He raised his hips.
I wrapped my hand around the base of his cock and took the head into my mouth. He was hot and heavy against my tongue, and I heard him stop breathing. He placed a hand on the back of my head, fingers spread.
I went slowly. Listened for the catches in his breathing, the short inhale that meantmore, and the held breath that meantclose. When his thigh tensed against my shoulder, I adjusted. When his fingers tightened in my hair, I stayed.
"Kieran—"
I felt him close to the edge, breathing ragged and his thigh shaking against my shoulder. He was loud when he came, not trying to be quiet about it. I stayed through it, swallowing, easing him down, pressing my forehead against his hip.
He pulled me up by my arms. Kissed me hard, without hesitation, already working on my belt and my zipper. He wrapped his fingers around me and stroked, perfect pressure and rhythm, muscle memory that had survived three weeks of distance and the damage between us without degrading.
"Like this?"
I couldn't answer in words. The moan I made was sufficient.
He adjusted before I could ask, reading my breathing the way he read a goalie's weight transfer. His thumb brushed the spot that unraveled me.
I came hard, gripping his shoulder.
We lay in the aftermath, side by side, his leg hooked over mine. Wendell's filter clicked through its cycle. The tank light moved across the ceiling in slow, shifting bands.
"We're not fixed," he said.
"No."
"But we're doing this."
"Yeah. We're doing this."
He closed his eyes and reached out for my hand, lacing our fingers together.
Sleep came faster than I expected. First time in weeks.
Two days later, practice ran clean.
First drill: controlled breakout, three-on-three, puck support through neutral. I lined up on the right half-wall. Heath on the left. Cross at center.
Cross won the draw back to the point. Rook surveyed, found the lane through the slot clogged, and cycled low. I carried wide, scanning for Heath's route.
He drove the net. Same line, same commitment, elbows out, stick flat, refusing to leave the space. Garrett leaned into him with a shoulder through the ribs.
Heath absorbed it. Kept his blade on the ice.
I released the puck.
The pass arrived at his tape a half-second before the second check landed. He redirected without looking. The puck hit the back of the net with the muted snap of mesh catching rubber.
Holloway kicked it out. We reset.
The chemistry differed from January, when the passes had felt telepathic and the broadcast booth reached for words likeinevitable. We were rebuilding a language from its roots. The early sentences required care. The basic structure was there.
On the bench between reps, I sat and sucked down water. Heath sat three spots down, the same distance as always.
He tapped his stick against the boards. A quiet double-knock against the dasher that I hadn't heard directed at me in weeks. No eye contact. Just the stick.
I tapped back.
Rook skated past during the line change without speaking. He gave us three extra feet of space, a veteran's instinct for knowing when a pairing needed room to recalibrate without another body in the gap.
