“Haven’t you figured it out yet, Fel? I’m not going to live without you. I want to wake up to you every day. Everysingleday. I want to go to bed with your smile and your face in my neck where I can feel you breathing. That’s much easier to do when we live under the same roof. Don’t you think?”
His lips have parted as he looks at me.
“I didn’t ask if that’s okay”—carefully scrutinizing his expression—”because we agreed that I’m making your decisions for you.” I feel like I should be asking for his affirmation. But that’s not how he thrives. It’s not what he wants. So I don’t.
Felton nods. “You want me to live here?” he whispers.
“No, Felton. I want you. Period. Wherever you are, that’s where I’m going to be. I don’t really care where we live. I chose here because few people know where I live.”
He doesn’t need me to say what I really mean. His parents don’t know where I live. He’s safe from them here.
“You-you really want that.”
It’s not a question, but I can see the uncertainty in his eyes.
“One day, you won’t question me.”
Felton shakes his head. He’s not questioning. He just doesn’t believe that someone could want him when he’s spent his life being told that he’s a fuck-up. A disappointment. Literallyeveryonehas more to be proud of than him.
He’s wrong.
“There’s something that I want to talk about, though.” Felton nods and I can see his fear shine back at me. “I’d like you to consider talking to a therapist.”
Felton’s eyebrows knit together. “About what?”
I smile and press a kiss to his lips. “Everything. I’m not sure how to give you what you need in a way that’s going to help you heal. That’s not where my profession took me.” He flashes me a grin, and I’m relieved that I finally get to see a real smile. “This isn’t something I want to tell you to do without question. I want to know how you feel about it.”
“Where would I find someone?”
Already, I can feel his anxiety. I pull him close and press soft kisses all over his face until he relaxes, laughing quietly. “You don’t. I will. All you have to do is tell me if you’re comfortable with this. If you’ll consider it.”
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes,” I tell him. “I think it’s the help you need.”
“What if they tell me I’m sick because I want to do CNC?” he asks.
“Then we’ll find someone else, but I don’t think they will.”
“You already have someone?”
“Maybe,” I admit. I pocketed the number Nason gave me, though I haven’t checked her out yet. “Right now, all I want to know is how you feel about it. Then we’ll go from there. But justso you know, there’s nothing contingent on whether you want to do this or not. You’re still mine. I’m still keeping you.”
Felton’s eyes get glassy before he presses his face into my neck. After some time, he nods. “If you want me to, I will. I don’t know that I feel strongly one way or another. I’m just… I’m so tired.”
Tired of feeling this way. Tired of the burdens and the stress and the pressure. Tired of the disappointment and being told he never does anything right or good enough.
“I know,” I tell him, wrapping around him as tightly as I can. “And I’m going to do everything I can to take it all away, Fel. I promise.”
He sighs and, for the rest of the afternoon and night, we stay right there. We don’t move from our bed until the next day when we have to report to the arena for our next game.
Felton remains on the bench for the next two games, but when he finally says he’s ready to return to the ice, my big beast of a goalie is back. We win 4-1 and though I know he’s not mentally at the point where he needs to be, we’re taking little steps. Together.
THIRTY-THREE
FELTON
One year later—Christmas
