Page 48

FORTY-EIGHT

Clay

I wake up pancaked against Jethro’s back.

Unlike last time, I don’t panic. I kiss him between the shoulder blades.

“Sleeping,” he mumbles, and I grin.

Adjusting my neck on the pillow, I tangle our feet together. Then I watch his back rise and fall as he snoozes on.

I love you , he’d said last night. I hadn’t had the spare brain cells to say it back, but we both know I feel the same way.

For a few moments I revisit my favorite daydream where we win the Cup, Jethro retires, and I get to have everything I ever wanted—an epic career victory and the love of my life.

But of course, the reality is that we could lose. And win or lose, Jethro might want to finish his contract. Another season would be worth millions to his bank account.

My happy ending would require sacrifice on his part, and that sucks. But I can’t help dreaming about it.

In my defense, it’s early and I’m in bed with a man I’ve loved for over fifteen years. Also, he’s naked.

Jethro rolls onto his back suddenly. “It got loud in here.”

“What?”

He glances over at me with sleepy eyes. “I can hear how loud you’re thinking.”

“Only about ordering coffee. How about an omelet? Should I get room service?”

He thinks about it. “Pancakes,” he says. “Two eggs, two pancakes, and bacon. With maple syrup.”

I rub my bare belly. “I like this idea. Coffee?”

“Am I breathing?”

I start to slide out of the bed, but he catches my hand in his.

“I’m taking it as a good sign that you want to have breakfast,” he says. “Last time you lit out of the bed like your ass was on fire.”

With my thumb, I rub the backs of his fingers. “Nothing got easier since then.”

“I know,” he agrees.

“But I’m doing a shitty job pretending that you don’t matter to me. That we don’t matter.”

“Agreed,” he says a little smugly. “Order the food in room 910. That way I don’t have to move yet.”

“Good idea.” If the room service delivery person is a hockey fan, they won’t wonder about the goalie in the coach’s bed.

“Plus, I’m always happy to buy you breakfast after you put out for me.”

With a snort, I walk naked into his room to order our meal.

We’re full of pancakes and drinking coffee in bed when Jethro picks up his phone and taps a contact. And when the call connects, I hear it answered with, “Cougars Clubhouse, this is Avery speaking.”

“Hello, Avery. Is this the travel desk?” he asks.

“Yes, Mr. Hale. Is there something we can help you with?”

“Yeah, I hope so. A while back I gave you a preference for lower floors when we travel. But last night they put me on the Gold Level, and I had a really lucky night.” He looks me dead in the eye and winks.

“It was a fantastic game,” our employee gushes.

“Thank you. I’m a superstitious guy, so I’d like to keep the good times rolling. If you could put me on the club level when we travel next week, I’d appreciate it.”

“Anything for our players,” she says. “Can’t wait to see where I’ll be sending you—Detroit or Carolina.”

“Me too. Thanks.” He clicks off and takes a sip of his coffee without comment.

“Superstitious, huh?” I ask.

“Yup. I have the uncanny suspicion that the location of my hotel room affects my odds for blowing you on the road next week.”

“Risky, though,” I point out, even as my cock gets a little heavy.

He watches me over the rim of his cup. “If you say we can’t, I’ll understand. But Clay, this doesn’t get easier after the finals.”

“I know,” I say automatically. “As long as you’re a Cougar, we can’t ever be a real couple.”

But what if he retires? my heart asks.

He tilts his head at me, almost as if he can hear my thoughts. “And if I should happen to retire in a blaze of glory, it still doesn’t help. I can’t keep my father in Colorado if I’m not under contract. He wants to go back. Toby wants to go back. I dragged them here out of obligation. But if that obligation ends…”

The coffee turns to battery acid in my stomach. “You’ll have to leave if you’re not playing for Colorado? But if you’re playing for Colorado, then…”

He nods when he sees that I understand. There’s no magic solution here. Just bad choices everywhere I look. And to think that I woke up this morning wondering if we had a chance.

I love you , he’d said. But sometimes that’s not enough.

I’m still processing this when someone knocks on the door. “Coach?”

Jethro’s gaze locks on mine. We’re naked in this bed, two sets of breakfast dishes piled messily onto a rolling cart, clothing strewn around the floor. But nobody panics. We’re in too deep for that.

“Two minutes,” I call. “Gotta get dressed.”

We both slip out of bed. Jethro sets his cup down on the room service cart and rolls it quietly through the door and into his own room, like a naked service worker. Then he returns to grab his underwear off my floor.

He stops on the threshold, though, as if waiting for me.

I go to him, and he takes my chin in his hand and kisses me softly on the jaw. “To be continued,” he whispers in the barest voice.

Pulling him close, I put my lips beside his ear. “I love you, Jetty. Only you.”

He steps back, gives me a sad smile, and shuts my half of the double door with a very quiet click.

I use the next ninety seconds to pull on my pants and a T-shirt. “Sorry,” I say, opening the door. “I was having a lazy morning.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” says Doc Whitesmith, the team physician. He’s followed into my room by Kevin Tang, our head trainer.

“Uh-oh,” I grumble. “Don’t take this the wrong way, boys, but seeing the two of you in my hotel room first thing in the morning can’t be good news.”

Whitesmith slowly shakes his head. “It’s Volkov’s back. He’s in a lot more pain than he let on. The pain has sharpened, and now it’s radiating down his legs.”

“Aw, hell.” I feel sick. “So it’s a disc?”

“Probably a herniated disc,” the doctor hedges. “We’ll send him for an MRI tomorrow, first thing. I didn’t bring him up here because that fool is insisting he’s good to play. He gave the usual speech— Russian machine never breaks !”

Oh, Volkov. “If he has a serious disc injury, I’m not playing him no matter how hard he whines. He could have permanent nerve damage if we don’t intervene, right?”

The trainer nods. “We’ll have to see the scans, but the course of treatment would be rest, cortisone shots, the works.”

“Yeah. Sorry, Coach,” the doctor says. “I got a bad feeling.”

“Okay. Keep me posted. And I’ll make sure the other goaltenders are aware.”

They depart a minute later, and I stand in my quiet hotel room, trying to steer my brain back onto the finals. I take out my phone and message Jethro.

Were you eavesdropping?

You call it eavesdropping. I call it being well-informed.

Your well-informed ass is going to be playing a lot of hockey next week.

That’s what I’m here for, Coach. Not just another pretty face.

Make sure your pretty face is on the jet in two hours. We’ve got work to do.

He sends me a saluting emoji.