“Do you even like the Canucks anymore?” Marcus asks, and I shoot him a warning look, which he completely ignores. “You don’t follow them like you used to. Did they suck last year or something?”
John snorts a laugh. “Spoken like someone who doesn’t watch or play sports.”
Marcus grins and nods in confirmation.
When I finally look back at Michaels, his eyes are wide. “You stopped watching after my?—”
I stand abruptly and catch the back of my chair just before it clatters to the floor. “I just need to use the bathroom,” I say quickly and try to look casual as I walk stiffly toward the hallway.
When I get to the bathroom, I slam the door and put my shaking hands on the counter, trying to calm my racing heart.
What the fuck is this?
But deep down, I recognize that I’m having a panic attack. Iswallow and turn on the faucet, splashing cold water on my face. Then, I look at myself in the mirror, and my eyes flood with tears. I don’t know why this is bothering me so much. So I was interested in hockey. Big deal. Growing up near Canada, I’ve always loved the sport.
But it wasn’t just hockey the last few years, was it?
Watching Michaels on the ice was intoxicating. He was this heady mix of grace and raw masculinity. He was contradictory in every way. Complete chaos and precise order. And he only got better when he went pro—the way he manipulated the puck, his skates dancing around each other effortlessly. And his personality was magnetic. Charming and cavalier. He’d get this cocky half smirk when he taunted someone from the opposing team.
But he was just a good player. I wasn’t into him back then, was I?
My panic attack starts settling, but I jump when the bathroom door swings open. I turn to face Michaels, my backside digging into the edge of the countertop. He’s glaring at me, his pupils blown wide. He shuts the door with his hip and flicks the lock.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he growls. He smells like vodka and bad decisions, and my dick is so hard that it aches.
“Tell you what?” A warm tear slides down my cheek as the realization pours from my mouth like word vomit. “That I’ve been in love with you for years? That I watched every game, every interview, every bit of media footage just to see your stupidly handsome face?”
His expression changes to bewilderment.
“I didn’t understand before. No one but Fi had ever made me feel so visceral, but it was different. I didn’tknowyou then, so my feelings were illogical.” I wipe my cheeks. “And I didn’t recognize what I felt until the other day in Flurry.”
“You hated me.”
“I never hated you, but you showed up at my pub in theflesh, and I didn’t know how to deal with my emotions, so I focused on the only one that made sense, and I just made it into our whole relationship.”
“Which was…” His mouth is so close to mine that our lips graze.
“Anger. I was so mad that you’d gotten hurt, and no one seemed to give a shit. And I was pissed that you’d allowed yourself to fall so far when I knew what you were capable of. You’re an amazing fucking human, Michaels.” His hazel eyes are hooded as they drop to my lips. “Hockey pro or not, I wanted to see that spark again. So despite all the headaches you gave me, I never turned you away. I wanted to help you, but I didn’t know how.”
“You wanted to fix me like everyone else,” Michaels says, his voice cracking.
I shake my head. “No, baby.” I lift a hand to run my fingers through his hair. “You were perfect. There was nothing to fix. You were lost. There’s a difference.”
Any control that either of us had shatters when he crushes his soft lips to mine. It’s not his usual sweet technique. It’s raw and harsh and punishing, and I lean into him forcefully, clutching his face until the tips of my fingers whiten.
He fumbles with the buttons on my flannel and eagerly pushes it off my shoulders. His fingers are rough against my over-sensitive skin as he slides them across my pecs and traces down my stomach.
It’s the first time that it’s just been us without Fi in the mix, and while I still feel an inkling of uncertainty, I’m so turned on that I’m practically sobbing into his mouth, my breaths stuttering painfully in and out every time he touches me.
Michaels pulls back with a playful nip on my bottom lip. “Bastian, baby, relax,” he soothes, eyeing the way I’m white-knuckling the counter. “What do you need from me?” He reaches between us and palms my hard cock through my jeans.
“I need to come,” I whimper. “I–I want you to…”What do I want?“I want you to fuck me. Hard.”
Michaels freezes and his eyebrows disappear under his flop of hair. I push the dark-blond strands from his forehead. He leans into my touch, his eyes intense and hooded. “Here? In your sister’s bathroom?”
I give him a deadpan look. “I shared a bathroom with Charlie for years. Do you think I didn’t jack off in it all that time?”
“There’s my grumpy bear,” he purrs.
