Page 28 of Slew Foot (Scoring Chances #3)

For a while, Rafe lay there, watching the screen while Mickey stroked his hair. But after a while, Rafe’s eyelids grew heavy, and he let them close. He drifted, listening to the sounds from the movie, smiling when someone on the screen said something funny or Mickey or Tanner laughed.

Mickey’s hand snagged in his hair at one point, a gentle tugging sensation that made a shiver ripple up and down Rafe’s spine. Mickey froze then started to pull away, but Rafe pushed into the touch, hoping he’d keep going, and a moment later he did.

Tanner laughed loudly at something, but Rafe’s head felt fuzzy with happy, sleepy, good feelings.

So he breathed in Mickey’s scent and let the soft tugs and gentle pets send him back to sleep.

Mickey awoke the next day with a sore throat. He groaned before he even opened his eyes.

Fuck .

He’d known this was coming. It was kind of inevitable at this point.

It had started with Tanner sneezing all over the apartment and blowing it off as allergies for the first few days. Since the snow was beginning to melt as the temperatures went up—offering Boston a tiny taste of spring—it had seemed perfectly likely.

Instead, he’d been germing up the place.

Once Mickey suspected it was more than allergies, he had gone through and sanitized everything, but by that point, it had probably been too late. And if it hadn’t been, getting up close and personal with Rafe while he was sick had surely done it.

Mickey still wondered if he’d taken temporary leave of his senses letting Rafe put his head in his lap. And then to encourage it. To touch him, to stroke his hair and learn Rafe did in fact like to have his hair pulled a little …

Ugh . Mickey rubbed his hands over his face at the memory.

Rafe had melted , all of the tension leaving his body. And while having Rafe’s head in his lap should have made Mickey tense and aroused and tightly wound, it had done the opposite.

Having Rafe close, touching him … it had relaxed Mickey too. Made him feel like everything was right in the world.

In Rafe’s sunlit bedroom, with Tanner a few feet away, laughing at the movie, it had still felt cozy and private. Like a perfect little moment between the two of them.

After the movie was over, Tanner had gotten up.

Rafe had still been asleep with his head on Mickey’s thigh, and Mickey hadn’t even tried to pull his hand away or pretend like he wasn’t dragging his fingers through Rafe’s thick dark hair.

Tanner had arched an eyebrow at Mickey, glancing between him and Rafe pointedly. Mickey had shrugged because what could he say? It was a stupid choice—for his own sanity—but at this point, that seemed to be a lost cause anyway.

Because fuck, had Tanner been right? Was Mickey in love with Rafe?

Maybe not , he thought now, rolling onto his back and stretching. But not so far off, either. Mickey had only been in love once. He’d loved Emilia, had genuinely been sad when they’d gone their separate ways.

But he’d never considered staying in Germany for her.

Emilia was smart and beautiful and funny, and they were extremely compatible in the bedroom.

He’d enjoyed spending time with her and had genuinely thought they could make each other happy.

But he’d spent his whole life dreaming of a career in the NHL.

He hadn’t been able to imagine giving that up for anyone .

But thinking about Rafe …

It didn’t feel as clear-cut. And thankfully, Rafe would never ask him to …

Mickey froze. But what if …

Rafe was adamant he wouldn’t date a teammate. But what if Mickey wasn’t a teammate?

But what could Mickey do?

He was on an entry-level contract, so he had no leverage as far as trades. Now that he and Rafe were playing well together, management had no interest in trading either of them.

And even if Mickey somehow finagled a trade, they’d likely end up on opposite sides of the country. Or even the continent. With his luck, he’d end up in Vancouver and see Rafe twice a year and in the off-season.

Mickey swallowed thickly, wincing at both the thought and the ache in his throat.

Okay, perhaps all of this crazy thought had more to do with the germs that had invaded his body and how hard it was working to fight them off.

He’d come back to his right mind once his body was well again.

He hoped.

For the next few days, Rafe got better as Mickey got worse.

“I feel terrible I got you sick,” Rafe said mournfully as he moved around the living room, grabbing Mickey another blanket and a fresh glass of water.

Devastatingly, he wore a pair of shorts and a crop top sweatshirt.

Mickey suspected it hadn’t intentionally been designed as a crop top, but it was either naturally too small for Rafe or had been shrunk in the washer and dryer.

The effect was the same.

His shorts hung low, revealing the crest of his hipbones and his flat stomach.

A slice of bare skin was on display all the way up to where the shirt ended above his navel and a little bit of his abs.

His rich, golden skin was sprinkled with a little bit of dark hair in a way that made Mickey feel like he was boiling from the inside out.

And no, he didn’t have a fever. He’d checked it himself several times since Rafe got back from practice and changed into that outfit.

Mickey didn’t blame Rafe for getting him sick. But oh, he did blame him for looking like that .

Mickey, who had built himself a comfortable nest on the couch, shrugged at Rafe’s comment. “This illness is going around the whole team at this point.”

And it was. Tanner and Rafe were back to practicing and playing but the other guys were going down like a house of cards, including Jesse and Connor who were both out, miserable being sick and unable to play.

The roster had been a third AHL call-ups at last night’s game against Portland when Mickey had watched it on TV.

“At least the guys in Concord are getting some NHL experience?” Mickey offered now. That was the only upside to the situation, really.

Unsurprisingly, the Harriers had lost last night.

And they couldn’t even blame Kady. The kid wasn’t as good of a netminder as Jesse was, but he’d done his very best without any help offensively or defensively.

The team was sliding toward the bottom of the division at a rapid rate. And it didn’t appear like it was going to stop any time soon.

But there was no point in dwelling on it. That only led to more frustration and worse play. Better to take it a game at a time, a period at a time. A shift at a time, like his father used to say.

“You ready for lunch?” Rafe asked.

“Yes, but I can get it,” Mickey shifted, intending to get off the couch. His head and throat felt awful, but he wasn’t anywhere near as sick as Rafe had been, with his fever and coughing fits.

Rafe stepped closer, pressing his bare toes down on Mickey’s sock-clad feet. “I know you can. But I want to help.”

Mickey looked up … and up … until he reached Rafe’s face, because it was either that or stare at the waistband of Rafe’s shorts and think about sucking his dick.

Which would be an unpleasant experience with his whole face stuffed up, but a part of Mickey still wanted to give it a try.

With his arm crossed over his chest and his dark, stubbled jaw, Rafe looked tough.

And he definitely was. There was a bruise on the side of his thigh that flashed a lurid shade of purple every time the hem of his shorts slid up and Mickey had watched him flatten guys against the boards last night in a desperate attempt to give the rest of the team some scoring chances.

It had been a treat to watch him play on TV. Other than during video review, Mickey was used to seeing Rafe’s game from ice-level. But watching from above was fascinating.

Without Mickey there to bark at him where to go, Rafe’s positioning had been terrible. He’d been caught out of place more times than Mickey could count. And oh, the media’d had a field day this morning insinuating they were both useless without each other.

But watching Rafe skate, watching his long reach as he snagged pucks and got them to Anker or Graham, that had been sexy.

Then again, Mickey thought now, curling his hands into fists under the blankets to stop himself from reaching up and tugging those shorts down to get at what was underneath, what wasn’t?

How was it possible to be this horny when his throat still felt raw and his nose was so plugged up he had to breathe through his mouth? It would be the worst blowjob ever.

But what had Rafe said to him?

“You want to help me?” Mickey said, desperately hoping he’d kept track of the conversational thread and was actually making sense.

“Yes.” Rafe tapped his toes against Mickey’s. “It makes me feel good when I do something for you.”

Rafe … Mickey thought helplessly. But there was nothing he could say without causing more issues for both of them. So, he nodded, sighed, and said, “Okay. Lunch would be nice.”

Mickey’s situation did not get better when Rafe returned from the kitchen a short while later, carrying their makeshift tray. He was beaming , clearly proud of himself, dressed like a fucking pool boy in a bad porno.

It worked for him.

Mickey finished his food and when he was done with it, he opened his mouth to tell Rafe to load the dishwasher, but he closed it again. He wasn’t in charge of Rafe, and he needed to stop acting like he was.

Even if Rafe did seem to thrive whenever he did it.

But Rafe tilted his head now, studying Mickey’s face. “You want me to put this in the dishwasher?”

Mickey nodded, a little surprised by how quickly Rafe had guessed his thoughts. But maybe he shouldn’t be. Rafe was shrewd and getting incredibly good at reading him. He’d noticed it when they were at the grocery store.

While Rafe was clearly not the most intellectually gifted in some ways, he was smart in so many others, and he paid attention . Especially to Mickey.

Once the dishwasher was loaded and their improvised tray was put away with Mickey’s other baking dishes, Rafe returned to the living room.

“Good job,” Mickey said automatically, stifling a groan when Rafe beamed again.

Great, now he knew Rafe had a praise kink. That wasn’t dangerous to his sanity at all.

But when Rafe continued to stand there, fidgeting, instead of taking a seat in his usual spot on the couch, Mickey raised an eyebrow.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

Rafe shook his head.

“Is there something you need? Something you want to ask?” Mickey guessed.

“Can I …” Rafe fidgeted. “Can I put my head on your lap?”

Mickey blinked.

“I mean, I know the time before was when I was sick and driving you and Tanner crazy. Or if you’d rather put your head in my lap because you’re sick, it’s cool,” Rafe said hastily. “Or if you don’t want to at all …”

Mutely, Mickey peeled back the blanket to expose his pajama-clad thigh.

Rafe settled beside him, making a happy noise as he rested his cheek against Mickey’s leg. “Why is this so nice?” he asked.

Mickey rested a hand on the sliver of bare skin between Rafe’s shorts and shirt, thinking, Because you’re finally where you belong .

He promptly had to blow his dripping nose, which sort of ruined the moment, but maybe that was just as well.