Page 9 of Scoring Zone
If I was smart, I’d take my own advice and think about my wants. But suddenly yearning after my straight best friend isn’t good for either of us. Dwelling on how my body is attuned to his every move isn’t beneficial. There’s a huge possibility that if I examine what I want between us, I’ll never be able to settle and go back to being his friend.
He’s not as straight as either of us thought, but that doesn’t mean he will want to change how he presents himself to the world.
His square jaw is tight, and his blond eyebrows scrunch over his blue eyes so it looks like he doesn’t have an upper lid. I don’t want to stresses him out.
For all I know, I could’ve been a one-night experiment gone wrong.
He wouldn’t do that.
At least Tinny would not, but I’m here with Ace, the hockey player.
Maybe they don’t want the same things.
Chapter 5
Austin
The Nashville game is minutes away, and my entire routine is off, which is a bad sign They’re a tough team, and my head needs to be in the game. I tune out the locker room noise to mentally prepare.
But I can’t understand why Gray is so nonchalant about what I did to him, as if he’s more worried about me than himself.
Logically, it makes sense since he has no clue how much I loved marking his skin, and part of me was proud of the horrible red bruises. He doesn’t know my dick gets hard every time I imagine sinking my teeth into his shoulder. Or how much I love his long brown hair trailing over my body like silk. How his skin tastes exactly like he smells: warm and sweet with a hint of spice. He doesn’t know I dream about doing worse things to his body. That I crave being inside him and being denied might kill me.
There isn’t a way to express remorse for those things without confessing them. He can never know how fucked up my brain is.No sane person fantasizes about fucking their best friend so hard it leaves them black and blue.
On the plane, he put his headphones on, cutting off our conversation, and I went to sleep as soon as we got to our hotel. My guilt argues that I avoided the conversation too, but I justify it as necessary for our game.
Hockey always comes first, and Grayson understands that.
Our text conversations are usually a steady stream—now my phone is silent. It’d be easy to text him, but today it feels impossible. My apology didn’t cover the depth of my regret, and Grayson has made it clear he doesn’t appreciate the word sorry.
Lucky and Benz pester me to dance for our pregame ritual, but I only manage a half-hearted attempt for the team. They claim we can’t win if I don’t dance. I’m already having trouble concentrating, so I won’t mess up their mojo on top of my issues.
“You guys played a helluva game in Vegas, and I expect the same effort tonight. Benz, you up for another goalie goal?” Coach asks rhetorically.
Usually before a game, I stop by Gray’s training room for my good luck routine: he claps his palms on my shoulders, taps his forehead against mine, and says “You got this.” It’s fast and silly, but I miss it. I’m sure he would’ve done it if I’d gone to him. But I didn’t and now I regret it.
The whiff of the ice and roar of the crowd help to get my head in the game.
The puck drops, Drake wins the face-off, and we speed down the ice. It’s strange to play with Drake and Lucky now. We’ve always had great intuition and awareness of each other, but now that they’re a couple, they’re extra in tune with each other, like they can read each other’s minds. It’s true opposites attract. Drake looks like the standoffish blond Swede he is, and Lucky is all-American Midwest, dark hair with a dimple inviting a person to share his joke.
That skill has benefited all our playing, but sometimes I can’t support them when they’re doing their own thing. Lucky feigns a pass to Drake, and the puck lands on my stick instead. Muscle memory takes over and I shoot. The goalie is slightly out of position, not expecting the pass to me. That fraction of a second reorientation from the goalie is all I need, and the lamp lights up.
Lucky wraps me in a hug and smacks my helmet as Drake slaps my back and uses his momentum to steer us toward the bench. The second line goes over the boards, and Gray passes me a water bottle with a smile.
I should stop inventing problems. Gray and I are fine. He’s my best friend. All I have to do is focus on my job and forget about how his muscles rippled under my hands. That he woke an insatiable part of me. That, no matter my attempts to find other men attractive, no one compares to him.
Nashville doesn’t make the game easy. We have to fight for the puck and every chance to score. One of their defenders trash-talks me and wants to fight. It’s not uncommon for hockey fights to be planned, but I’m not a fighter. All the teams know that, and opponents never ask me to throw down.
“Hit up number 23.” I point to Drake, who will fight him. Drake never backs down and most often starts unscripted brawls.
“He’s not my mark.” The Nashville player skates away, and I assume he’s going to drop it.
I’m wrong. On our next shift, he drops his gloves and takes a swing at me. I shove him away, but don’t take my gloves off or hit him back. That infuriates him, and a second before the buzzer ends the first period, he rips my helmet off and punches me in the face.
The refs immediately descend on us, and his players drag him away.
Coach sends me to the training room with Gray. He points at the exam table and snaps on gloves. I strip off my pads until I’m down to my base layer and sit.
