“Hey, Forsberg.” I reach through the scrum to appeal to theman Eriksson’s been skating with for the last three years. “What’s your plan for our friend, here?” If he won’t raise his hand to solve this problem, I’m gonna make him do it.
“Guess I should take ’im home.”
You think?I give it three more minutes, and when Forsberg doesn’t act, I nudge him again. “It’s only gonna get harder if he drinks more.”
“’Spose you’re right.” Finally—finally—he collars Eriksson and says, “Time to go, buddy. We did enough damage tonight already.”
No kidding.
I turn around to see how Jamie is making out, and holy shit. He is almostmaking out. The blond girl has pancaked herself against him, and her hands are wandering toward his ass. I’m completely unprepared for the surge of helpless, jealous anger that chokes me at the sight of their two golden heads so close together. Seriously, I feel like hurling a bar stool against the wall.
Jamie is attracted to women. Even after eight months together, it’s still hard for me to come to terms with that. I’ve seen the way he checks out girls on the street sometimes, and it kills me. Not that I’m a saint—I’ve checked out other guys before, too. It’s human nature to appreciate the hotness of others. But it’s so fucking scary to think that I’m competing with both menandwomen for Jamie’s affections.
You’re not competing for him, dumbass. He’s already yours.
The reminder calms me down. Slightly. But as I watch, a few more details of the scene between Jamie and this girl begin to stand out. Jamie is actually squirming with discomfort, not lust. And the hand that I thought was holding hers is actuallytrying to peel her palm off his butt cheek. “’Scuse me,” I hear him say. “Gotta hit the head.”
Swear to God I hear a sucking sound when he pries her off his chest. Then Jamie darts toward the restrooms faster than I’ve ever seen him move, even on skates.
And just like that I’m following him. I don’t give a shit who sees. The knot of jealousy in my gut is more urgent than my fear of being discovered.
Some guy who’s exiting the john holds the door open for me. I push inside the shadowy room, where I find Jamie standing at the sink, washing his hands. “Hey,” he says in surprise.
I say nothing. I grab his elbow and nudge him toward one of the three stalls. I practically shove him inside and bang the door shut. Then I push him up against the dented metal wall and kiss him. Hard.
He grabs my face in two wet hands and gives as good as he gets. He jams his tongue in my mouth and practically bruises me with his lips. It’s an angry kiss. I hear myself grunt with surprise and anguish.
Don’t get me wrong—it’s hot as hell. But we’re not about angry kisses, Jamie and me. We’re more of a pants-the-other-guy-tickle-his-ass-and-then-laugh-as-we-fall-on-the-bed couple.
But not tonight.
I smack my hips into his, and the stall wobbles. I attack his mouth. My hands clutch at his shirt. He tastes like beer, but there’s a cloying whiff of perfume that clings to him. I taste him even deeper to try to lose that foreign scent and shake off the disasters of the night.
But we hear the sudden sound of voices. They rise andswell and then quiet down again as someone opens the door and lets it fall shut again.
We freeze, mouth to mouth. Our eyes lock at too-close range, distorting the view, so Jamie appears to be a pissed-off blond cyclops.
I ease my mouth off his, but our foreheads remain pressed together. And we’re both trying not to pant from anger and exertion.
Whoever’s outside the stall whistles drunkenly to himself. I hear the telltale liquid rush of pee hitting a urinal. It’s probably only a minute later when the dude zips up and leaves. But it feels longer, because I have to stare into Jamie’s ornery eyes. They’re asking me why it has to be this way.
The bathroom door falls closed again, muffling the bathroom to silence, but it’s another moment before we speak. “Tell your friends goodnight,” I say roughly. “Let’s go home.”
“You first,” he snaps. “You’re the celebrity who can’t walk through this place without getting stopped.”
I want to argue the point, but that will only delay our trip home. So I do what needs to be done. I exit the stall and the bathroom. Only two of my teammates are left in the bar, and I say goodnight. Then I go outside to wait for Jamie on the sidewalk.
He takes longer, probably saying goodnight to his coworkers. I realize I haven’t metanyof the guys he works with every day. How fucked is that?
My mind serves up the memory of that chick rubbing herself against him. I make myself a little bit ill wondering if she’s trying to persuade him not to leave alone. I know he won’t do it, but I’m nauseous even so.
Finally he emerges, hands in his pockets, a dark expression on his face.
I stick my hand in the air, hoping for a cab to swing past and put an end to this crappy night. To my relief, one slows in front of me immediately. I open the door and gesture for Jamie to get in first. When he does, I practically sag with relief, right on the Toronto sidewalk.
We don’t talk on the way home, and when we get into our apartment, Jamie heads right for the shower. Either he smells that perfume, too, or he’s prepping for some angry make-up sex.
When he finally emerges, I’m in bed. Naked. Ready.
