Page 24 of For Pucking Real (The Seattle Vipers #4)

EIGHTEEN

TOBIAS

Then—Eight Years Ago

T hree days since I got back from spring break.

Three days since I stood in my childhood driveway, backpack slung over one shoulder, while my father slammed the front door so hard the windows rattled and the foundation seemed to shift.

Three days since he told me I was disgusting, spitting the word like poison he couldn't wait to purge from his mouth.

Three days since he said I wasn't welcome in his house, his family, or even his memory.

Like he could erase twenty-one years of raising me with a single declaration.

Yet here I am, grinning across a cracked vinyl diner table with Devan, acting like I'm not hollowed out inside, like my insides haven't been scraped raw and left to bleed.

I stir my vanilla milkshake with my straw, watching the thick cream swirl as Devan demolishes a double cheeseburger like it personally insulted him.

There's a smear of ketchup on the corner of his mouth, bright red against his dark skin, and I don't tell him.

He wouldn't care anyway, not until he sees it mid-selfie and curses me out for letting him look like a clown in the twenty-seven Instagram stories he'll post tonight.

"You're quiet tonight," he says through a mouthful of beef and cheese, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies my face. "That's suspicious."

I force a smirk, the expression feeling foreign on my face. "Just trying to preserve the oxygen in this booth, considering how fast you're inhaling your food. The plants in here are struggling to keep up."

He grins, chewing noisily and deliberately obnoxious. "Jealous I got here first."

"Of the cow? Yeah, totally," I say, rolling my eyes and flicking a stray fry at him. "Always wanted to be ground up and smothered in special sauce."

He laughs, that big, belly-deep laugh that takes up space and makes everyone within a ten-foot radius fall a little in love with him. Including me. Always me. That laugh has been the soundtrack to the best parts of my life for years now. A constant I've come to depend on more than I should.

Across from us, two of our teammates, Ryan and Luca are arguing about whether Devan's skating style is flamboyant or just stupid fast. Devan, predictably, takes it as a compliment either way, flexing his biceps dramatically and throwing in a wink.

He was a trained figure skater before he took up the hockey stick, something he never hides despite the occasional ribbing.

I've never seen anything like him on hockey skates, this large defenseman with the grace of an Olympic male soloist, all power and precision wrapped in a package that shouldn't work but somehow defies physics.

I'm half-listening, nodding at the right moments, but my attention keeps drifting back to him.

To the way his leg brushes mine under the table, warm and solid.

To the way he absentmindedly leans into my space when he talks, like gravity just pulls him toward me, his shoulder pressing against mine.

To the way we finish each other's sentences without even meaning to, our thoughts running parallel tracks that somehow always converge at the same station.

Ryan catches us doing it again, something about our new training schedule and groans, throwing his napkin at us. "Jesus, you two are like an old married couple. It's disgusting."

Devan lifts a brow and winks at me, his smile slow and deliberate. "Old? Maybe. Married? Not yet."

Luca snorts soda out of his nose, spraying the table with fizzy droplets, Ryan starts fake-gagging with theatrical heaves, and I nearly choke on my fries, the salt burning the back of my throat.

I play it off with a laugh, but the comment sits heavy in my chest, a weight I can't dislodge. Not because it's embarrassing, but because part of me wishes it was true. Wishes the word ‘yet’ meant something beyond the casual joke, beyond the comfortable flirtation we've mastered as our cover.

I haven't told Devan what happened with my dad.

Haven't told him about the suffocating silence that fell when I said the words out loud, or the way my father's face transformed into something unrecognizable.

The features I'd known my entire life rearranging into a stranger's mask of disgust. I'd rehearsed my coming out for weeks, figured maybe it would suck, but at least it would be honest. I didn't expect him to beat me to it and question my friendship with Devan.

All but telling me it was unnatural and wasn't like a friendship he's ever witnessed, his voice dripping with insinuation.

I was caught off guard, blindsided by his perception.

All my carefully planned words fell on deaf ears.

Instead, it became the final blow in a relationship already held together by control and expectations, by fear and conditional love.

I couldn't say that to Devan. He already suspects my father doesn’t like him because he is a closeted racist, muttering comments under his breath whenever Devan comes by. No. This needs to be something I keep to myself, another secret to add to the collection I'm building between us.

I can't ruin our night, not when he is laughing like this, eyes crinkled at the corners, dimples flashing.

Not when he is talking about how his agent thinks he'll go in the second round, maybe first if his stats hold, his future bright and unmarred by family rejection.

Not when he's the one thing keeping me sane right now, my anchor in a storm I never saw coming.

So I swallow it down. Pack it tight behind my ribs where it burns like acid. I let Devan shoulder bump me when we leave the diner, his arm lingering against mine, and I laugh when Ryan yells something crude out the window about us getting a room.

Outside, the night air is cool against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms. Devan pulls his hoodie over his head, the fabric stretching across his broad shoulders, and bumps my shoulder again, quieter this time, more intentional.

"You okay, really?" he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear it, his eyes searching mine with a concern that makes me swallow past the lump forming in my throat.

I hesitate, the truth hovering on my tongue. Then nod, swallowing it back. "Yeah. Just tired. Classes, training, life stuff. You know how it gets."

"Fair," he says, letting it go too easily, which tells me he knows I'm lying. "We're gonna make it, though. Whatever team takes you, you better get ready for your trash talk. You're like a menace in the locker room. I've seen grown men cry."

I smile, genuine this time despite everything. "Yeah, well, they'll be lucky to have you, too. Just hope we land on the same team." The thought of being separated from him makes my stomach clench painfully.

Devan stops walking. Turns to face me, all trace of joking gone, his expression serious now, almost fierce. "No matter what happens, you know I got you, right? Draft, teams, whatever. We figure it out."

His voice is low. Intentional. Like he's making a vow.

I blink, throat tight, the weight of unshed tears burning behind my eyes. "Yeah. I know."

He leans in and presses his forehead to mine. Just for a second. Just long enough to make the whole world blur around the edges, narrowing down to the point where we connect, his breath warm against my face.

"I mean it, Toby," he whispers, his fingers brushing against mine, a ghost of a touch. "Always."

In that moment, I believe him. I cling to every word like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.

Even with my heart already bruised and aching. Even with the future stretching out like a cliff edge I can't see past. Even with my father's rejection ringing in my ears like a death knell, I still believe him.

Because right now, in the silence between our breaths, in this fragile space we've carved out for ourselves, it feels like Devan is mine.

That's enough.