Page 38

THIRTY-SIX

NIK

Three Weeks Later

Natalie puts down her hand on the dining table we’ve converted into a board-games table, and I have to throw my hand away.

“You’re absolutely cheating,” I argue. “There’s no way you’re that good.”

She laughs at me, the evil woman.

“Time to eat. Clean this up,” she says and gestures at the mess of cards and domino chips on the table. I sigh, but do as she says.

In all honesty, I don’t strictly need to have an in-home nurse anymore. Well, in my opinion, I never did. But Charlie was pissed at me after my three-day stint in the hospital so I didn’t dare argue with him.

Especially when he told me if I didn’t accept the nurse the hospital was going to send, that he’d fly his mom down here so she’d take care of me.

My phone buzzes and I know it’s Charlie without looking, so I quickly finish clearing the table and reach for it.

Charlie

Have you eaten?

God, he’s such a mother hen. I kind of love it, but I’m never telling him that. I write back that Natalie and I are about to eat and hope that gives him peace of mind so he can focus on what’s important.

The team’s playing the first game of the playoffs tonight, and I hate that I’m not there with the passion of a thousand suns.

We’re going against LA, so I’m hoping the team can get it done in four games and that way I don’t miss more games than necessary.

Because it’s official.

After endless hours at home, I’m finally going to be allowed back on the ice by the first game of the second round of the playoffs.

I felt ready this week, but my doctors disagreed. I tried to argue, but then they started reminding me of all the possible lasting effects a second concussion so soon could have on me and I caved.

Charlie looked pleased with me, which I guess helped.

The meal is great, like every single one has been since Charlie convinced Jules to share his chef with me—not that it took much convincing, but yeah.

I did get my memory of the day before the game back, but not of the final minutes or of the moments before the injury.

And I’m pretty sure some of the time at the hospital is gone too because I keep dreaming about Charlie telling me he loves me. His voice is crystal clear while I’m sleeping, but when I wake up, it’s like I imagined it.

I can’t help but want it to be true, even though I know it’s far-fetched.

I’m kind of high maintenance, and I snore, and I’m messy.

I also keep avoiding the topic of retirement and redirecting his attention to something else when he gets even a little bit close to the topic, so I wouldn’t blame him if he’s getting tired of my avoidance tactics.

I’ve always been great at denial—one of my many talents—but I can’t help but fear that if I’m faced with a decision, I’m going to cave.

If he forces me to talk about it, I will.

But he doesn’t.

He lets me get away with everything, the infuriating man.

Only time he’s ever been slightly forceful was when he asked if he could tell Max I was alive after the infamous puck hit.

Oh, and when he made Michelle and Kelly sleep over while he went on a three-day roadie less than a week after I was in the hospital.

Natalie was here—and bless her, she didn’t get offended at all—and the damn chef comes every second day to fill the house with delicious smells, but he begged our neighbors to stay with me so I’d have more pairs of eyes watching out for any of my symptoms.

They did stay, and we finally told them about us.

And . . . I love them.

They’re funny, gorgeous, and make great commentators while watching TV.

Those few days I couldn’t watch any screens, so they told me everything that happened in the Real Housewives of who-knows-where and that way I could participate in their nightly ritual of watching rich ladies be awful to one another.

It turned out having them over was a saving grace because when I got grumpy about getting a headache or having to avoid my phone, they’d calm me down. If Natalie couldn’t force me to do something, they did—and they used the terrible weapon of emotional manipulation. I was impressed.

My mood improved soon after, not only because Charlie came back for a week, though hey, that helped, but because I started feeling like myself again, and I was permitted one hour of screen time a day.

I used that hour well.

Research about gay sex can take you down many roads, let me tell you, but on one of the few helpful websites I found, I discovered the term edging. Or rediscovered maybe, since it sounded familiar. I read all I could about it, and when I was finally able to at least do hand stuff with Charlie, you can bet I put my new knowledge to good use.

It wasn’t that different from what I’d been doing before, but this time I was more focused and Charlie was even more desperate.

I loved it.

But what’s driving me insane now, after dinner, when I’m watching my team play an unworthy opponent and not decimating those assholes...

I feel like myself, but I can’t go back to being myself because my brain is so fucking fragile.

I write about a million things that need to improve so Timmy—who’s not honoring his nickname tonight—can read them during the intermission, and I send them to Laney and Charlie as well for good measure so they can get their heads out of their asses.

I’m beyond elated when my phone rings three minutes after the first intermission starts. It’s Charlie.

“Sweetheart,” I shout. “Thank?—”

“Shut up,” he snaps at me angrily. “Stop sending us instructions. We know what the fuck we’re doing. And go to sleep, we’ve got this.”

Then he hangs up.

All I can do is pout, then I decide that no, that’s not all I can do .

So I snap a selfie and send it to the team’s group chat.

Santa: Charlie’s being mean. Any of you want to talk?

I know it’s stupid. It’s insane to even be texting them while they’re in the fucking playoffs, but I can’t help it. I feel left out.

I get a bunch of laughing emojis in response and more than a few suggestions on how to fornicate with myself.

I send them a bunch of the emojis of the hand flipping them off.

They all suck.

But they don’t suck.

In fact, I suspect they did read my suggestions because Timmy starts fucking covering Charlie’s blind side and helping move the team up the ice.

They beat LA that night, and two nights later as well.

The next two games are in Vegas so I can actually go see them and be right there to tell them shit during the intermissions.

Gab offers me a seat in her box but I refuse—politely—and choose to sit on the bench instead. Far back next to Jeff, I watch the action with new eyes.

The fans all cheer for me when the jumbotron shows my pretty face, and I reluctantly wave and even manage to not scowl at them, but I’m thankful when the attention is on someone else .

It’s too easy , I think, when we win the fourth and final game of the first round with a shutout.

Bear gets all the cheers and claps he can handle—as he should—and Jules, the top scorer as always, also gets his flowers.

The next day Charlie and I are at my neurologist’s office, talking about the results of the scan he just took and he gives me the good news. As predicted, I’m going to be able to play with the team for the rest of the playoffs as long as I don’t take a single hit to the head. It’s risky, I know, but I also know I can be careful if I need to, no matter how much Charlie grumbles about it.

As soon as we arrive home, though, I get some bad news.

“We are not fucking during the playoffs, Nikolay, don’t be ridiculous.”

“But you’re always saying how ridiculous I am,” I argue, and okay, it sounds like a whine but come on . “It’s been a month!” I cry. “Or more. I don’t even remember what your dick feels like inside me.”

His eyes heat immediately, and I know if I just push the right buttons...

“The doctor gave me the all clear,” I cajole.

He sputters. “Y-you asked the doctor about having anal sex?”

“No. Just about sex in general. I didn’t specify.”

“Whatever. You’re not getting this in your ass”—he points at his crotch—“until the season is over. If you miss the way my dick feels inside you so damn much then you can suck it.”

He says it like it’s a bad thing... but I just get on my knees and rock his damn world.

Then it’s one week of light training for me, of no talking about the end goal because most of these guys are superstitious as fuck, and of trying to ignore the way Charlie dissects every single expression on my face.

We knew it would be that way, but we still have to wait until the end of game seven to be sure we’re going up against Denver in the second round, and then we have a four-hour meeting in the morning to talk about strategy.

It’s going well, but we don’t have enough information on the third line, and that’s frustrating. I’m still fully immersed in it when the door bangs open and Silas, looking frazzled and... scared, comes in.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt,” he tells Laney, then looks around without waiting for our head coach to say anything back. “I need to talk to Charlie and Santa please.”

A murmur of uneasiness goes around, but I stand and walk out with Charlie behind me. Silas walks quickly to his office—fast enough that I have to quicken my steps even though my stride is longer.

And I understand his worry when he thrusts his tablet at us.

The picture clearly came from a surveillance camera, and from the setting it’s obvious that it’s the elevator camera at the Winner resort .

Our hands are interlaced and Charlie’s leaning up to whisper something in my ear. I’m sad to say that I can’t remember what he told me right then, but I do remember it was right after Sterling’s concert.

It’s intimate, and private. And the head of Pirates PR has it... This can’t be good.

“Where did you get this?” Charlie asks, his voice shaking.

I reach over his shoulders and squeeze his arms while I drag him until he’s pressed against me. The jig is up, and now...

Fuck, is this what Jules felt when the tabloids outed him?

No, it must’ve been way worse for him.

He’d been hiding all his life and had been fearing this very thing happening to him for years.

I honestly never thought anyone would care enough to take pictures like these of me, though.

People from all over the world know Jules’s name. Even before. He was married to one of the most famous rock stars in the world and he was already a household name. I’m just... Santa.

Not a trophy or medal to my name.

Why do people care?

Why do people suck?

“I have a contact at the office of the parent company who owns this online tabloid. They’re putting the story out tonight. Right before the game starts. ”

“You’ve been all over the news recently,” Charlie murmurs. “People know you’re playing again tonight.”

“Whatever,” I mumble.

“Not whatever,” Silas screeches. “You went viral, Santa. That’s nothing to scoff at.”

I resist the urge to scoff at him just to make a point. It’s not worth it and he’s just trying to help... hopefully. I’d really hate to find out he has an issue with same-sex couples. He’s employed by the wrong people if he does.

“So what now?” I ask.

The panic is there, of course it is. Worries about tonight’s game, about the team, about Gab... All of them flit through my mind.

But I’m not a powerful man.

Not when it comes to anything other than hockey.

So yeah, I’m gonna defer to the person in the room who’s educated in dealing with this sort of bullshit.

“It’s coming out; I can’t stop it.”

“Yes, I know,” I tell him slowly. “I did not expect you to,” I clarify. “I mean, what are we gonna do about it?”

“Okay,” he says, kinda loudly. His eyes are so wide I’m a little scared he’s gonna injure himself, and he does jump a little in place, but then seems to settle. “You need to tell Gab. She’s the one everyone’s gonna look at to respond first.”

I was afraid he was going to say that.

“It’s my job to tell you you should absolutely tell her because she’s your employer. So that’s what I suggest. ”

“What else?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“Then we’re gonna make a plan on what you’re going to say. I would recommend you two go to the press conference after—they’re gonna ask for you no question—but I know you won’t want to do that, so?—”

“I will do it,” I interrupt.

He seems to short-circuit then, and Charlie steps out of my arms to round on me.

“No.” There’s no room for argument in his eyes, but I know better.

“Yes, I am. I am not going to let them do this to us and then not respond,” I argue.

That takes all the wind out of Charlie’s sails.

“You do not have to go with me if you do not want to,” I whisper and step closer, my voice thick with emotion. “If everyone is suddenly interested in me because of my injury then this is my problem and?—”

“Just shut up,” he snaps at me. “I’m doing it with you,” he says like it’s final.

“Okay.” Silas’s voice reminds me he’s in the room. “You have five hours until you need to be here to get ready for warmups, so I suggest you go home, talk about it, then come back and we can put a plan together with Gab.”

I nod and Charlie thanks Silas, then we walk out of there and back to the meeting room where everyone is.

“We’re gonna have to tell the team too,” Charlie mumbles .

“I know,” I whisper back. And that’s what scares me the most.

We tell Laney there’s something urgent we have to deal with, and he must be able to see the mess of emotions on our faces because he lets us go without argument.

The silence on our way home means I get time to think.

Rationally, logically, and make a list.

I need to check in with Charlie, make sure he’s not more upset than me by the world finding out he’s not straight.

I’m honestly fine with it, except I do wish I had the chance to tell my brother myself. I have no idea what he’ll think about it. Answering his texts hasn’t clued me in to his values as an adult for fuck’s sake.

But that’s a problem for another day.

I have to ask Charlie if he’s okay with the world finding out we’re together, or if he wants to deny it.

Just thinking it hurts, but I have to ask.

So those are the first things I ask when we step through the front door.

He doesn’t answer straight away, but looks deeply into my eyes and thinks about it. I appreciate that he does it, which means he’s really listening to me and ready to get to work.

“I don’t care about the queer thing. Jules, Bear, and Benny have gone through it before and shut up the haters. And seriously, Nikolay?” He explodes then. “You’re telling me you wanna keep hiding when there’s an out? When we can finally stop lying to our team? Now you wanna back out?”

“What?” I ask, voice high-pitched. “No, I don’t want to back out. It would be a lie. I don’t want to break up with you.” My words come out faster than I can think about them.

“Then what the fuck?” he explodes.

“I don’t know,” I shout back. “I’m just trying to give you all your options and?—”

“Don’t fucking tell me about my options, Nik. God, you infuriating man.”

“I don’t know what you want from me,” I tell him weakly.

“I want you .” He keeps screaming and points at me. “Just you. Why can’t you just fucking get that through your thick fucking skull?”

“I don’t know,” I scream back. “I don’t know why you want me.” The truth slips out without my permission and he looks at me with so much pity I can’t stand it. “Don’t,” I warn and step back.

“If you take another step I swear to God, Nik, I’m gonna be so mad.”

As far as threats go, it’s not the best one, but it does the trick.

“I don’t want you to be mad at me. But it’s all I seem to do.” And the evidence is right in front of him.

He scoffs, though. Loudly.

“No you don’t. You make me laugh more than anyone and you make me fucking happy. Except when you’re being an asshole and making me feel like you’re not really as in this relationship as I am.”

“I don’t want to make you feel like that.” My words sound like pleas, like I’m begging him to believe me. “Never. I am in this. We’re boyfriends, right? I said so. You said so. I haven’t been anyone’s boyfriend in more than a decade. And I only want to be your boyfriend.”

“Well good, because I want that too.”

His words are nice but his tone is still angry. It makes me pause and think back to everything he’s said.

“So . . . we’re not denying anything,” I surmise.

“No we’re not, Santa Claus ,” he deadpans.

Damn, he only calls me that when he’s angry.

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Now we have to figure out how to tell Gab.”

“I actually have an idea for that,” I say brightly, feeling like this might remind him that he actually likes me.

“What now?” he grumbles and spins on his heels to walk toward the kitchen.

I start telling him as he walks.

“So, only one of us has to tell her, really. So, I say...” I pause to build tension when he opens the fridge and gets one of his precious Cokes out. He opens it, takes a sip, and this is my moment. “Whoever lasts longer in a blow-job competition gets to stay out of her office.”

He spits Coke all over the counter and starts to cough violently, some even comes out of his nose .

“Ew,” I can’t help but say with a cringe.

“You’re such an asshole,” he says, defeated.

“But I’m your asshole.”

He stops moving, then after a long moment he turns slowly in my direction.

“All right, then.” He reaches to the back of his neck and pulls his T-shirt off. I get distracted by his long, lean, defined torso until he snaps his fingers in front of my face. “On your knees, Nik. Do your best.” He undoes the button of his jeans and slowly drags the zipper down.

Not one to back out of a challenge, I lower myself to my knees and look up at his pretty face.

“You’re not allowed to touch my head, and neither will I,” I tell him seriously.

“That’s fine,” he mumbles as he takes his phone out of the left front pocket and shows me the timer app. He hands it over. “You start that whenever you’re ready, and you’re in charge of stopping it.”

“Got it,” I say, locked in and reaching into his briefs to get his dick out. All this time I’ve been focused on making his pleasure last as long as it possibly can, and now I’m supposed to get him there faster than ever?

I’m an idiot, but oh well. A bet’s a bet.