Coach yells something I half-hear, but I don’t stop. I’m buzzing. All edge. No chill. Every cell in my body feels likeit’s vibrating with the need to do something—anything—other than think about Todd.
Because if I do, I’ll replay the way he looked at me when he came apart in my hands. The way his body arched into mine, hungry and open and fucking beautiful. I’ll remember the tiny little sounds he made when I told him to be a good boy. The way his whole chest stuttered when I called him baby.
Fuck, it’s been days since Friday night. And twenty-four hours since the showers. I didn’t message him again, even though I wanted to. I half hoped he would show up at my place last night.
Obviously that was a crazy wish, because that’s not him. Unless I order him to do it, he might like that, but I want him to show up all on his own. Hell, I know he’d like that.
Man, I’m so screwed. Daniel is right; I need to put some distance between any thoughts of him and my heart before I make this more than it is.
So now I’m skating like I’m trying to outrun the silence. Shoving harder, playing dirtier, ignoring every warning bell in my head screaming that this isn’t helping.
When Blue crosses into my space too slowly, I hit him. Shoulder first, no apology. He goes down with a grunt, and for a second, I wish he’d hit me back.
Hurt me. Drop his gloves and beat the shit out of me. Give me an excuse. Anything to distract from this ache I can’t seem to shake.
But he doesn’t. He just shoves himself off the ice and mutters something under his breath—something I don’t hear butfeel.
Coach blows the whistle, fed up. “That’s it! You’re donefor the day. Hit the showers. Come back tomorrow with your heads screwed on straight.”
Everyone skates off, dragging their sticks and leaving a trail of frustration behind them. The usual post-practice chatter is thin, brittle. No one’s in the mood.
I don’t wait around.
I make quick work of my gear, pulling off my skates before yanking off my pads and jersey like they’re suffocating me. The second I’m naked, I’m already moving toward the showers, ignoring the low hum of voices behind me.
Fast rinse. Hot water. Quickly washing off all the stink. No lingering. I scrub off the sweat and the tension, trying to leave it all on the tile. The tension clings anyway.
By the time I’m back at my cubby, the locker room’s still not full. I towel off, throw on my hoodie and jeans, shove everything else in my duffel. I sling my bag over my shoulder and head out without looking back.
The cool air outside hits like a slap, but I welcome it. At least it cuts through the noise in my head for a second. I climb into my Jeep, throw the bag in the passenger seat, and just sit there for a minute.
Hands on the wheel. Eyes on the dash. Breathing like I just finished a sprint. Because I have no idea what the hell I’m doing anymore.
And the worst part? I’d do it all over again.
If he asked.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, debating whether to drive or just sit here like a loser a little longer. Instead, I unlock my phone and scroll past the texts I haven’t replied to.
And hit call on the one contact that always answers.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Mom says, her voice warm and a little winded like she’s been cleaning or doing yoga or chasing the dog around the backyard again. “How was practice?”
“Fine,” I lie.
There’s a beat of silence. Then, “Logan.”
“Mom,” I groan. “I said it was fine.”
“That tone tells me it wasabsolutely notfine. What happened? Did you get hurt?”
“No. Not like that.” I exhale, sinking back against the headrest and watching the way the clouds roll low over the rink roof.
“Okay,” she says gently. “Then talk to me. You don’t usually call this early unless something’s up. And I know that voice.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “It’s stupid.”
“Try me.”
