“The score doesn’t matter.”
His jaw drops, indignation flooding his face as he rounds on me. “The score doesn’t matter? What thefuckdo you mean itdoesn’t matter? It’s theonlything that matters!” he yells, lashing out wildly. “This is your team! It’s your net! And I pissed all over it!” His voice cracks.
“I wasn’t watching the puck,” I tell him, keeping my voice low and steady. “I was watching you. I didn’t see a bad goalie, Tanner. I saw ascaredone.”
The fight drains out of him all at once. His shoulders slump as his rage is suddenly replaced with exhaustion.
“I can’t do this,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m not you, Louis. I can’t—I can’t be what they need. Whatyouneed.”
My heart gives a painful squeeze, and it’s got nothing to do with the torn muscle fibers in my chest. I shift my weight, wincing at the movement, and pat the mattress beside my good hip.
“Come here.”
He hesitates, eyeing the bed like it’s a trap. “I’m sweaty and gross. I need another shower.”
“I didn’t ask for a hygiene report. Come here.”
He swallows hard before taking a tentative step toward me, followed by another, before sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from me. His back is bowed, and the tension rolls off him in waves so thick I can almost smell it. He’s waiting for me to tell him he needs to pack his bags and get the hell out.
I reach out with my good arm, placing my hand gently on the back of his neck. His skin is burning hot and damp with sweat.
The second I touch him, the dam breaks.
A shudder rips through him. He makes a broken noise, crumbling under my touch like he’s run out of strength.
I stroke the tense cord of muscle in his neck. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
“I fucked up,” he gasps, his head dropping back, exposing his throat. “I couldn’t focus. I kept seeing—I couldn’t stop—”
“I know.”
He turns to me, his blue eyes glassy and red-rimmed. “I wanted it so bad. To prove I’m good enough. To the team, to everyone… Toyou.”
The air in the room is suddenly thick.
We’re not talking about hockey anymore.
I take him in. This incredibly talented, intense, driven man who is utterly terrified of being a burden.
Suddenly, the clarity hits me harder than the painkillers. This is no longer about helping a teammate get over a tough loss.
It’s about comforting someone I’m starting to care about. A lot.
For weeks, I’ve been agonizing over labels. Straight? Bi? Confused? Just curious? But my injury stripped away the bullshit and brought everything into focus. I don’t care about thelabel or the optics or what everyone will say. I only care that he’s hurting and want to soothe his pain.
I want to erase that shitty game from his mind. I want to be the only thing he can think about.
I slide my hand from his neck to his jaw, brushing my thumb over his bottom lip.
He goes still, his pupils blown wide.
“Come here,” I command, tugging him down. “Let me take care of you.”
My words hang in the small space between us.
Tanner stares at me, his breathing shallow, like he’s searching my face to see if I’m lying, or like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I keep my hand on his jaw, grounding him.
