Page 175 of The Blame Game

Shea smiled and held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Call me Kurt, please.”

“Would you like anything to drink?” Shea offered.

They settled on wine and Dom uncorked the bottle, grateful to have something to do. He poured glasses for the three of them, then drank half of his in a single gulp.

Shea stepped closer, brushing his hand along Dom’s back in a gesture of support.

Dom leaned into the touch and wondered if it was too late to cancel the whole evening. He could hash out his past with his father or tell the man he loved how much he appreciated everything he had done for him. Everything he continued to do.

Between the two, it was a pretty easy choice.

But no, Dom had promised himself, Ronnie, and Shea that he could do this. And he would, even if it killed him.

Fucking therapy.

Dom was so tired of dealing with his feelings. It had been so much easier to ignore the damn things.

But ignoring them had led to him hurting Christian, hurting his friends, and remaining estranged from his family. If Dom had any hope of keeping Shea in his life, he had to keep trying.

“So, you’re a stylist for an image consulting company?” Kurt asked Shea as they took seats on the living room sectional, appetizers spread out on the coffee table.

“I used to be, yes,” Shea said, clearing his throat. “But I did that job to put myself through school. I’m a physiotherapist now.”

Select Image Consulting had quietly let Shea go.

Shea had said it was no real loss, since he didn’t need the money and since Dom was his only client, he could easily pick out clothes for Dom as long as Dom wanted him to continue, but it was definitely the end of an era for him.

It was one more reason Dom knew he needed to have a conversation with Shea about their future. About how he felt and what he wanted.

“How’d you get into physiotherapy?” Kurt asked. “You used to be a hockey player, right?”

Shea nodded and told him about his injuries and recovery.

While they talked, Dom watched them interact.

There was no point in Dom’s life at which he’d ever expected to find himself in this situation.

From the moment he’d realized he didn’t like girls the way his teammates did, to the day he’d hired Shea, the thought of Kurt Olson making polite conversation with the man Dom was openly living with seemed unfathomable.

Hell, it had seemed unfathomable a few months ago.

But this felt right.

When Shea laughed at something his father said and patted Dom’s thigh, Dom reached out and threaded their fingers together.

He did it staring into his father’s eyes, daring him to say something. Daring him to make a big deal of it.

But all he did was smile a little and keep talking.

Dom didn’t know what the fuck to make of that.

He’d grown up to slurs being thrown around casually by Kurt and his teammates. All of the men Dom had looked up to had said them. Hell, Dom had said them. He’d had to, fearing that if he didn’t, they’d realize he was exactly like the people they mocked.

And then Dom wondered how many teammates of his had been hiding something too, terrified and ashamed of who they were.

Hiding who they were. Who they loved.

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