“I’m good with that.” He beams as he leans in closer, a challenging glimmer in his brilliant brown eyes. “Being everything.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. And I just love him for it. For breaking the heaviness of the moment with his trademark cockiness. “Because I’m not gonna give up. Just so you know. You will bemine, all fucking mine, Cody Mitchell,” he near cackles, pushing his chest out. And I just lose it, my laughter intermingling with his, because he looks ridiculous and adorable and just like…everything.
“Luke, that’s not—” I protest, shaking my head, tears of laughter stinging in my eyes.
“Mine,” Luke repeats against my ear, his warm breath hitting my skin, the sensation sending all sorts of images of a shared future with him rushing through my head.
“Jesus…” I mumble as he shoots me his wicked million-dollar smile, my head spinning. Not with confusion, but with joy, I realize. Because I want to be his. Just as much as I want him to be mine, too.
And maybe, just maybe, it isn’t such an impossible dream.
Chapter Twenty
Cody
Something is going on.I can feel it the minute Luke and I walk into the locker room. Everything goes instantly quiet; the usual banter and shit talk gone in an instant, all eyes on us. Even Nowak, who’s usually in charge of the locker room entertainment, has stopped talking. Luke halts in his tracks next to me and looks around the room.
“Who died?” he says, looking straight at Riley, who immediately looks to Nowak, who snorts, spinning his phone in his hands.
“No one died,” Riley says, rubbing at his beard. “But someone made the news.” He turns toward Nowak, nodding at the phone.
“What news?” Luke asks, his voice calm and steady, his entire being unfazed while I’m immediately spun into a black hole, my mind conjuring up all sorts of apocalyptic scenarios.Why are wein the news? Is it bad? I bet it’s bad. What did they find out? This is it, right? I knew it was too good to be true. Shit. Did they find out about my old injury? Did they find out I’m gay? How did they find out I’m gay?
Crane smirks as he gets up from his seat on the bench and glides toward us, his eyes bright and overspilling with mirth like he can hardly contain himself.
“You’ve been holding out on us, Carrington,” he says, tilting his head slightly, grinning like a cat that just raided an entire bird’s nest. “Although… I see it now,” he nods. Luke waits him out, still projecting an almost bored aloofness, and it’s not until Crane’s gaze moves to me I feel Luke tensing up. His entire posture changes and the air sparks with electricity. “Mitchell, on the other hand…” Crane blinks, licking his bottom lip. “Makes perfect sense now that I think about it,” he winks. “Such a pretty boy.”
Before I have a chance to say anything, Luke steps in front of me and places his right finger in the middle of Crane’s forehead. Stressing each word with a tap, Luke growls, his voice with a deadly undertone I’ve never heard before, “Step. The. Fuck. Away. From. Him. Asshole.” I’ve seen Luke like this on the ice—protective and assertive during altercations—but I’ve never seen him like this before outside the rink. It’s so out of character for him, no trace left of his usual cool and calm demeanor. I can tell that Crane is surprised, too. He swallows audibly while Luke continues to stare daggers at him.
“Luke…” I reach out, placing my hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t seem to notice it, though, as he continues, “You don’t look at him. You don’t talk to him. You don’t even fucking breathe in the same space as him. You got that, Crane?”
Crane finally bats Luke’s finger away from his forehead, but he fails to hide that Luke’s words have not left him unaffected. They haven’t left me unaffected either. Holy…wow, I guess.Protective Luke goes straight to my chest and does something in there that feels a lot like fireworks. On crack. Fireworks on crack. No one has ever stood up like this for me before—at least not since Danny—and it makes me feel important and treasured and…
“What the fuck, dude. Relax. I was just messing around.” Crane looks at me and a muted growl escapes Luke’s lips. “Mitchell knows I was just messing around, right man?” Luke continues to stare at Crane and after a few heady seconds, Crane takes a step backward.
That’s Caps’ cue to get up from his seat and step between the two of them. With his six-foot-five, polar bear posture, he’s not easy to ignore.
“Guys, guys, can we just take a breather here?” He looks at first Crane, then Luke. Luke’s cheeks flush a fiery pink, while Crane looks slightly queasy, his face pale. “Crane, sit your ass back down.” Then Caps turns to Nowak. “Enlighten us, please, because I know you’re dying to.”
The dread returns just that fast, a heaviness making a home in my stomach. Bile rises in my throat, and I feel like just spinning around on my heel and getting out of here. To just run all the way back to Arizona, or hell, even Siberia, never looking back, my mom’s words echoing in my head with every step. ‘You wanna be a deadbeat loser, just like your dad? Is that it, Cody? Because you’re well on your way.’
Nowak clears his throat before looking at Caps, who just nods at him.
“So, this is an article fromJust Women’s Sportsfrom two nights ago,” Nowak starts.
We played against the San Antonio Armadillos two nights ago and it was the first time that we went away with a win against the Californians. As soon as the game ended, the rink broke out in unprecedented celebrations, the crowd roaring like lions, callingout their favorite players’ names, holding banners high. There was a lot of press around when we left the arena, and some of the players were interviewed. I wasn’t one of them, though. I know Luke was, but post-game interviews are standard.
Nowak continues, his Polish accent struggling with a few words as he reads from his phone.
“So, the article is calledBuild Your Perfect Hockey Boyfriend.”He hesitates as he looks at me first, then Luke. We’re still standing a few steps from the entrance to the locker room and I’m sweating bullets in my winter gear. Pulling my beanie off my head, I quickly look at Luke, who just shrugs.
“No idea,” he murmurs to me before Nowak goes on reading.
“Number one,” Nowak starts. “‘Royal hair like yummy Swedish forward for the Cleveland Climbers, Noah Larsson. Best flow in the League.’” There are a few chuckles and low murmurs around the room. Larsson is an amazing player with a powerful presence, and outside the rink, he’s often featured with his long hair either gathered in a man bun or hanging loose, reaching his shoulders. Although he’s not my type, I do see the appeal with that whole Viking vibe he’s got going on.
“Number two,” Nowak cuts through the muted conversation. “‘A cute accent like Latvian Arturs Vasiljevs, smooth-talking goalie for the Halifax Huskies. Talk dirty to me, Arturs.’”
“Oh, Arturs,” Kennedy moans. “Talk dirty to me, Arturs.” He leans in against Virtanen’s shoulder, pretend-swooning, his eyelashes fluttering. The Finn just pushes him to the floor, chuckling. “Ouch, dude.” Kennedy grins back and Virtanen reaches down and pulls him back up by his shoulder guards.
“Quiet, please,” Nowak looks solemn before a cheeky grin washes over his face. “Number three,” he says ceremoniously, while Bardét does a drum roll with his palms against his cubby. “‘Another goalie to die for. Ice-melting eyes like Carey Arnold from the Moscow Hogs. Swoon, ladies.’”
