Part of me wishes I was still in bed with Merci, not just because I’m tired, but because of him—curled up against me, his head tucked under my chin, his breath warm and even against my chest.
For once, everything inside my head had been . . . quiet.
No chaos. No sharp edges. Just calm.
I’d stayed longer than I should have, watching him sleep. His face was relaxed, peaceful in a way I don’t thinkI’ve ever seen before. No furrow in his brow. No thrashing or crying out.
No nightmares.
Does he still have them? Noticed the nightlight in his room.
I still can hear those raw, guttural screams that tore through the walls of the house when he first moved in. I never asked him about them back then. Didn’t see the purpose of knowing.
Now, I want to.
Before I left, I'd also carefully checked Merci's ass to make sure I hadn't hurt him. The skin was pink but not bruised. Hadn’t meant to spank him as hard as I did, but the way he begged, the way he arched into every slap, I’d gotten carried away.
And he definitely likes being collared. Figured as much after he whimpered that time in the warehouse when I jerked on the chain. But after stopping at my dorm to clean up after the fight, I figured I’d bring a leather one I had lying around—just in case.
I hadn’t gone there expecting to fuck, but I was worked up, not just because of the fight but because of seeing Merci dancing up on the table. There’s no denying he’s hot, no denying how much my cock craves him.
But I wasn’t going to force him either.
What I didn’t expect was how his whole body flushed when I put the collar on him or how he asked me not to take it off. As he slept against me, I stared at the leather around his neck, snarling at the thought of him wearing one that someone else had given him.
The glass doors to the sports complex slide open with a soft hiss, and the warmth inside hits me like a wall. I exhale sharply as I navigate the corridors and head straight for Coach Harper’s office.
I pause outside the door, my hand hovering over the handle. He hadn’t told me what this meeting was about, and I fucking hate surprises. Not wanting to waste more time, I push the door open and walk in.
Coach Harper sits behind his desk and a man I've never seen before stands beside him. The new guy’s taller but leaner, with a neatly trimmed beard and brown hair. His white button-down shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, revealing forearms covered in tattoos, and he’s wearing a pair of black dress pants.
If anything, he looks . . . imposing.
Like he owns the room just by standing in it.
The man’s gaze locks onto mine. His eyes are sharp and assessing, as if he’s dissecting me with every blink.
My eyes dart to Coach Harper. “Who’s this?”
Coach folds his hands on the desk. "This is Tommy. My brother."
My jaw tightens, my left hand flexing again. “Why’s he here?”
“He’s the physical therapy connection I mentioned.”
“The person who will help you.” Tommy’s voice is firm and to the point as he steps around the desk. “Assuming you’re not going to waste my time.”
I glare at my coach, heat prickling at the back of my neck. “I didn’t agree to this.”
“You didn’t have to. You need this, Zach. And Tommy’s the best. He’s worked with athletes at every level, including the NHL.”
My stomach churns, a tight, relentless knot forming as soon as the NHL is mentioned. The dream I’ve been clawing toward my entire life—that I’m still desperately fighting for— feels like it’s slipping through my fingers. “Does he know everything?”
“You can trust him. He’s not going to say anything to anyone. Not about your arm or anything else you choose to share. He’s here to help.”
“Beckett told me about the nerve damage, reduced sensation, and some coordination issues.” Tommy Harper’s gaze sharpens, his arms crossing. “I don’t care about anything other than getting you back to full functionality. Don’t even give a shit why it’s messed up. My job is to fix it.”
I don’t like this, don’t like being ambushed. My fingers curl into fists at my side. "And if I refuse?"
