Page 22 of Blitz
“Don’t,” I snarled. “Just don’t.”
I let out a harsh sound between a laugh and a growl. I couldn’t afford for anyone to care.
Because if they saw us—if someone had taken a photo, if the wrong person had walked in, if some intern with a long lens had been nearby… fuck.
I saw it in my head, played out in sickening high definition: What did God do wrong?
I could already hear the panel shows. The radio hosts. The jokes. The sneers.
I imagined the faces of the Railers management with their fluffy rainbow-is-good shit. Hell, they’d be okay, but I’d seen the signs at their games, the homophobic crap that followed Noah last season. Christ, what about my family? The media destroying me. Destroying them? I’d lose everything if I gave into what I wanted.
“Weakness gets punished,”my father’s voice reminded me from somewhere in my memories. I was his golden boy; I wasallowed this hockey career as long as I paid. I flinched. My skin crawled.
I ran then, heart pounding, throat closing, every breath a knife. Tom didn’t follow me. Maybe he knew I couldn’t take it. I found a cab—don’t ask me how—and as soon as my hotel room door shut behind me, I broke. My heart ached, and I curled in on myself inside the door, silent sobs racking me until I was shaking.
I wanted what Tom was offering. God, I wanted it. The warmth, the care, the kiss I’d seen in his eyes before I bolted. I wanted that kiss more than anything. But the thought of reaching for it made my stomach turn. I felt sick. My head throbbed as if it was trying to hold back everything I didn’t want to feel.
I closed my eyes and shut it all out. The cab. The city. The man with the too-soft eyes and pillowy lips. I wanted his hard body, and to forget everything.
My cell buzzed with a message notification, and I crawled over the thick carpet to retrieve it, terrified I’d mistakenly sent that awful message.
Idiot Ball Chaser:If you want to talk. Private. Gated.
There wasa link to a map with a dropped pin—somewhere in South Jersey, over the Ben Franklin Bridge, and when I zoomed out, it was tucked into a stretch of woods along a closed road. A place away from cameras. From questions. From anyone who might see me for what I was. Certainly not the dorms where practice camp took place.
I wasn’t going. I told myself that at least six times, pacing my hotel room as if the floor was hot. If I didn’t go, this would all fade. He’d get over it. I could move on. But if I did go… Icould lay it out clearly. Tell him this wasn’t happening and that we weren’t doing this. Then, I could walk away, head back to Harrisburg, and pretend nothing happened.
So maybe I should go? To talk?
The thought kept twisting tighter, a knot I couldn’t loosen. My chest ached with it—like I needed to purge something, or it would eat me alive. And before I could think too hard, I was already in a cab, a generic Philly cap pulled low over my forehead, the driver whispering to someone on Bluetooth as the city slipped away behind us, and the bridge rose ahead.
Sweat pooled under my collar as I paced the sidewalk outside his gate, like some wired-up junkie waiting for the cab to turn and leave. I didn’t know what I was going to say. I didn’t have a plan. All I had was this burning in my chest, a wildfire of panic and shame and want. Too much want.
Trick:Outside.
It didn’t take longfor the gate to open. He came out in jeans and a worn hoodie, casual as if we weren’t standing on a fault line. His expression was cautious, but hopeful.
“Hey,” he said. “You okay?”
That question again. That fucking question.
“Do I look okay?” I snapped, taking a step toward him. He froze, reading the fury in my face. “Because I’m not. I haven’t been since you started looking at me like I was something you wanted.”
He didn’t speak. Just waited.
“I can’t do this,” I hissed. “You don’t get it. This thing between us—it’s not a flirtation. It’s not cute. It’s not harmless.”
“I didn’t say it was harmless,” he said softly. “But it’s not wrong either.”
“Isn’t it?” I laughed, the sound bitter. “You think I can just be yours? The NFL, the press, my dad’s congregation, the ministry, you think everyone will nod while I let you kiss me in public?”
Tom’s jaw flexed, “I’m sorry, I got caught up in?—”
“Do you know who my dad is?”
He dipped his gaze. “I didn’t until Ty told me, my friend Ty, he says your dad is Pastor Cole?”
“Brimstone and hell for sinners, Tom! This isn’t a fucking romance movie. You don’t get to make me think you can rescue me. You won’t fix my brain with mini-golf and protein shakes and sunshine.”
