I drape it over his shoulders, helping him get his good arm into the sleeve and leaving the other side to hang empty.
I move to stand directly in front of him and grab both sides of the hoodie’s zipper. It’s a simple task, but for some reason, my hands are trembling slightly, so I fumble with it, and it takes me a minute to get the zipper started.
“Carson called up McWhittier,” Louis says suddenly, his voice rough. “Before I was even off the table.”
I finally get the zipper to catch and start to pull it up slowly. “I know.”
“I’m fucking finished, Sinc.” His voice cracks. “I’m thirty-four. A grade 3 tear? At my age? That’s it.”
I keep my eyes focused on the Sasquatch logo on his chest as I pull the zipper up.
“No it’s not. You’re Louis fucking Tremblay,” I say quietly. “This isn’t going to be how you go out.”
He lets out a bitter laugh. “You saw what happened. They’re already moving on.”
“McWhittier's a placeholder.” I smooth the hoodie down over his good shoulder. “It’s still your net. We’re just borrowing it.”
He goes quiet. When I step back, he’s looking at me with glass in his dark eyes. He’s holding on by a thread.
“Thanks,” he whispers.
I nod. Then I glance down at his bare feet.
“Okay, get your ass back on the table. Shoes next.”
He follows my gaze and breathes out shakily. “Okay.”
He reaches for his socks, but lets out a hiss of pain when he bends forward.
“Don’t,” I say. “I got it.”
I grab the socks and kneel on the floor between his knees.
Jesus, could this be more… suggestive? A rush of blood heads south, directly to my dick. Being on my knees in front of Louis Tremblay is a thrill I had no idea I needed. But my body definitely likes it.Fucking hell, not the time, Sinclair!
This isn’t about sex or even about the power dynamics—the whole “Young Gun on his knees before the Fallen King” scenario. This is about helping a man who’s hurting.
I pick up his socks. “Left foot first.”
He stares at me, like he can’t quite believe I’m doing this.
I slide the socks on, then grab his sneakers. I slide them onto his feet and tie them efficiently.
When I’m done, I look up at him, resting my hands on his knees for a second.
His good hand twitches like he wants to reach for me. But he doesn’t.
I get to my feet, and the spell breaks. “Ready?” I ask.
He swallows hard and nods. “Yeah. Let’s get on the bus.”
I open the door. It sounds like the media scrum has moved down the hall, probably in search of Carson or Coach. I’m sure they’re voracious to get news about our star goaltender’s injury. I step out of the room first, positioning myself between Louis and the noise, using my body as a shield.
We walk toward the exit together, and I don’t move out of the way until we’re safely on the bus.
Chapter 7
Louis
