Jamie bolts for it like a puppy who just found a tennis ball.
“It’s for us!” he says, holding it above his head like it’s the Stanley Cup.
I let him open it at the bar, right on the herringbone-patterned wood counter we haven’t sealed yet. He tears the tape with a pocketknife I told him not to use without me. I don’t say anything. Roe sent a box—we’re both allowed to be soft about it.
Jamie pulls out the items one at a time. There’s a signed puck from Chicago’s rookie phenom—“Dom says hi, and you still skate better than him,” the attached note says. There’s a T-shirt from some greasy diner Roe claims has the best fries in Canada, per his last set of games on the road. Jamie makes a face at the grease stains on the sleeve. “He definitely wore this already.”
And a folded sheet of paper. Handwritten. Not long. Not dramatic. “Bar looks incredible. Can’t wait to see it. You and Jamie are my whole damn gravity. Mid-season’s almost here—R.”
Jamie reads it out loud, then says:
“He’s the worst at pretending he’s not a softie.”
I nod and tuck the note in my back pocket so I can reread it whenever I want.
Chapter twenty-four
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Marge Calloway: Not to be dramatic, but Roe Monroe’s knee might be the most talked about joint in North America.
Ash Patel: Post-game analysts last night said he’s playing the best hockey of his career. One called it “mature, technical dominance.”
Stan Gordon: Another one said, “This isn’t a comeback. This is a redefinition.”
Riley Novak: His edgework is sharper, his slap shot’s back, and he’s taking hits like his knee never left the league.
I only get three days.
The league breaks for the All-Star weekend, and it’s the longest trip home I’ll have had since the season started. That includes the holidays where my watching over of Dom and Jamie’s schedules took priority. I was only gone long enough to say I was there for Christmas.
I say my goodbyes and count the hours until I’ll be sleeping in the bed I haven’t stopped thinking about since October.
Thatcher picks me up at the train station, and the look in his eyes is full of promise, even with the chaste kiss we share on the platform.
He drives with his hand on my thigh, and I drag my fingertips over his forearms.
Jamie’s at school and we don’t make it past the front hallway.
He presses me against the inside of the door, mouth hot against mine, like we’re picking up a conversation that never stopped. His hands are callused and sure—tugging me closer, under layers, around the small of my back.
“Missed you,” he murmurs, rough and low against my throat.
“I know,” I say, dragging my hands up under his shirt. “I missed you too.”
We don’t rush, but we don’t waste time either. It’s not frantic, but it’s not careful.
When his skin hits mine with nothing in between, I groan, thrilled with the feel of him against me.
By the time we’re in bed, Thatcher is being too much his methodical self in prepping me.
“Fuck, it’s good enough, Gabe,” I moan as his fingers know exactly what they’re doing.
“Not rushing this.”
I grab my dick that’s already beginning to throb. He chuckles and kisses the tip, sucking just enough to get the precum that’s dripping.
