I furrow my brows in confusion, letting out a small laugh as he mimics making a mess over his face with his hand.
“Can we go to bed now?” he asks around a yawn.
I give his ass a gentle slap for him to stand, and then we get ready for bed. He places the otter on the armchair in the cornerof his room that I’ve come to realize is more for his clothes than its actual purpose, then crawls into bed next to me. I wrap my arms around him, and he curls against my side, resting his head on my chest.
“I love you,” he says, tipping his head back to look at me.
I press a kiss to his forehead. “I love you too, El.”
“Thanks for loving me.”
“Thanks for letting me love you,” I whisper.
“Thanks for picking me to let you love me.”
A light huff leaves my lips. I cup his face and trace over his lips with my thumb. The tip of his tongue darts out enough to swirl around it, and I’m on top of him in an instant, sinking my hips onto his and nuzzling my face into his neck.
My voice is gravel when I murmur, “Now, be a good boy and let me love you.”
“Mhm, whatever you say,Lieutenant.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
FOUR MONTHS LATER – JUNE
Elliot
“Let’s fucking go, boys!” Peyton shouts, tapping his stick aggressively against the floor.
“Yahooo!” Blaine howls next to me, then smacks his stick into my leg pads.
If it were any other game, I’d be right in the middle with them, howling like a wolf at the moon. But it’s game six of the Stanley Cup Finals, and we’re about to step back onto the ice for the third period. We’ve had an incredible run so far, and if we win this, we’ll be back-to-back champions.
Back-to-back champions.
Fuck. It doesn’t feel real.
The score is currently 3-1, but Florida hasn’t made it easy for us. They’ve been dishing out dirty hits and doing it in such a subtle way that the officials haven’t noticed or haven’t cared to call it. One of their wingers has been taunting me all night, calling me names and purposefully standing in my way or hittingme in the head with the butt of his stick. I won’t let him rile me up, though.
I want my name on the Cup again, next to Blaine’s. I want us to continue to make history for another year running.
The buzzer sounds, letting the crowd know the period is about to start, and I lead my teammates down the tunnel. The crowd is so loud tonight. Their roars vibrate through the arena, but as always, the second my skate touches the ice, I block out the noise, and my brain becomes silent. It’s like the volume dial has been lowered for the rest of the noise in my head too.
I have a single shot focus, and nothing is going to break that.
Skating over to the net, I drop my water bottle on top, then go through my usual routine. Scuff up the ice with my skates, pat the right post, pat the left, then use my glove to pat the crossbar.
“You’ve been good to me so far, but I need you to keep it up for me. The next twenty minutes are gonna be legendary. We’re going to make the history books, you and me,” I say to the painted steel, giving it another loving pat. “You up for that?”
Obviously, the posts don’t answer because they can’t talk, but I give a firm nod in agreement. Lifting my mask, I shake off my glove to pick up my water bottle and squirt some water in my mouth before squirting some over my face. I shake my head in the same way Boomer does when he gets out of the bath and secure my mask back in place.
Tracing the outline of the blue paint, I tap the blade of my stick into my glove before crouching down into position, ready for Blaine to take the face-off.
We’ve got this.
Blaine wins the drop, and the clock begins to count down the final twenty minutes. As expected, Florida are all over them in the offensive zone, trying their best to use aggression and bullying tactics to get the better of my teammates, but they fail to take possession of the puck.
We’ve been rock solid this whole time. Nothing is going to break through us.
