Page 11 of Back in the Game (Pride in the Game #1)
His shower was so fast that the water wasn’t close to warm before he got out, drying and dressing in the stall.
He didn’t trust Mike not to fight him when he was only wearing a towel, which he would have found funny in a ridiculous way any other time, but he didn’t like the vibe currently smothering the building.
“What a fuck up,” said Mike. His voice was deceivingly calm. “I wanted to win that last game.”
“And Townsend. Can you believe that fucking fairy? He’s in the coach’s office with two guys this time. What a queer.”
Mike scoffed like he couldn’t fathom the idea.
It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been blowing up Twitter, Instagram and TikTok with these five games.
Sure, it wasn’t the normal steps to get to the NHL, but it wasn’t impossible.
If anything, Townsend was being sent to the CHL, where he would be drafted after a few games, but Mike couldn’t look past his ego to see how good of a player Townsend was.
“Are you fucking in love with Townsend or something?” Mike asked, stepping into Jett’s bubble for the second time today. “You wanna suck his dick?”
Jett saw Gates move to put himself between them. A few of the other guys looked ready to go as well, but Jett had it handled.
“No, not Townsend. His cousin is way hotter.”
Pain exploded on the left side of his face, and Jett abruptly went from standing to being acquainted with the locker room floor.
He was dazed, but already trying to get up.
His head spun as the guys around him came to his defence, shoving Mike up against the wall of cubbies, yelling and cursing at him in a barrage of sound.
“What the hell is going on in here?” said a voice over the racket and ringing in Jett’s ears.
He felt slightly concussed, but he was sure that was Harrison Killinger walking toward them.
Jett got one look at Mike’s face, and he knew what would happen before Mike shoved out of Gates’s hold and strode to Killinger, who hadn’t yet raised one hand to defend himself.
Jett saw red. He leapt to his feet and threw himself at Mike’s back, taking them both to the floor in a clumsy but effective tackle. Mike hollered and tried to buck him off, but Jett grabbed a fistful of his hair and smacked his face-off the cement floor—twice for good measure.
He wanted to hurt Mike more than he was mentally and physically able to. He needed to knock some goddamn sense into him. Who the hell looked at a man like Killinger and willingly took him on? Who the hell went after a guy with a messed-up leg?
Mike. Fucking, Mike.
Jett got in one more satisfying knock of Mike’s head against the floor before a hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him onto his feet.
He was panting and still in fight mode, but the hand clutching the back of his neck applied more pressure, and Jett felt himself go reluctantly limp in its hold.
“Get him cleaned up,” said Killinger from directly behind him. “I got this one. ”
Jett was suddenly too aware of whose hand was scruffing him like an unruly dog. The heat of Killinger’s fingers seeped into his clammy skin, practically burning as Jett’s face turned red.
Two guys helped Mike onto a bench, and then he was hidden from view when Gates approached, holding Jett’s bag out for Killinger to take.
Killinger said nothing as he applied more pressure, forcing Jett to take a couple of steps toward the exit of the locker room. And then a few more.
Jett gave in and allowed himself to be steered in whatever direction Killinger pushed him.
He was too tired and dazed to fight him.
Not that he would win even without having bounced his skull off the floor.
Killinger felt twice the size of him when they were standing this close, which Jett knew was ridiculous because he wasn’t that tall, but holy shit.
Killinger stopped when he reached his destination. He gave Jett a small push down and said, “Sit.”
Jett went to the floor and placed his back against the wall, stretching his legs out as he gave Killinger his best smile.
Killinger looked confused, and Jett panicked. Had he done something wrong? He was pretty sure he followed directions.
“Ah, I mean,” Killinger gestured toward the chair, which was close enough to Jett that he was leaning against it. “You could have at least used the chair.”
Was he having a stroke? Jett wondered if there was a bleed in his brain somewhere. God, he was so awkward and embarrassing.
“Right,” said Jett, his mind scrambling for a smooth recovery. “Floor is nice. Cold. Good for sore muscles.”
“Fraser, how hard was that punch?”
“Punch?” Jett had forgotten there was a punch. “Punch was nothing. Mike has bird bones. My real opponent was the cement floor. It kicked my ass.”
Killinger braced his face against his hand and let out the longest, most exhausted sigh ever. “I guess we’re taking a trip to Halifax tonight to get your head checked at the hospital. No way I’m letting anyone at the Windsor Hospital touch you.”
The possessiveness in that sentence made Jett want to do something childish, like kick his feet, even if that’s not what Killinger meant .
Then he realized that if he didn’t get his shit together, there was a big chance Killinger was about to drive him to the city and abandon him there when he was perfectly fine, and he didn’t want that. If Killinger drove away from him for a second time, he was going to kick his ass.
“You make me dumb,” said Jett, cringing at how weird that sounded.
Killinger’s response was a bark of laughter, so at least he wasn’t annoyed.
“I’m serious,” said Jett. “I get all tongue-tied and panicked around you. I don’t have a concussion; I just have stupidity.”
“Fucking Christ.” Killinger leaned his head back against the wall and muttered something.
If he was praying, Jett was offended.
Killinger turned his attention back to Jett, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked him up and down and—great, now Jett could feel his skin tingling.
“You’re really okay?”
“Do I not look okay?”
Killinger’s expression gave nothing away. “I mean, I’ve seen raccoons with blacker circles around their eyes.”
“Then I’m fine.”
The door Jett didn’t realize was next to him opened, and Townsend walked out. When he saw Jett sitting on the floor, he jumped and his eyes widened. “Uh…”
“Hey,” said Jett.
“What the fuck happened to you?”
“I had a disagreement with the floor,” said Jett. “We ended on bad terms.”
Townsend, who had the same colouring as his cousin but was a little too on the pretty side for Jett, blinked at him like Jett had spoken in a different language.
“Ignore him,” said Killinger. “Your buddy, Mike, threw the first punch. Fraser threw the last.”
“It was less punching and more dribbling his head against the floor like a basketball,” Jett admitted .
Townsend looked between them, trying to piece together the events of the last ten minutes and failing. “Are you saying that you beat the shit out of that self-hating homophobe?”
“Yeah,” said Jett.
Townsend’s grin was way more pleasant than Killinger’s mean smirks. “Did he lose any teeth?”
Jett shrugged. “Probably.”
“Great. Burgers and beers at Harrison’s place tonight. You’re officially my new favourite person.”
“My favourite part of this conversation is when you asked if you could invite people to my house, Arlo.” Killinger narrowed his eyes at his cousin, and even though Jett really wanted to hang out with them, he also didn’t want to die.
“Don’t get your fucking panties in a twist,” said Arlo. “I thought people celebrated when they got…news.”
Harrison held out his hand, and Arlo passed him the binder he’d been holding without question.
Jett watched while Killinger flipped through the pages, his eyes darting back and forth as he read the contract, because Jett knew it for what it was.
And he knew the team logo that was printed on the front.
Killinger closed the binder when he got to the end and took a deep breath. “You signed it.”
“Yeah,” said Townsend. “Three years with the Montreal Bastilles. Forty thousand as a signing bonus, and I’ll end the season a millionaire.”
“Fuck, kid. It’s not about the money.” Killinger cleared the space separating them in two steps and grabbed Townsend in a crushing hug. “You did it. I knew you could. I’m so fucking proud of you.”
Jett saw Townsend’s torn expression and had to turn away.
It wasn’t hard to piece together why Mini Killinger looked ready to cry.
The reason was the man who was currently squeezing him.
The older Killinger, who would be left behind in a few weeks, while Townsend moved forward to chase his dream, leaving the person he cared for behind.
“Fuck it, we’re celebrating,” said Killinger. He let go of Townsend and smacked the binder to his chest. “Let’s get this scrappy idiot into my car.”
Scrappy idiot? Jett frowned at Killinger, who smirked right back .
“Harrison—”
“Tomorrow, Arlo,” said Killinger. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Jett grabbed the chair and leveraged himself into a standing position, but Killinger wrapped a hand around his bicep and effortlessly pulled him up, placing him on his feet like he didn’t weigh 240 pounds.
Holy shit, thank fuck for his baggy jersey because he was instantly at half-mast from that one touch alone. He didn’t know if he could survive the night without embarrassing himself if Killinger was this close all the time.
Jett didn’t care. Killinger was permitting him to be on his property and in his presence. Embarrassing himself was the least of his worries, not when this was something he’d wanted to do since…forever.
Still, if he made it until morning without drunkenly confessing his love to Harrison Killinger and proposing marriage, he would walk away with the win.