Page 19 of Breakaway Goals

He’d seen Morgan go down after Bennett’s nasty check against the boards. Had seen him barely manage to stagger to his feet, and there’d been no thinking involved.

Hayes had felt zero surprise when Morgan had gone after Bennett. Supposed he should have felt some astonishment when he’d dragged Morgan out of the scrum and then taken his place.

It wasn’t his normal MO. Any other time, he’d have dragged Morgan out and done the Hayes Montgomery kind of job in a fight, which was keeping their skill players out of the thick of it.

Zach had sent him about a dozen increasingly hysterical texts during the game that he had yet to respond to. Culminating in: What the absolute fuck, Monty.

Hayes still didn’t know how to parse what had happened, and even though he wanted to pretend otherwise, part of that was because he hadn’t had a second to discuss it with Morgan yet.

How he felt about it shouldn’t be reliant on how Morgan felt about it, but for the first time in a week since he’d shown up at the tournament, Hayes felt like he’d really fucked up.

This was worse than underperforming and needing a pep talk between periods. Way worse than accidentally coming out to Morgan Reynolds when all Morgan wanted to do was gently chastise him for acting like Morgan was a god, not just another hockey player.

The complex emotions on Morgan’s face, emotions he normally kept under wraps, told at least part of the story and that was: Morgan was pretty fucking pissed.

There was no point in hiding.

He wasn’t going to be that hard to find if Morgan really wanted to find him and yell at him.

So, when Danny dragged him to the raucous celebratory dinner, he went.

Sat at the opposite end of the table from Morgan and tried not to think of how Morgan might be so pissed everything that had been so good between them this week was dead now.

Ashes in his mouth, dread filling every single pore as he waited for Morgan to finally corner him.

But Morgan kept not doing it. Hanging back. Hanging with Bram and Noah. Barely even meeting Hayes’ eyes when he looked over at him.

“Are you sure he’s more than just pissed?” Danny asked him when they returned to the hotel and Morgan’s group broke off to go to the bar for another drink, leaving just the two of them to wait for the elevator.

Hayes was pretty sure Danny wanted another drink too and was just standing here because he felt sorry for Hayes and how stupid he was, wanting to go to his room and sulk because he’d fucked it all up.

“No,” Hayes said, licking his lips, suddenly not sure.

“Buddy, you done fucked up, and that’s the thing about Mo—he doesn’t like fuckups,” Danny said sympathetically.

Hayes wanted to smack him in the face, but adding another fight to his total wasn’t going to solve this problem.

“Believe me, I know,” Hayes said.

Danny patted him on the shoulder. “You see that quote making the rounds, the one he gave to the media about you?”

Hayes shook his head. He’d kept his phone in his pocket at dinner. Didn’t want to look at it. Feel like he needed to answer the dozens of texts and messages he’d gotten about his fight and then his goal.

“You should look for it,” Danny said, patting him again as the elevator door opened. “I’m gonna go grab another beer. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Hayes said, even though he really fucking wasn’t. Danny nodded and Hayes got on the elevator, pushing his floor button with more force than entirely necessary.

He’d had the nerve to lecture Morgan Reynolds about keeping a tight leash on his temper and then he’d lost his own so spectacularly, so publicly, it was a fucking wonder that wasn’t all everyone was talking about. It was why he’d taken the shot in the third instead of passing it to Morgan.

He’d wanted to distract himself. The team. The media. The coaches. Morgan .

And it had worked really fucking well, except that Hayes was sure Morgan wasn’t fooled at all. He didn’t seem fooled.

Hayes got off on the seventh floor and was halfway down the hallway to his room when he realized there was a figure standing by the door.

His steps slowed when he realized who it was, but there was no way to turn around and avoid this. Morgan had seen him. That much was obvious from his steady gaze as Hayes approached.

“Thought you went for another drink,” Hayes said after he reached the point of no return. He pulled the key card out of his pocket and toyed with it, not opening the door. If he did, he’d have to know one way or another if Morgan was coming inside, and he didn’t want to face that answer.

“Took the stairs.” Morgan huffed under his breath.

And yeah, there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

What an absolute fucking lunatic. Playing a whole ass hockey game and then running up seven flights of stairs.

But Hayes shouldn’t call the kettle black right now.

Not when Morgan was staring at him like he’d analyzed every one of Hayes’ molecules and found them all wanting.

“Wanted to talk to you,” Morgan continued.

“Yeah, no shit,” Hayes said under his breath.

Morgan shot him a chiding look. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Amazed you didn’t unload that question hours ago,” was all Hayes could say.

“I wanted to, but everyone got in the fucking way, and then I thought maybe it might be better to ask when I wanted to wring your neck less,” Morgan admitted. He was actually almost smiling, the corner of his lips tilting up, and Hayes felt unmoored by it.

This wasn’t funny .

He’d admonished Morgan about fucking up their game plan, and then he’d gone in and done it with gusto. Morgan should be pissed, rightly .

“Do you?” Hayes asked.

“Do I what?”

“Want to wring my neck less?”

Morgan did laugh then, but it wasn’t as amused as Hayes thought it might be, considering he’d just almost smiled at the half-joke he’d made.

“Are we really going to do this out here in the hallway?” Morgan asked instead of answering the question.

“Maybe I want the possibility of an audience if you do wring my neck,” Hayes said.

Morgan rolled his eyes. “Come on,” he said.

It was not the “Come here,” that they’d both been using on each other up until this point, but it was enough of an echo, reminding Hayes of everything that had been so good, of all the pleasure that inevitably came after one of them said it.

He opened the door but didn’t make a move farther into the room. Like he was telling Morgan that whatever they had to say to each other in anger had to stay here, in this tiny ass hallway.

Of course, that didn’t really help that much, considering only a few days ago, Morgan had kissed him right here and pushed him back against this wall, his tongue in Hayes’ mouth.

“Better?” Hayes challenged.

“You don’t get the right to be an ass about this,” Morgan said, suddenly crowding him back against the wall, muscling him right into the same spot he’d done that first time. Arms on either side of Hayes’ head, leaning right in.

Hayes’ body reacted only because of the déjà vu. Or else that was what he told himself, mouth and thighs falling open.

Like it didn’t even matter if Morgan was pissed, Hayes wanted him anyway.

“Are you even fucking sorry?” Morgan demanded.

“I’m . . .” He was sorry. But not that sorry. “Bennett took you down, tried to fucking take you out, and I’m supposed to apologize for being pissed about that?”

“I had it under control,” Morgan said between clenched teeth. “I do fight sometimes—”

“Unlike me. I get it.”

“We had a game plan, Montgomery, and you just went charging off it, like you were a white knight riding to my fucking rescue.” Morgan’s jaw was hard, his gaze unrelenting as he stared at Hayes.

Despite his long reputation, Hayes had always thought Morgan’s hazel eyes were warm and unexpectedly soft. But they were not warm now. They were bone hard, pinning him like a steel beam.

“I wasn’t,” Hayes argued, even though that was exactly what he’d done. Morgan had gone down, and his heart had been in his throat, his stomach in his skates, and nothing could’ve stopped him in that moment. Nothing .

He’d have gone through the entire Canadian team to get to Morgan.

“Don’t lie to me.” Morgan pressed in harder. “You’re not here to be my fucking rescuer, you’re here to score goals, and sure you did—”

“I did,” Hayes interrupted, raising his chin. Morgan could be hard, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t meet him there. “I fucking did.”

For a long second, Morgan just stared at him, and then to Hayes’ shock—even to Morgan’s too, it seemed, considering the astonishment crossing over his face—he laughed.

Scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, you fucking did. You sure fucking did. Shut us all up. Made me crazy. I wanted to kill you and kiss you. I don’t even know, Monty. ”

Hayes met that melting gaze. “So do both,” he said.

Morgan laughed, unamused. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Why not?”

That was the point where Morgan pushed away from the wall, abruptly. “This is . . .”

There were so many ways he could end that sentence.

This is stupid.

This is foolish.

This is everything.

This is over.

Hayes couldn’t take the risk that he might say a thing he couldn’t bear to hear, so he grabbed Morgan’s wrist and reeled him in. Kissed him hard and fast. Intense.

They stumbled into the room, onto the bed. Hayes tripped over one of his shoes. Morgan’s hands wrenched his pants off, their mouths barely separating even for a second, even when Hayes pulled Morgan’s T-shirt off.

They fell together onto the mattress, Hayes crawling over Morgan’s body. He was shirtless, but still wearing jeans, no shoes, one sock half-off.

“God, I want you so bad,” Morgan groaned as Hayes pulled his jeans off. The sock lost its fight and went with them. “So fucking bad.” He panted, bare chest rising and falling. “Even when I want to wring your neck.”