He gripped my shoulder hard enough to leave marks.
"Heath—" My name in his mouth.
I kissed him as he came. Swallowed the sound, raw and uncontained.
He recovered quickly, reaching for me with a confident grip. He stroked with a perfect rhythm that unraveled me.
"Like that," he said softly.
"Fuck."
"A little faster?"
"Please."
I came with his name caught between my teeth.
Kieran pulled the duvet over us. "We have a game tomorrow."
"I'm aware."
"Does that mean I should—"
Neither of us moved. One of Kieran's legs settled between mine. I reached out to wrap an arm across his chest. The air conditioning cycled off, and the room was quiet enough that I could hear both of us breathing.
"Kieran."
"Mm."
"Your film study was good."
"Go to sleep, Donnelly."
I pressed my face into his shoulder. He wrapped a hand around the back of my neck and kept it there.
I fell asleep listening to his heartbeat.
At 4:00 AM, I woke to a room I didn't recognize.
A sharp, full-body jolt. I'd checked into the room alone, but there was somebody else in my bed.
Then Kieran's weight registered, his heavy arm across my chest. He exhaled against my shoulder.
I thought about the connecting door. Was it locked? If someone entered Kieran's room, they'd find a made bed where no one slept.
Morality clauses. Ownership's old-guard politics. Two players emerging into the same hallway at 6:40 AM. I calculated the math of a month without an NHL player's salary.
My dad's prescriptions. My family's mortgage.
Kieran's face was slack, his mouth slightly open. He looked like a man who'd fallen asleep in a place he trusted and wasn't braced for morning yet.
I closed my eyes and fell back asleep.
Light crept under the curtains at six. LA dawn.
Kieran was awake.
"Morning," he said.
