Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
But we were going to have to meet on the ice. And just like every other time, all eyes were on us. Maybe more so.
We’d left Elmwood on friendly terms, and our names hadn’t been associated since I’d come out. An ex-girlfriend or fuck-buddy of his had posted pics of Mason shirtless, but I knew that body like my own and there were a few tattoos missing that suggested the photos were at least a year old. I hated the flare of jealousy, but it wasn’t my business.
I had to move on. This was about hockey now, not my hopelessly fractured heart.
I stood next to our goalie, hand on heart, jaw clenched in an effort not to stare as the announcer called his name and the crowd went wild. And I do mean wild.
The rafters shook as fans screamed, “Trin-sky, Trin-sky.”
And there he was, head high, a brilliant smile on his handsome face. I missed that smile. So fucking much. He was beautiful. So fierce and so proud.
Holy fuck, this was hard.
And knowing the fans expected some sort of interaction between us made it extra…awkward. No one was going to forget that he’d blamed Denver’s Stanley Cup loss on my damn leather jacket just because we were allegedly friends now. They wanted proof. They wanted his stamp of approval.
It came in the form of an up-nod in the faceoff circle. “Milligan.”
“Trinsky.”
“You’ve been busy,” he drawled.
The puck dropped and he was gone, flying toward our goal. I caught him. C’mon, this was still hockey. And even though this was a preseason game, we’d come to battle. I wasn’t about to let him win.
And this was what I’d always loved about competing with Trinsky. He drove me nuts, but no one pushed me like him. We skated like demons, scrapping it out against the boards in a constant battle for the puck. I wanted it, he wanted it. I was invested in the thrill of playing with a worthy adversary.
I worked my ass off for that goal in the second period and if I shoved him a little too hard to break up a play, so what? The mischievous glint in his eyes told me he didn’t mind.
But in the third period, he tripped me and I saw red. The ref saw too and Trinsky was destined for the sin bin, but the gloves came off and I was on top of him in a heartbeat.
“What the fuck was that?” I growled.
Trinsky put his hands up in mock surrender and laughed, then lowered his voice for my ears only. “I had to get your attention. I’ll text you my address after the game. Come over. I want to talk to you.”
“Mase, I don’t—”
He pulled me in for a hug. At center ice in the middle of a fucking game. “Please. And now…if you don’t punch me, I’m gonna have to take you down.”
I punched him.
We both got two-minute penalties.
Much to Denver’s delight, we lost, 2-3.
I showered quickly, answered a few questions for the reporter who’d literally stalked me into the locker room, and made up an excuse about meeting a family member to my teammates. I should have had dinner with them, but I was too churned up to feel guilty.
True to his word, there was a text waiting for me with an address, directions to the back entrance, a code, and a simple message.
Please.
I drove my rental to Trinsky’s luxury high-rise building, followed his instructions, and knocked on his door.
And knocked.
I raised my hand to knock a third time when Mason buzzed me in, his hair damp and his snug black tee sticking to his body as if he hadn’t properly dried himself off.
“Sorry about that. I hurried out of there tonight without showering and…I stunk.” Mason wiped his hands on his jeans and gestured toward his contemporary-style kitchen. “Want something to drink?”
“Um…no. I’m fine. I’m—why am I here, Mase?”
He dropped his hands to his side. “You came out.”
“Yeah, I told you I was going to—”
“I didn’t think you meant now.”
“It felt right.”
He nodded. “Oh. Okay.”
“Was that all?”
“Yeah. I mean, I think it’s great, and um…” He closed his eyes briefly. “Fuck, I fucking hate that you did it alone. I should have been there for you. You wouldn’t take my fucking phone calls, and you wouldn’t let me in, and I fucking belong there. It’s wrong. It feels wrong and is wrong and I hate it.”
I had nothing.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you. We talked about this. We agreed that it was over and—”
“Fuck that.”
“Mase, I don’t—”
“I love you, asshole. Don’t you get it? I fucking love you.”
“You…I—”
“Yeah, I love you, and I want to be with you. So you gotta let me in, Jake. Let me be part of your future. Let me be someone you need, ’cause God knows I need you, and I’m so damn tired of doing this alone. I just…love you.”