“Not that it’s dangerous to be boyfriends anymore,” Skarsgård added in his heavily accented voice. “We just want to protect the game we’ve been playing recently, which has been phenomenal. No drama is allowed.”
There was a collective murmur of agreement from the guys still in the room, and many side-eyes were directed at flustered staff members. The team loved their staff, and they would be nowhere without them, but whispering about a player’s personal life showed a huge lack of professionalism.
August wasn’t bothered by rumours. If he could survive the year that he was supposedly dating Jin Park because they both dyed their hair, he could survive anything.
But still, just becauseNiko was gay and he was living with a guy, didn’t automatically mean they were dating, and he was proud of his teammates for taking issue with it.
August left for the hotel feeling lighter, and the constant pain in his head felt less like a hammer beating against the inside of his skull and more like a soft ache.
“Good to know I’ll be dating every guy I interact with,” Niko said in his grumbly, bitchy tone. “And if you’re worried—”
“I’m not,” said August, shutting that shit down before Niko could get the words out of his mouth.
Niko’s scowl stretched the scar on his mouth, and yeah, he was cute in an adorable way—a little brother way, but August felt nothing beyond friendship for him.
Besides, his eyes were the wrong shade of green.
When they made it to the hotel room, they spent their downtime watching highlights from games they had missed, and August napped. He was napping a lot lately. He chalked it up to the pressure of being one of the star players on his team, but fuck, he was exhausted.
It’s not like sleep was restful, either. His past had a nasty way of creeping into dreams of playing hockey and hoisting the Stanley Cup, turning them into nightmares filled with the cracking of a belt against his skin and his father’s cruel words.
His father’s hate.
His father’s gurgling sounds as he died with his hands covered in August’s blood.
But he preferred those dreams to the ones he had of Quinn. At least his father’s hate was expected, as was the anger and terror when August woke screaming. The dreams with Quinn were different, and there was nothing great about waking with his pillow wet with tears.
Those dreams were all the same, replaying their brief time spent together. The hand holding, the shy kisses, and the way Quinn talked about his future—a future that might have room for August if he was brave enough to ask.
When he was awake, August couldn’t remember any of these things, which made everything hurtworse.
Why? Why couldn’t he remember?
How could he not recall the warmth in Quinn’s eyes after their first kiss? He couldn’t remember the way Quinn’s guard always crumbled when they were alone, how the sarcasm and sharp edges melted away the moment August made him laugh.
And worst of all, he couldn’t remember the sight of Quinn’s body bathed in moonlight—the sheen of sweat glittering on his skin, the way his breath hitched when August’s hands finally traced the curves he’d dreamed of touching. The pale stretch of his stomach, the pink flush rising to his cheeks, the tremor that ran through him when August whispered his name.
“I can’t remember,” August moaned into his pillow. “I want to, but I can’t. Do I like guys, or just you? Was it always just you?”
An amused chuckle. A flicker of a smirk.
“Is this a backhanded way of…asking me to show you?”
Show him?
In his dream, August reached out with a shaking hand and brushed a finger over Quinn’s nipple, watching his stomach muscles flex in response.
“Yeah. I trust you. I need to know before I go crazy.”
He needed to know if Quinn still loved him. He needed to know if the August who loved him back was the real him, or if the current August was who he was supposed to be.
“Come to my room.”
Room, right.
August knocked on the shiny, black door with the number 709 on the front, blinking rapidly when it opened to reveal…
Quinn.
