real, though. I hope it works out between you guys. You’re a good guy, Gray. And also great in bed.”
That makes me chuckle despite everything, and I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. “Thanks, man.”
He grins, gives me a little two-finger salute, then heads off.
I watch him go, my chest still heavy but somehow lighter, too. Like saying all the shit brewing in my head out loud chipped away at the worst of it.
Just because he’s not ready now doesn’t mean he won’t ever be.
I let those words repeat themselves over and over in my head as I open my laptop again, the words blurring on the screen.
Because even though I keep telling myself it’s time to move on, the truth is, there’s only ever been one person I want. One person I’ve loved.
And even though it’ll hurt like hell if he never chooses me, I’ll wait for him for however long it takes, because he’s it for me, and I’m not done hoping for a happily-ever-after for us.
33
NATHAN
The thing about being a goalie is that you can’t afford to live in your own head. Not for a second. The moment you start thinking about anything except the game, you’re screwed. One blink, one heartbeat, one slip of focus, and the puck’s already behind you, hitting the back of the net.
And tonight, my head is a fucking disaster.
The arena is packed, the crowd a constant dull roar behind the glass, students screaming themselves hoarse. My teammates are flying, sticks clattering, skates cutting deep grooves in the ice, everyone locked in—except me. I’m supposed to be razor-sharp, dialed in. Instead, my brain’s distracted.
Every time he skates by, my eyes betray me. I can’t help it. I know I should be tracking the play of the other team, but I keep finding him.
My chest squeezes, a quick flash of pain I try to swallow down. It’s been six days. Six days since I walked out of his room, six days since I watched his face shutter closed, since I felt something snap between us. Something I have no clue how to put back together, and it’s costing me.
My glove’s slow on a shot I could usually catch blindfolded, and the puck dings off the post, hitting the back of the net. Fuck. I grind my teeth behind the mask.
I slam my stick against the post. I know my dad is probably yelling at me to get my shit together from the bench, but all I hear is the pounding in my ears.
I’m supposed to be better than this.
I try to shake it off, telling myself to focus on the game, but my brain is back in his bed—his mouth on mine, his laugh muffled against my skin, the way he looked at me like I was more than just a teammate.
I miss him. I miss him so much it feels like I can’t breathe.
But there’s no time to think about it, because the next play comes at me fast. Fuck, these guys are on fire tonight. Their center steals the puck from Austin and zips it out wide, and suddenly there are three bodies flying at me.
I drop low and keep my legs wide, doing everything I can to keep my head in the game, but I can’t stop glancing left, tracking Logan as he tears across the ice, fighting for position.
The puck bounces loose in the slot, a blur of skates and sticks, and then one of their forwards charges straight through the crease and doesn’t even try to stop. He crashes into me, hard, his shoulder jamming into my chest. I lose my balance and hit the post.
Before I can even suck in a breath, all hell breaks loose.
Ryan’s already shoving their center out of the crease, Austin’s got a glove in another guy’s face, and Cole grabs the closest jersey, hauling the kid backwards. But Logan grabs the guy who knocked into me, keeping his hands on his chest and slamming him hard against the glass.
The other guy tries to shove him back, but Logan pins him there, fist in the kid’s jersey, not letting him move and then Logan’s gloves fly off. Oh, fuck.
Austin shouts, skating over, trying to haul him back. It’s pointless. The refs are blowing their whistles, rushing in, trying to peel everyone off as bodies crash to the ice, but nobody’s listening.
Cole moves in, gets an arm around Logan’s chest, trying to pull him away. “Alright, man, that’s enough.”
Logan finally lets go, giving the guy one last shove before backing off.