Page 42 of Slew Foot (Scoring Chances #3)

The next few days were the most boring and frustrating of Mickey’s life.

All he wanted to do was play hockey and take Rafe apart in bed, but instead, he found himself watching the game from the press box as the Harriers lost to Ottawa.

And then lost again in Montreal.

At first, Mickey was allowed to do a few light workouts but the ringing in his ears got worse and so did his balance along with the pressure in his head.

He got checked over by Dr. Pope again, but he had nothing new to say.

And Rafe …

Mickey hated how worried he looked all the time.

Their sex life took an immediate nose-dive too.

Mickey had no problem getting hard or wanting to fuck Rafe. But the dizziness and ringing in his ears made it almost impossible to focus on anything, no matter how badly he wanted it.

One night at their hotel in Ottawa, he’d coaxed Rafe into making out for a bit. Making out had turned into stripping down to their underwear and touching each other all over.

It was just getting good, with Rafe grinding against his thigh, breathing heavily against Mickey’s mouth as Mickey told him what a good boy he was and how he couldn’t wait to lick his ass open to prep him to take his cock.

Since Mickey still needed to get testing done and neither of them had found the time to grab condoms, Mickey had rolled Rafe onto his back, intending to slide down his body and suck him off.

As he sat up to remove Rafe’s underwear, the sudden change in position made his head spin. He braced his arm against the bed, his left ear flooding with the strange ringing sound again. There was a low roaring whoosh under it too, a strange harmony that kept coming and going.

It wasn’t there all of the time, but it happened often enough Mickey felt like it would drive him crazy.

And it was getting worse.

By the time they finally reached Boston, Rafe had to help support him as he got off the plane.

Mickey was genuinely surprised when they arrived at the apartment and Rafe immediately moved his stuff into Mickey’s room. It wasn’t all of it, just what he’d need for the next few days, but Mickey had almost expected him to change his mind about their plan.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Mickey mumbled tiredly as he sat on the closed toilet seat lid, trying not to sway as he brushed his teeth.

The ringing wasn’t there at the moment, but the whooshing ocean noise was.

Rafe froze in the middle of patting his face dry. “Want to do what? Wash my face?”

“No,” Mickey said around the toothbrush. “Be with me.”

Rafe scowled and threw the towel onto the bathroom counter. He walked over to Mickey and cupped his cheeks.

Mickey felt vaguely stupid with the toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, but he still leaned into the touch.

“Listen to me,” Rafe said, his tone gentle and full of affection. “I love you, Mickey Krause. And you’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”

Exhausted tears pricked Mickey’s eyes because he wanted to believe that, but he also knew Rafe deserved better.

He pulled the toothbrush out and grabbed a tissue, spitting toothpaste into it, because he couldn’t have this type of conversation with something in his mouth.

“I just feel so …” He shrugged. He didn’t even have a word for it. Not in any language.

Helpless didn’t cover it. Neither did lost.

Since he had no light sensitivity and other than the weird, sharp headache on the plane, he wasn’t in pain, Dr. Pope had cleared him to use his phone and laptop. Unfortunately, sitting out of the games and practice for now had left him with way too much time on his hands.

He’d spent a lot of time looking up information on concussions. And it was all disturbing. There was an entire website that had been created by the initiative set up by Gabriel Theriault and his father, Alain, in partnership with the gear brand, Prescott.

All of the queer players, and many of the non-queer ones, had switched to the Prescott brand, both because of Prescott’s outspoken support of LGBTQ+ players and because of their commitment to reducing head trauma.

The website had great resources for everyone, with a special section for current and former players and their families. What signs to look for, when to worry, what steps to take, and who to reach out to for help.

But it was also terrifying stuff.

Mickey had suddenly realized he’d been a little cavalier about this injury initially.

He probably should have been more concerned about the way his head had smacked into the boards. Especially after reading an interview with a former player who talked about what it was like living with chronic tinnitus following a concussion.

That was the name for the weird noises in Mickey’s ear.

Reading about the guy’s difficulty concentrating was bad enough. But hearing about his early retirement from pro hockey, insomnia, and the way tinnitus had negatively impacted his relationship with his wife and led to depression and anxiety made Mickey’s stomach churn.

Tinnitus wasn’t considered chronic until it had lasted for three months, but Mickey had barely made it a week and he already felt like he was losing his mind.

How long would Rafe want to put up with that?

“Mickey?” Rafe had crouched down, looking Mickey in the eye.

“I …” Mickey said helplessly.

“I know it’s scary,” Rafe whispered. “I’ve had concussions too. They’re frustrating and unpredictable. But we’ll get through this.”

It seemed so grossly unfair for Rafe to have to deal with this when they’d only begun dating.

“Maybe I should …” Mickey trailed off, not even sure what he was going to say.

“Get to bed? Yeah. That’s a good idea,” Rafe answered.

That wasn’t at all what Mickey had meant but he nodded anyway and stood. He stumbled a little, the world tilting sideways, but Rafe was there with a steady hand.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be , Mickey thought again as he braced himself on the counter to finish brushing his teeth while, nearby, Rafe smoothed lotion onto his face.

Mickey was supposed to be healthy and fit and showing Rafe what a great boyfriend he could be. They were supposed to be playing the best hockey of their lives on the ice and then having the best sex of their lives in the bedroom.

This was supposed to be the happy, joyous, smitten period of their relationship where everything was easy. They were supposed to have time to build a foundation before life got crazy.

But as Rafe helped him to bed a short while later and Mickey curled up behind him, pressing his forehead to the base of Rafe’s neck, he had to admit that whether it was supposed to be or not, this was what he was stuck with.

What they were both stuck with.

Nothing else in their relationship had been in the usual order either, so maybe in some weird, fucked up way, this fit.

“Love you,” Rafe murmured, already half-asleep.

“Love you too,” Mickey said thickly, hoping it would be enough.

In the morning, Mickey practically had to shove Rafe out the door for practice.

“I’ll be fine,” he argued. “Dr. Pope arranged for a car service to take me to the testing appointments.”

“But you shouldn’t be alone.”

Mickey shrugged. “I’ve been alone for worse.”

That was only partially a lie. He’d had various injuries in his career, including a groin strain that required icing everything surrounding his private parts—which had been especially awful—but it was less frustrating than this stupid concussion or whatever it was.

Rafe scowled. “That doesn’t mean you have to be.”

“The team needs you,” Mickey argued.

He could definitely see why there were some downsides to dating a teammate. Though he didn’t say that part aloud.

What he did say made Rafe scowl more, but he finally left, and Mickey could finish getting ready, using the wall for balance when his own failed him. He eventually made it down to the lobby and out the door into the warm spring air where a large black SUV waited.

Mickey bent down to peer in the window and see if it belonged to the car service, blinking when the window slid down to reveal … “Mrs. O?” he asked, confused.

Catherine O’Shea smiled at him. “Hi, Mickey. I’m your ride today. Connor thought maybe you could use some company.”

“Oh,” he said. “You don’t have to do this …”

She arched an eyebrow. “Of course I don’t. But I want to. And I’m sure your mother would appreciate knowing you’re being looked after. Get in.”

Mickey sighed and got in.

He might be in charge in certain areas of his life, but he was smart enough to know when he wasn’t the one running the show. Right now, that was certainly the strawberry blonde woman with the determined expression sitting behind the wheel.

“My mother would appreciate it,” he admitted as he put on his seatbelt. “A few days ago, she sent me a very unhappy message about the fight and how worried she is about me.”

His sisters had freaked out too. His father had been more pragmatic about it, as a former pro football player, but he too had been concerned. Mickey had tried to reassure them all he’d be fine, but it didn’t seem to be helping.

“It must be difficult when she’s so far away,” Catherine said, pulling away from the curb.

“Well, yes,” Mickey agreed. “But also, she’s mad I didn’t warn her about the injury. She saw a video of it online and …”

Catherine winced. “Yes, you absolutely should have texted her to warn her. That’s what my boys do.”

Mickey shrugged. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. I didn’t even think she’d see it.”

“It looked bad ,” Catherine said. “And I think the storyline around Rafe and his ex made the story grow. There was no chance of her avoiding it.”

Mickey sighed. He was aware of the talk online and how many people seemed to have rightly concluded he and Rafe were dating now. It, along with the little altercation with Logan in the hotel lobby, had even made it onto that horrid site, JockGossip . Lucky him.

“Yes, there is that,” Mickey agreed.

“So, in the future, what will you do?”

“Well, I don’t have any plans to?—”