Page 32 of Playing Rough

Or in relation to any guy?

I really need to set aside time to figure out what the hell I’m doing with him.

I paste on an easy smile, extending my hand. "Riot Kensington, pleasure to meet you both."

"Well, aren't you polite as pie!" His mom clasps my hand warmly. "I'm Aubrey, and this is London's brother Leo."

Leo's clearly a few years younger than London and still has some growing left to do, but the family resemblance is clear from his tousled blond hair to his quick, assessing hazel gaze.

"So you're the rival, huh?" Leo asks, arms crossed over his skinny chest. "London told me all about you."

The hint of warning in his tone makes me bite back a laugh. Clearly the protective younger brother role. London rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning.

"Only shitty stuff, I'm sure," I reply lightly. "All true, of course. Your brother and I have clashed on the ice more than once."

"Yeah, I'll bet." Leo scrutinizes me a moment longer before breaking into a sudden grin.

"Wanna see London's baby pictures? He was such an awkward kid. Braces, acne, the whole shebang."

"Hey now—" London protests, but Leo's already dragging me toward the photos. Chuckling under London's baleful stare, I let myself be pulled along.

Leo points out shot after entertaining shot—a toothless, grinning toddler London clutching a hockey stick, awkward preteen London scowling under a truly tragic 90s throwback bowl cut. Each offers a window into the boy who became the man stirring up feelings that confuse the shit out of me.

The afternoon passes quickly, lunch filled with Aubrey's stories of London's escapades and early hockey exploits. Leo pesters me with questions about university life and I sense his thirst to experience the wider world. London remains uncharacteristically quiet, eyes lingering on me anytime I interact with his family.

Under the table, my fingers find his and curl around them. He flips his palm and weaves our fingers together. I’m surprised when London doesn't pull away, and instead his palm is warm and solid against mine. I’m soaking up these moments, wishing I could maintain this easy connection between us once we're back on campus. London’s slowly letting his guard down and I’m fucking here for it one hundred percent.

After lunch, London suggests we take a walk, and he grabs my hand the second we step out onto the sidewalk, like he couldn’t stand the two minutes between when we got up from the table and he had to stop touching me until now.

The frigid air outside shocks my lungs, but London seems invigorated by it, leading us with purpose. He only releases my hand when we reach a sad little community rink encircled by a chain-link fence.

"Ta da. My home away from home as a kid," London announces wryly, sweeping his arm at the unfortunate rink.

I take it in—the scarred ice, rusting goalposts, and wooden boards with peeling blue paint. Cracks web the concrete nearby from stubborn weeds poking through.

Everything about this place screams neglect. Except for the freshly shoveled snow by the gate, revealing it still gets use. My throat tightens, picturing young London spending hours here, seeking solace on this beat up ice.

London leans against the gate, lost in memory. "I'd sneak over here after school and skate for hours sometimes. The owner didn't mind, it wasn't like crowds were lining up to use it. Gave me an escape when things got chaotic at home."

His smile holds old hurts and ferocious longing. This place shaped the fire in him. Forged his love for the ice not in spite of its imperfections, but because of them.

Overcome by the significance of him bringing me here, I wrap my arm around his waist and pull him into me. "You persevered because of places like this. They made you the player you are. The person you are."

London searches my face, defenses cracking. "Everything I have is because I didn't give up." His voice holds quiet conviction. "That's why I can't stop fighting now."

"I know," I breathe. And I do. That inner flame drives him, even as it threatens to consume him from within. I wish I possessed half his strength of spirit.

It hits me then: I’m really fucking proud of him.

We stand in charged silence outside that beat-up rink of London's past. I'm struggling to express how much this glimpse into his world means to me, and so I say nothing.

This newfound closeness frightens me, even as I crave more. What is it about London Lancaster that manages to shatter my walls and rattle my composure? He's a force of nature, bending me to his ferocious will.

I want to grasp the full truth struggling to break through the surface. My heart pounds with it, like the too-full stands before a championship faceoff. But the time's not right yet.

For now, all I can do is meet London's eyes and hope he reads the depth of my gratitude. The rest will come soon enough if we keep circling this fragile ice between us. I know my truth won't stay hidden in the shadows forever. Not with him drawing it inexorably into the light.

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