Page 64 of Next Season

“That’s not the reason, Riley.” I tightened my grip on his hand, my eyes glued to his. “It’s not about my job or your job. It’s not about the distance. It’s about healing and growing and becoming who you are on your schedule, on your time. There’s no rush,mon cher. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here for you. Always.”

His Adam’s apple slid in his throat. “Fuck. So…this is it.”

“No, this is…until next time.”

We stared at each other for a long moment. Nat King Cole gave way to Elvis Presley’s mournful blues, and suddenly it was difficult to see through the sheen of tears. I blinked as I stood and pulled him into my arms, hugging him close.

I wanted to tell him I wasn’t ready to let go. I wanted to tell him I’d been dreading good-bye for weeks now. I wanted to tell him he’d brightened my life, made me laugh and think and dream, and…love.

And yes, that was the crux of it all. I loved him.

This wasn’t just want and desire. This was love.

It hadn’t presented itself in a neat bow on a single occasion. It was an accumulation of days and hours and minutes, revealing pieces of ourselves, showing scars, and sharing dreams. He was in my veins now. I’d witnessed the fear he couldn’t quite hide at the thought of losing hockey.

But it wasn’t over, and he didn’t have to choose.

They say when you love someone, you set them free. But they never tell you how much it hurts.

And it hurt.

13

RILEY

My body had a weird way of insulating me from pain. On the ice, I tended to go numb in the place I’d been struck, and if I could breathe through the worst of it till my other organs and synapses kicked in to compensate, I was usually fine. But hey, I played hockey and pain was part of the game.

Hockey players got up when they were knocked down. We wrapped bruised ribs, put Band-Aids on gashes that needed stitches, and if we could get away with it, we played with broken bones and concussed heads. Maybe that was why this two-month hiatus had hit extra hard. I relied on my body to do what I’d trained for…and it had failed me once. And again tonight.

My heart fucking ached in my chest. It felt as if I were bleeding out on the carpet, and one wrong move might send me to my knees.

God, I probably looked pathetic. No, Iwaspathetic. Had I really thought he’d want to take me on? I’d hoped he did, but I hadn’t thought this through ’cause I was terrified that I wouldn’t get the answer I wanted. And I didn’t.

But Jean-Claude had been right to ask the bigger question: did I actually know what I wanted?

I clung to him like a piece of gum on the bottom of his shoe, daring him to pry me off of him as I buried my face in the crook of his neck. I searched for nuances in the moment—the smell of his cologne, the whoosh of wind against the window, the strains of holiday music in the background—something to ground me and remind me that I could stand on my own.

After a few minutes, I stepped aside, unsure and awkward. I didn’t know if I should start cleaning the dishes or suggest finishing dessert, though I was pretty confident I’d puke if I tried to eat another bite.

Jean-Claude saved us with a sweet smile, took my face in his hands, and kissed me with everything he had. We left the dishes, the dessert, and the music, and made our way upstairs.

I didn’t remember undressing or turning the lights low, but I knew I’d never forget the look in his eyes as he moved inside me. Sort of desperate, sort of sad, yet somehow hopeful too. Or maybe that was me wanting to believe this wasn’t a final good-bye.

I arched to meet every thrust, wrapping my legs around him to anchor him and keep us connected until we orgasmed together, tangled in fervent kisses…and sweat and cum. I was afraid he’d leave after we cleaned up, but he stayed.

We sipped wine while we did the dishes naked, singing along toFrosty the Snowmanand sharing reminiscence of holidays from our youth—wacky sweaters and gifts you wished came with a receipt. We laughed, pretending not to notice the melancholy sound. Then we turned off the music, locked the doors, and climbed the stairs again, wordlessly falling into each other’s arms.

In the morning, he was gone.

I sat up and stared at the empty space beside me, feeling numb and raw. Eventually, I dressed in sweats and a Slammers sweatshirt and headed downstairs to make coffee.

There was a note next to the machine under a roll of orange hockey tape. I pushed the tape aside and picked up the piece of paper.

I checked your schedule. Your first game is next Wednesday so I thought you might need this.

Till next season.

That was when I broke.