Page 9 of For Pucking Real (The Seattle Vipers #4)

SEVEN

TOBIAS

Then—Eight Years Ago

I t's late. Practice ran long again, but I don't care.

I'd do suicides all night if it meant walking beside Devan afterward, both of us sweaty, laughing, jerseys slung over our shoulders like flags of some secret country only we could claim.

The cool night air feels good against my overheated skin after hours on the ice.

We cut through the back trail, the one that runs behind the east quad and past the old grove where the floodlights never quite reach.

There's a cool bite in the air, just enough to make the steam rise from our skin like smoke signals into the darkness.

The moonlight catches on the dew-slick grass, turning everything silver.

Devan bumps my shoulder with his, that casual contact sending electricity through me. "You gonna make fun of me for missing that last shot?" His smile is crooked, expectant.

I grin, trying to keep my voice steady. "Nah, the puck did that all on its own when it ricocheted off the post and nearly took out Coach."

He lets out a low laugh, that soft rumble I feel in my chest more than hear. God, that sound. It unspools something inside me every time, like a ribbon unfurling beneath my ribs.

"Harsh," he says, mock-hurt, pressing a hand to his chest. "And here I thought we were friends."

"You'll live. You always do." I roll my eyes but can't help the fondness that seeps into my voice. "Your ego's too big to be wounded by one missed shot anyway."

We walk in silence for a few beats, our strides syncing naturally, our shoulders brushing occasionally.

The rhythm of our footfalls matches the thumping of my heart.

I can't help sneaking glances at him, his locs, recently cut and just starting to grow out are damp and spiky, a few tendrils sticking to the side of his face like brushstrokes.

His hoodie clings to the line of his back, revealing the strength there, and I want nothing more than to tug him into the shadows and kiss the hell out of him until neither of us remembers where we are.

We've never hidden our sexuality on campus, but we are not out to our teammates.

Not because we're afraid per se, but because we don't want to cause strife of any kind.

Our chances to get drafted teeter on our ability to perform and keep our reputation pristine, like walking a tightrope where one wrong step could send everything crashing down.

Well, that's what our coach preaches to us daily, him and our newly acquired agents who speak about "marketability" and "image management" in hushed tones during meetings.

It's an unspoken rule in the locker room, keep your personal life personal, focus on the game, don't rock the boat.

We've seen what happens to players who become distractions.

They get passed over in drafts, traded to obscurity, or quietly filtered out of the system altogether.

Dev and I both have too much riding on this, families depending on us, futures we've sacrificed everything for since we were kids barely able to skate without falling.

So we carve out these moments instead. These stolen glances, these ‘accidental’ touches, these late-night walks where we can pretend, just for a little while, that the world isn't watching our every move and waiting for us to slip up.

It's not fair, but nothing about this industry ever promised fairness.

Just opportunity, if you're willing to play by the rules, written and unwritten.

So, I wait.

Because it's always me waiting. Always me holding my breath, counting seconds, wondering if tonight will be the night something changes.

"Dev," I say, my voice quieter now, almost swallowed by the night around us, "what are we doing?"

He stiffens. It's subtle, most people wouldn't notice. I, unfortunately, don't miss a thing. I know him like I know the lines of the rink, like I know every called play before it's made, like I know the exact pressure needed on a stick to send a puck flying.

"Walking back from practice," he says, too light, too casual. His voice has that forced ease that means he's already building walls.

"Don't do that." I stop walking, my feet rooted to the path, and he takes two more steps before turning to face me. The distance between us feels symbolic.

His eyes meet mine, dark and guarded in the dim light. "Don't do what?"

"Pretend this isn't something." My voice is stronger now, the words carrying through the quiet night. "Pretend we're just teammates. Just friends."

He looks away, jaw tight, that muscle ticking in his cheek the way it does when he's fighting something inside himself. "It is something."

"Then why do I feel like I'm the only one who wants it to be real?" The question hangs between us, heavy as a stone. "Why am I the only one willing to say it out loud?"

We're standing under the trees now, the branches arching above us like a cathedral of shadows and whispers. There's no one around. Just us, the dark, and this thing between us that feels too big to hold in anymore, too powerful to keep pretending it doesn't exist.

He runs a hand over his face, fingers pressing into his temples like he's trying to hold himself together. "You know why."

"Because of hockey?" I bite, frustration slipping through the cracks in my composure. "Because of the league? Come on, Dev. We're not even drafted yet. We're still here. Still us. We could have this, have something real, before all that even matters."

"And what happens when we're not?" His voice rises slightly, edged with something like panic. "When cameras are on us and scouts are in the stands? When our faces are on posters and our names are in headlines? You think either of us would get a fair shot?"

My heart thuds painfully against my ribs. "So that's what I am? A problem for future-you? Something to enjoy now but discard when it gets inconvenient?"

"No." His voice drops, low and cracked, like something's breaking inside him too. "You're the only thing that feels good right now. But I can't lose hockey. I can't."

"You think I'd let you?" I step toward him, closing the distance he created. "You think I don't get what this costs? I'm right here, Dev. I've been right here, wanting the same dreams, facing the same fears. I'm not asking you to choose. I'm asking you to believe we could have both."

Then, suddenly, he grabs me, fast and hard, backing me into the nearest tree with a force that knocks the breath from my lungs.

The bark is rough against my spine, digging through my hoodie, but I barely register it.

Because Devan's mouth is on mine, fierce and unyielding.

His kiss isn't gentle; it's desperate, raw, and filled with a hunger that's been suppressed for too long.

Teeth clash and tongues tangle, the heat between us becoming unbearable.

His hands are everywhere, gripping my hips with a possessiveness that tells me he's afraid to let go, afraid I might vanish if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

His body presses against mine, every hard line of him fitting perfectly against me, a solid and grounding presence that's everything.

I kiss him back with equal fervor, my fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer until there's no space left between us.

I taste the salt of his skin, the lingering traces of regret, and the promise of something more.

His breath shudders as he presses our foreheads together, both of us breathing raggedly into the small space between our lips.

"I want this," he says, his voice wrecked and barely more than a rasp, each word scraping against the raw edge of his emotions.

"God, I want you. More than I should." His eyes, dark and intense, bore into mine, revealing a vulnerability that's both heartbreaking and exhilarating.

The air around us is charged with desire, the weight of our unspoken feelings finally breaking through the surface.

"Then choose me," I whisper against his mouth. "Choose us. We'll figure out the rest."

He doesn't answer.

Instead, he steps back. The cold rush of air hits where his body had been, leaving me bereft and suddenly chilled to the bone.

His eyes are too bright in the darkness, gleaming with something that might be tears or might just be moonlight. "I can't lose hockey. Neither of us can. You especially. I don't want us to be looked at negatively in any way. I don't want to be the reason you don't get what you deserve."

Then he turns and walks away.

Just like that.

I'm left alone under the trees, breathless and aching, wondering how it can hurt this much when we never even had a chance to begin with.

My lips still burn from his kiss, a phantom touch that feels more like goodbye than hello.

I slide down the trunk until I'm sitting on the damp ground, head in my hands, trying to piece together how to move forward when the one thing I want is walking away.

I walk back to our dorm room, the cool night air nipping at my heels, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and heartache.

The campus is quiet, most students already tucked away for the night, but my thoughts are loud, echoing in the emptiness around me.

I've made my decision. I'll take whatever Devan can give me, even if it's just stolen moments and hidden touches.

It's not enough, not nearly, but the thought of losing him entirely is unbearable.

The dorm hallway is dimly lit, the hum of late-night studying and hushed conversations seeping through closed doors.

I reach our room, pausing with my hand on the doorknob.

I can hear him moving around inside, the rustle of sheets, the creak of the bed.

My heart pounds in my chest, a drumbeat of anticipation and dread.

I take a deep breath and push the door open.

Devan is sitting up in his bed, the sheets pooled around his waist, his chest bare.

His eyes meet mine, and I see the apology there, the question lingering in their depths.

But I don't want to talk. Talking leads to thinking, and thinking leads to doubt, and doubt leads to pain.

I just want to feel. I want to lose myself in him, in us, in the only way that makes sense right now.

I don't say a word, just start stripping out of my clothes.

My cap hits the floor, followed by my hoodie, and t-shirt.

I toe off my shoes, kick away my jeans. Devan watches me, his eyes growing darker, his breath coming faster.

He knows this dance, knows the rhythm of our bodies coming together, the language of our skin and sighs.

When I'm naked, I walk over to his bed, the cool air raising goosebumps on my flesh.

He shifts, making room for me, but I don't slide in beside him.

Instead, I blanket his body with mine, my knees on either side of his hips, my hands braced on the pillow by his head.

I can feel his heart beating against my chest, the rise and fall of his breath matching my own.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice low and remorseful. I don't want his apology. I don't want words that can be taken back, promises that can be broken. I just want him.

I hush him with my mouth, pressing my lips to his, swallowing his words, his breath, his regrets. He tastes like mint and sorrow, his lips soft and yielding beneath mine. His hands come up to grip my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh like he's afraid I might disappear.

I reach for the lube we keep stashed in his nightstand, the bottle cool and familiar in my hand. I pour some into my palm, warming it between my fingers before wrapping my hand around both of our dicks. He's hard, so hard, his cock throbbing against mine as I stroke us together.

He moans into my mouth, his hips bucking up to meet my touch.

I swallow his sounds, my tongue tangling with his, my breath mingling with his gasps.

His hands roam my body, tracing the lines of my muscles, the curves of my spine, the swell of my ass.

He knows my body as well as his own, knows how to touch me, how to make me burn.

I stroke us faster, our dicks sliding together in my slick grip. Pleasure coils in my gut, heat pooling in my groin. His fingers find their way between my cheeks, pressing against my entrance, making me gasp. I break our kiss, burying my face in his neck, my breath hot and ragged against his skin.

"Toby," he whispers, his voice hoarse with need. "Fuck, Toby."

I can feel his orgasm building, his cock pulsing in my hand, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. I'm close too, so close, the pleasure cresting like a wave, ready to crash over me.

"Cum with me," I murmur against his throat, my voice barely more than a groan. "Cum with me, Dev."

With a cry that's half my name, half a plea, he cums, his release hot and thick between us. The sight of him, the sound of him, the feel of him pulsing in my hand sends me over the edge. I cum with a groan, my body shuddering, my cock throbbing as I spill onto his stomach, mixing with his release.

We lie there for a moment, our breaths ragged, our hearts pounding, our bodies slick with sweat and come. Then Devan takes my mouth in a heated, passionate kiss, his tongue sliding against mine, his hands framing my face like I'm something precious, something cherished.

We part with a sigh, our foreheads pressed together, our eyes locked. There's so much unsaid between us, so many words trapped behind our lips, our fears, our doubts. For now, this is enough. For now, it's this and only this.

I roll off him, collapsing onto the bed beside him.

He grabs my discarded shirt from the floor, cleaning us up before tossing it aside.

Then he pulls me into his arms, his body curving around mine, his chin resting on my shoulder.

His heart beats against my back, strong and steady, a comforting rhythm that lulls me into a sense of peace.

Even as I lie there, wrapped in his warmth, his scent, and what I feel is love, I know this is temporary. This stolen moment, this hidden oasis, it won't last. The real world is waiting outside our door, ready to intrude, ready to tear us apart.

I push the thought away, burying it deep, refusing to let it take root. Not now. Not tonight. Tonight, I just want to be here, with him, in this bed, in this moment. Even if I already feel it’s slipping through my fingers.