Then the afternoon in my office happened.
God, now I was fucked.
The spark in my gut had spread like goddamn wildfire, burning up a little more of my resolve to keep my hands, and mouth, off him.
The scene repeated itself in my mind endlessly: Cade’s cheek pressed against my bicep as he slept through the tape we were supposed to be watching, the hint of some herbal shampoo that reached my nose as it wafted up from his copper curls, the way the lines of stress on his face softened with his features relaxed in sleep.
It all added up to a tsunami of desire I was holding back by sheer grit at this point.
He hadn’t revealed even a hint of his sexuality in my presence. The glaring ethical concerns aside, I had no business hanging on to these feelings when I had no hope of him reciprocating them.
If not for his dedication to avoiding me over the past fourteen days, I doubt I would have been able to resist the temptation of spending more time with him outside of the team.
Something about Cade demanded that I take care of him. I wanted to see more of the shy, easy smiles he offered me when I validated his insights on a particular idea.
Even if Cadewasinto men, and moreover, into me, I couldn’t call myself a catch at the moment. Technically, I was working for the Hammerheads this season, but the bulk of my “consulting” fee had already been promised to the two nearest children’s hospitals in the Greater Toronto Area.
But otherwise, I was too close to being the guy “who could have taken the team to the Cup twice in his career before he got injured.”
I was a man with an uncertain future.
Sure, I enjoyed coaching the Hammerheads more than I’d anticipated, but could I see myself doing it long term? Would there even be a spot for me on Zane’s staff next year if I asked him to let me stay on with the team?
Each day brought more uncertainty into my life.
Despite a lucky break a few years into my career, that shiny ten-million-dollar contract felt as though it was a coin toss away from disappearing every time I spent another month on the long-term injured reserve.
No one could guarantee that I’d be on the ice again next season with the Titans. Not “the best” orthopedic surgeon in Toronto, the team doctor, or even the physiotherapist I drovedowntown for twice a week, could tell me why my shoulder wasn’t responding to doing every-damn-thing right when it came to rehabbing.
If I heard “we just need to wait and see” in a pitying, placating tone from another person, I was going to lose it for sure.
Thank god I’d taken my agent’s advice and let her argue for a much higher signing bonus. At least I didn’t have to worry about money for several years.
Frankly, my biggest selling point might have been my cat.
And besides, if, by some miracle, I was able to get back to playing next season, what could I offer Cade? Eighty games a year with more than half being out of town, plus travel on either side? That wasn’t even taking the postseason into account.
And God, the media. My agent had been militant about my privacy since I’d been drafted. At sixteen, when all I could think about was being drafted, I didn’t understand just how much feeding the media monster demanded of anyone in the spotlight. I was lucky enough to have a support system around me and enough common sense in my yet-underdeveloped prefrontal cortex not to do anything too stupid as social media invaded every aspect of society.
But even in the months since it was leaked that Mira and I had broken up, there had been an uptick in more invasive posts about my personal life. I couldn’t imagine anyone as reserved as Cade wanting to step into a potential relationship where every interaction had the possibility of becoming a media firestorm.
Especially not a man in his early twenties on the cusp of stardom of his own.
Cade was a phenomenal center. His technical skills were almost machine-like in their perfection. If he could just get into a confident mindset and stay in the zone, the Titans would have to fight to get him onto a two-way contract. He’d have all theoptions in the world once everyone could see what I saw every time he stepped on the ice.
Why would Cade jump at the chance to hop into your bed for a hot night?
Except. . . him falling asleep against my arm was about the least sexual thing that could have happened, and yet it made me realize that one night would never be enough.
Restlessness took over my muscles. There was a small risk I’d run into my current obsession in the stairwell or lobby of the building, but with the way Cade had been avoiding me lately, I seriously doubted I’d see him.
Hell, if I hadn’t laid eyes on him multiple times a week at practice, I’d have sworn he’d quit the team. He was last in and first out of the locker room, sticking around only for a moment to hear any last-minute directions from Zane.
I didn’t have Cade’s number, so I had no way to subtly check on him other than trying to read his expression through his helmet visor and mouthguard during practices and games. Zane’s assistant took care of all team communication.
The rest of the time, his face resembled a statue, locked into a kind of neutral expression that could only be something he forced onto his gorgeous features.
Unable to sit and stew in my apartment another minute, I practically leapt off the couch, scooped up my keys and my favorite ratty, blue university baseball cap, and slapped the hat over my messy waves before my phone vibrated, pulling me from my Cade-induced rabbit hole.
