Page 20

CHAPTER 20

LATHAN

I had sex—really good sex.

I had really good sex with Miller, and I’d enjoyed it—more than enjoyed it, if I was being honest.

It almost felt unreal, but the slight twinge in my ass confirmed it was very real. The oddest aftereffect was how different I felt, and yet no one else seemed to notice. How was it not obvious my entire worldview had shifted? My insides had been rearranged, and I was a different man now.

Or at least it felt like I was. It was a blessing and curse, I suppose.

I didn’t necessarily want everyone to know I had sex, but it had been so monumental that not recognizing it lessened its importance. For once in my life, I wanted to shout from the rooftops and declare how Miller’s dick had transformed me. I was tempted to believe it had magical powers with how I wanted to wax poetically about it.

But since I couldn’t share with people how amazing it felt to get dicked down, and I was slightly worried I’d yell it out loud in the locker room, I turned to the one person I trusted the most—my brother.

“Have you ever had your prostate?—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Listen, bro. I love you, I do. But it’s a hard pass on hearing about you and Miller. I have a very distinct image of my college roommate that I plan to keep, so please, for the love of hockey, do not change that.”

“But… the prostate, Land.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s amazing, but I can’t. I just can’t. Oh, God. I’m going to be sick.” He made a gagging noise, and I rolled my eyes.

“So dramatic.” I sighed. “Fine. Let me talk to Cam.”

“Gladly.”

Luckily, Cam was not squeamish and willingly listened to me proclaim the greatness of gay sex. After getting off the phone, I’d attacked Miller and reminded myself just how wonderful it was. I almost couldn’t believe how I’d been willing to miss out on it, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t so much about the sex; it was the man I was doing it with.

In the blink of an eye, the end of November turned into the beginning of December. We won our two home games before returning to the road. We won against Utah in our first away game, thanks to the rookie goalie shutting them out. However, it wasn’t looking as good against LA. We were tied midway through the third period, and our team was out of gas.

“Second line, get ready,” Coach Mack shouted.

My gaze was on Miller, so I caught his grimace before he covered it. Was he hurt? Tired? Our line had been on the ice a lot tonight. Typically that wasn’t a bad thing, but Eriksson, the defender for LA, had been up Miller’s ass all night, disrupting our rhythm. I didn’t like how focused he was on him, but this was hockey. I couldn’t put him in bubble wrap and expect him to play that way.

“You got this,” I said, trying for something encouraging. It wasn’t my strong suit, but I wanted him to know I believed in him.

His chuckle was dark and didn’t fill me with lightness like usual. “Yeah, that’s not the problem.”

I tugged on his arm and stopped him. “What do you mean, Bambi?”

“Leave it, Silver. This isn’t the place.”

He broke my grip and moved into position for the face-off. O’Leary was in the center, so I took up my spot. I glanced at Eriksson. His gaze was zeroed in on Miller, but it wasn’t the typical hockey glare. This was more… it was almost lecherous. But why?

I didn’t have time to ponder it as the puck dropped, and the game resumed. O’Leary snagged the puck and zipped it over to Miller. I skated into position to receive, but the puck didn’t make it. Miller was slammed into the boards, and the puck was stolen. I hesitated as I watched the brute shove Miller and whisper something in his ear before skating off with a smug expression.

Miller’s face was red as he skated into play. The longer he played, the more tense his movements became. It wasn’t like him, and it bugged me that he was letting this guy get to him.

“Snap out of it, Bambi.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll do just that. Thanks for the awesome advice, Silver Spoon.”

I jerked back, his words metaphorically slapping me across the face. Had I done something wrong? Did I mean nothing to him? I thought things had changed between us, but maybe I was wrong. Was I cliche? Confusing sex for emotion?

I sat on the bench and attempted to rein in my temper. Then, I noticed Miller and Bell exchanging glances. I leaned closer to hear their conversation.

“He’s an ass. I wish I could punch him in the nuts,” Bell muttered.

“He’d probably like that. I’d wager the jerk is closeted.”

“Hmm. You might be right. He does get a little too handsy with me when he shoves me into the boards.”

Miller nodded and took a swig of his drink. My mind spun at the news. I was an idiot. The guy was targeting them because they were out, and I’d blamed Miller. Fuck. I wasn’t any better.

But what could I do? Nothing.

And what if my interference caused him to get wind of us?

Panic threatened to overwhelm me at the implications. If I came out, would it be like this for me, too? Probably worse because of my last name. Dread filled my bones, and the high I’d been living on for the past five days evaporated.

A hard shove broke the zombie state I’d fallen into, and I followed my line onto the ice. My movements were mechanical as I skated, and the game whipped by me at a rapid pace.

“My granny skates faster than you,” someone chirped.

“Head in the game, Silver!” Coach shouted, shaking me out of the daze.

I shoved all my fears to the back of my mind and focused on the game—the ice and the puck.

Miraculously, I spotted an opening and stole the puck. I flipped it on my blade and spun around toward the goal. LA closed in, but I could feel Miller’s presence to my right, so with a quick glance over my shoulder, I faked left before shooting it right into Miller’s path. Yes! He drew back to shoot when he was checked from behind and went flying across the ice face-first.

Horror filled my veins as he bounced and red smeared the ice. Sound was replaced with the thumping of my heart as I skated closer. Miller pushed himself up with one hand and used the other to cup his jaw. “Got cut,” he mumbled.

The relief was short-lived as anger took its place. I had never been a violent player. Sure, there were times I shoved players harder into the boards than necessary, but I wasn’t one to fight or resort to cheap tricks. It was beyond a Silver to lower themselves to those standards.

But as the knowledge he was okay filtered through, all my thoughts turned to Eriksson. The game no longer mattered. Being a Silver held no merit. The only pulsing need in my head was making him pay for hurting what was mine.

Mitts and my stick were dropped, and I launched myself at him. I took him by surprise, giving me the opportunity to strike first. My knuckles ached with each punch, but I didn’t dare stop. His fist connected with my eye.

Damn. That stung. Why did people do this?

I hit him one more time before our teammates pulled us apart.

The ref gave us both a major penalty—him for checking from behind and me for fighting. I called bullshit on mine, but it was too late to argue.

Head down, I skated to the penalty box. I hadn’t stepped foot in one my entire professional career, and now that was changing. All because I’d had sex and couldn’t separate pleasure from feelings. I was pathetic.

I didn’t even try to seek out Miller. I was too afraid of what I’d see there. So I sat with my head down in the penalty box for the last five minutes of the game. When the goal sound echoed around the stadium and the home crowd roared, my defeat only grew.

It was my fault. I’d lost us this game. I’d failed the team.

A minute later, the door to the penalty box opened, and I skated after my team as they exited the ice. I kept my eyes averted, not wanting to see the disappointment and anger I was certain to see reflected in their eyes.

“Hell of a hit, Silver,” Samson said, knocking my shoulder.

My head flew up. “What? You’re not mad?”

His face scrunched up in confusion. “Only that you beat me to it. I was right behind you. Fucker had it coming all game. Homophobic piece of shit.”

So, I hadn’t been wrong in my assumption. He had been targeting Miller and Bell. Fuck.

To my surprise, several other teammates patted me on my back and up-nodded me as I entered the locker room. I dressed quickly, hoping to avoid any confrontation with Coach. It had nothing to do with wanting to check on Miller.

My attempts at avoidance were thwarted, though, and Coach pulled me into his office before I escaped.

“Have a seat, Silver.”

“Sir, I’m sorry?—”

“Stop. I’m not here to yell at you, but I also can’t condone fighting in front of the whole team.”

“Oh.”

He smirked. “Being a good captain means standing up for your teammates. I can only guess that Eriksson doesn’t like that we have two out players.”

“It’s bullshit?—”

He raised his hand to stop me. “However, unless the two he targeted come forward and draw up a complaint, there isn’t much to be done. The league is firm in its stance, but Miller and Bell must be willing to go through the ordeal. It’s their choice.”

“That’s not fair or right.”

“No, son. It’s not. Which is why we have to protect our own. We can’t change other teams, but we can ensure ours is a safe place.”

I nodded. “We have a good team, sir.”

“We do. There are a few outliers, but I’m working on that. You just keep being the alternate captain the team needs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Get out of my office. It’s been long enough for everyone to think I ripped into you for fighting.” He smiled, and I chuckled.

“Thanks, Coach.”

Miller was the last one on the plane, so I didn’t get a chance to talk to him before we taxied down the runway and flew toward Vegas. It was a quick flight, just a little over an hour, but it felt too long to know how he was doing. I’d have to be patient and hope I got a chance once we landed.

Luck was not on my side.

Since he was the last one on the plane, he was the first one off and caught the first van to the hotel. The second van took forever to arrive, and I was two seconds away from ordering my own ride when it finally pulled up. My knee bounced the whole drive to the hotel. I just wanted to know if he was all right. I fiddled with my phone, but before I could send a message, the fucker died.

Seriously? Was the universe out to get me? I got laid, and this was my punishment.

Fuck. This was why I didn’t care about people. They complicated things.

Even knowing that, I couldn’t stop worrying and needing to ensure he was okay. He could hate me all he wanted for punching that guy. I didn’t care. I wouldn’t apologize for it, but I didn’t want him to ice me out.

The van pulled up to the hotel, and I rocketed out of the door. I was halfway across the lobby before anyone else had entered the hotel, so I didn’t feel bad when the elevator door shut in their faces. Oops.

The second I entered my room, I threw my suitcase onto the bed and pulled out my charger. While my phone charged, I tugged off my tie and jacket and tossed them onto the bed. I couldn’t even hang up my clothes until I knew he was okay.

A minute later, my screen came alive, and I dove for the device. Pulling up his contact, I typed out the first message that came to mind. I was tired of second-guessing myself.

Come to my room. Number 545