Page 30 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter twenty-one

Jake

T he nightmare always started the same way—with silence.

Not the good kind of quiet that meant Evan was sleeping peacefully down the hall, or the satisfied hush after a clean goal. This was the hollow, echoing silence of an empty arena, where my skates scraped against ice that stretched on forever, and the puck died on my stick and didn't move.

In the dream, I stared up at empty stands. The crowd had vanished mid-game, collectively deciding I wasn't worth watching anymore. Coach turned his back. My teammates skated away. And somewhere in the distance, I heard Evan's voice calling my name, but I feared he was saying goodbye.

Then came the footage—grainy clips from Love on Ice playing on the jumbotron above my head. Me in sequins, crying real tears that the editors had turned into performance art. Canned audience sounds filled the arena.

I woke with my heart pounding.

The apartment was dark except for the streetlight sending a pale, amber beam bleeding through the blinds. My chest was sweaty, and I gasped for breath, as I did after wind sprints in practice.

I lay back down, but the dream clung to me like wet gear—heavy, suffocating, and impossible to shake off. I'd learned from experience that staying in bed only made it worse.

I could text Hog. He was probably awake anyway, knitting something ridiculous and listening to true crime podcasts. Or Juno—she kept weird hours and wouldn't judge me for having a midnight anxiety spiral.

Those were possibilities, but the only person I really wanted to see was sleeping twenty feet away, behind a door I'd never knocked on in the middle of the night.

My bare feet hit the cold hardwood, and I padded toward the hallway before I could talk myself out of it. Evan had left his door cracked open just enough for me to peer inside. He always slept with the door slightly ajar—a habit he told me he started while living in foster homes.

I hesitated in the doorway, suddenly aware of the ridiculous situation. I was twenty-six years old, standing in my boxers outside my roommate's bedroom because I'd had a bad dream.

When I was eight, I'd stood outside my older brother's room after a nightmare about monsters under my bed.

I'd raised my hand to knock, then heard him tell his friend on the phone that little kids who couldn't handle their own dreams needed to "man up or shut up.

" I'd gone back to my room and never asked for help with nightmares again.

I almost turned around.

Then, Evan stirred, sensing my presence the way he seemed to sense everything else about me.

"Jake?" His voice was soft, sleep-rough around the edges.

He pushed up on one elbow, and even in the dim light, I saw him studying my face. Reading me like one of his perfectly organized spreadsheets.

"Don't worry, I'm not here to reorganize your sock drawer. Though I noticed you're color-coordinating them now, which is either progress or a cry for help."

Evan didn't smile. He never fell for my bullshit when I was trying too hard to sell it.

"Are you okay?"

"No. I mean, yeah. I'm fine. It's just—" I stopped and ran a hand through my hair. The Jake Riley version of the truth, the one with a punchline, eluded me.

The words rolled out of my mouth when I finally got started. "Bad dreams. Not one thing. Everything. The games where I fucked up, the headlines, and how people look at me like I'm a walking punchline."

I leaned harder against the doorframe, suddenly exhausted by the effort of my confessions.

"I keep dreaming that I look up and everyone's gone. The stands are empty, my teammates have skated away, and I'm just... there. Alone on the ice with a puck I can't control and nowhere to go."

Evan was quiet, and I wondered whether he thought he'd miscalculated. Maybe there were limits to how much mess even he could handle.

Then, he lifted the corner of his blanket.

Not dramatically. It didn't come with fanfare or a big speech. He pulled the blanket back, creating a space for me in his carefully ordered world.

"Get in."

Relief and panic fought for control of my nervous system, with panic winning by a narrow margin. I'd been in Evan's bed once before, when I collapsed there after I delivered a blow job that deserved its own highlight reel.

This, being asked when it wasn't part of sex, was a different level. I assumed it was a line I wouldn't get to cross until much later, if we survived that long.

I wanted to cross it. I had wanted to since the night we'd kissed in the kitchen, and I discovered that Evan Carter tasted like Earl Grey and my potential future.

I slid under the covers, careful not to crowd him even though every instinct had me wanting to melt into his space. The sheets were warm from his body heat, and I smelled the clean scent of his shampoo on the pillow.

"Better?" he asked quietly.

I nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."

"You don't have to explain," he said. "Or talk. We can just..."

"Just what?"

"Exist. Together. Without commentary."

I almost laughed. Existing without commentary was probably the hardest thing he could have asked of me. My entire life was commentary—jokes, deflections, and performance art designed to keep people entertained and distracted from looking too closely at the mess underneath.

I stayed on my back, arms folded over my stomach, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Nothing did. Evan's breathing remained steady, ocean-slow, and after a minute, he shifted, the quilt rustling as he rolled toward me.

His arm rested inches above my shoulder line, close enough that the hairs on my skin stood at attention.

I watched him in the dim streetlight. His hair fell forward, framing his forehead. The lines around his mouth were soft, lips parted a little.

Without thinking, I reached up and brushed the backs of my fingers along his cheek. He flinched. I'd meant it as a comfort thing—a brotherly gesture or some shit—but when he turned his face into my palm, sparks jumped between us.

Evan opened his eyes. They were less blue, more gray, sleepy, and unguarded as he watched me. His gaze paused at my lips. I knew that he wanted to kiss me. I knew it how I knew the angle of a slapshot or the trajectory of a perfect pass.

I didn't move. Not at first. I let him look at me. Let him see the mess. Let him see me.

He leaned in, slow and careful, eyes steady on mine. The kiss was barely there—the ghost of contact. I inhaled, held my breath, and had to close my eyes because the way he looked at me made it impossible to keep them open.

I kissed him back, not hard, not with the bruising intensity I usually brought to the ice or the bedroom. I explored the shape of his mouth and the silent question he asked with the slide of his hand up the side of my neck.

Evan didn't make a sound. Not even when he pressed forward, until his arms and legs tangled with mine. He ran his fingertips along my ribs. I shivered.

I let my hands wander, too—over his shoulders and down his back. I noted the ridges of muscle and the places where he'd taken hits.

His skin was hot to the touch.

The blanket was a barrier between us, but he was already working on it, pushing his foot down to untangle the covers from our legs.

The next kiss wasn't gentle. He kissed me like he didn't care if I broke down. The one side of my face was still slightly tender from the punch, but Evan pushed past that. Our teeth clacked once, embarrassing, and I laughed into his mouth.

He bit my lip in retaliation, just hard enough to make me hiss, and then he started kissing down my jaw, neck, and the place just below my ear that made me crazy.

I wanted to be closer — like, share a locker without deodorant close. The kind of close where you start smelling like the same shampoo and neither of you cares.

He sucked a bruise above my collarbone, and I gasped, fingers digging into his back. It would show in the locker room tomorrow. I hoped it did. I wanted everyone to see.

Evan pulled back to look at me. "Okay?"

At first, I didn't trust myself to speak, partly because my brain was still rebooting from the fact that Evan Carter had marked me like I was his favorite stick tape. I slid my hand around his neck, thumb pressing against his pulse. "Yeah, don't stop."

His smile was crooked and hungry. His hands hovered at my waist, and then they found the band of my boxers and hesitated.

"It's all good. You can."

He hooked his thumbs under the waistband and shimmied them down, the backs of his knuckles trailing heat over my thighs. My dick slapped up against my belly, and he stared. He exhaled slowly and wrapped his hand around the shaft.

I groaned and shuddered. "Fuck," I muttered, my hips twitching. "Sorry, I—"

Evan stroked me, thumb working over the head, marveling at the leak of pre-cum beading up at the tip, and I thought I might lose it right there.

I bit down on my forearm to steady myself.

My body was loud, stupid, and ready to embarrass me, but Evan was patient, slowing his hand until I could breathe again.

He lay on his side up next to me, and I got my first solid look. His skin was pale, with collarbones sharp beneath it. A dark trail of hair led down his muscular abs. His tented briefs showed the outline of his hard dick.

I reached for him, greedily, and palmed him through the thin cotton. He moaned and bucked into my hand. I wanted to see all of him. I wanted him naked. I tugged at his underwear.

His cock flopped out, all at once, and my brain just—stopped. He was hard and flushed and leaking, heavier than I'd remembered from sucking him. The tip was a deep, angry pink.

I wanted to say something slick or joke about hockey sticks, but my mouth was too dry. All I could do was stare.

Evan kissed me again, harder this time, and lined our cocks up. He gripped them and rubbed skin on skin.

We moved against each other, finding a rhythm, the friction exquisite and filthy and completely perfect. He pulled me in by the back of my neck, our cheeks pressed together, sweat slicking our skin.

Each thrust of his hips sent a flash of pleasure up my spine, and I lost track of everything but the heat of us and how our bodies fit together like we'd been designed for one fucking purpose.

It got messy, fast. Sweat pooled between us, Evan's pre-cum smearing both our bellies. I wanted to see his face—needed that split-second look right before the goal horn goes off—so I grabbed his jaw and made him look at me while I jerked us both off, side by side.

His breath hitched, and I saw the moment he lost control. The muscles in his neck strained, and his mouth fell open.

I came first. It hit hard, like a concussion, white noise behind my eyes. The warm cum painted our bodies, hot and wet, and Evan came right after.

For a while, there was only breathing—heavy breathing and the weight of his body pinning me to the mattress in the best way. I stared up at the ceiling, counting the water stains, anchoring myself to the present so I didn't drift off somewhere lonely again.

Evan didn't move for a bit, only nuzzled into my shoulder. The room was hot and muggy, thick with sweat and the sour-spicy tang of sex.

When he finally rolled to the side, we stayed pressed together, skin sticking to skin.

I had no idea what to do next. No playbook for this. Usually, I got dressed and left, or at least pretended it was nobody's business but mine. This—sharing a pillow and listening to him catch his breath—was as raw as the sex itself.

Eventually, Evan fished a tissue from his nightstand drawer, swiped us both down with clinical efficiency, and tossed it in the general direction of the trash can.

He missed by a mile. I grinned, finally able to breathe, and pulled the blanket up to our chins.

The bed was too warm, but I didn't care.

My mouth decided to work. "So, that was not a bad dream."

Evan snorted into my shoulder.

I traced a circle around his shoulder blade with my thumb. We were both going to smell like funky gym socks in the morning. My left arm was already falling asleep, but I'd have to let go if I moved it. I wasn't ready to let go.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Evan asked, voice muffled by my chest.

"Nah." The truth was, I couldn't remember the details of the nightmare anymore. "Can we just…" I let the words trail.

He understood. "Yeah. We can just."

We were a mess—sweat, cum, tangled sheets—and I was too loose-limbed to care. Evan's hand rested on my hip, thumb brushing lazy arcs against my skin.

He didn't say anything about me being in his bed. He didn't need to. I'd already taken it over once, and the fact that he'd made room this time without hesitation told me everything I needed to know.

"You're hogging the pillow," I murmured into his hair.

"Maybe you're just bad at sharing," he countered.

I grinned into the curve of his neck. The nightmare might as well have happened to someone else. I could barely remember the empty arena.

"You're not getting rid of me until morning," I said.

"Wasn't planning to."

His quiet certainty burrowed deep in my chest. Evan's bed. Evan's hand on mine. I could just let it all be.

His breathing evened out a few minutes later, the weight of his arm heavier against my ribs.

By the time I closed my eyes, I'd decided: if the dream came back, it could wait its turn.