Page 15 of Him

On the screen, the blonde was moaning like crazy. Spit-roasted and loving it. Canning went quiet for a while. I lay there, trying to keep my breathing even. But I couldn’t resist sneaking a peek at his crotch a minute later. And then my breath hitched, because holy shit, he was hard, a long, thick erection straining beneath his athletic shorts. I was sporting the same visible boner, and I know he saw it. He probably thought it was the porn. Hell, that was the only reasonhewas turned on.

Not me, though. My dick throbbed forhim.

Beside me, he swallowed roughly. “Interesting pick, Wesley. Considering the stakes. I’m not gonna force you to blow me.” He grinned. “I’d rather bask in the glory of knowing you finally wrote a check you couldn’t cash.” Then he rolled his gorgeous eyes at me, and it only made my skin burn hotter.

“What,” I said, hoping he couldn’t hear the rasp of lust in my voice, “You think I’m too chicken-shit to blow you?”

He turned his chin to meet my eyes…

“Fuck yeah!”

Our team captain’s shout jerks me out of my trip downmemory lane. The whole arena is in an uproar, fans screaming as the scoreboard lights up and the screens mounted all over the place flash the word GOAL! in huge yellow letters.

My stomach drops like a sack of bricks when I realize who scored.

Yale.

Fucking hell. Yale scored, and I’d been too distracted to see it. It’s 2-1 now, with a minute and a half to go.

“I spaced out,” I tell Cassel. “What just happened?”

“One of the Rainier D-men took the stupidest penalty I’ve ever seen.” He shakes his head in amazement. “Idiot just handed Yale the win.”

No, they haven’t won yet. There’s still time for Rainier to regroup. Still time, damn it.

“Your boy didn’t stand a chance on that power play,” Cassel adds.

My gut twists harder. Say what you will about Yale, but they lead the NCAA in capitalizing on power plays. Every time we played them this season, Coach uttered one grim sentence before we left the locker room—“You wind up in the sin bin against Yale, you lose.”

I pray those words aren’t prophetic, that Rainier can come back from this, but my prayers go unanswered.

The final buzzer blares through TD Garden.

And Rainier loses.

SIX

JAMIE

We lost.

We fucking lost.

I’m still dazed as I trudge down the chute toward the locker rooms. The mood all around me is somber. Suffocating. Nobody is playing the blame game, though.

There’s no anger directed at Barkov, who tripped the Yale forward for no comprehensible reason—the guy didn’t even have the puck.

There’s no recrimination toward our defense, who inexplicably fell apart during that power play.

And there’s no accusation aimedmyway, for not being able to stop that last shot from lighting the lamp.

But, inside…I blame myself.

I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve dived faster, extended my arm farther. I should’ve hurled my body on that damn puck and not let it get anywhere near the crease.

Numbness sets in. I’d been bummed my family didn’t make the trek from Cali to watch me play. Now I’m grateful they didn’t see me lose. Except on television. Along with a few million other people…

Damn.