“Teammates?” He scoffed. “I played professional hockey for years. Never once did I see teammates act the way you two do. It’s not normal.”
The threat was clear. Not subtle. Not kind.
Just my father, making sure I knew that being anything other than straight would be unacceptable.
“I have to go,” I said. I hung up before I said something I’d regret.
I sat there on my bed, hands shaking, my father’s words echoing in my head.
It’s not normal.
My own father, my only living relative, would reject me if he knew how I’d reacted to Marco’s book. And Marco?
Our friendship would shatter. Marco would reject me for invading his privacy, finding something he’d hidden, something deeply personal, and reading it without permission. For discovering a secret he clearly didn’t want anyone to know.
He’d never forgive me for that violation.
So, I had to keep this buried. Other than my father, Marco was my only family, and losing him wasn’t an option.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Étienne
I limped up the stairs, every muscle in my body screaming in protest.
The game against Seattle had been brutal. We’d lost 4–2, and I’d taken more hits than I could count. There was a bruise forming on my ribs that made each breath hurt, and another on my thigh, which had stiffened up during the drive home. I felt like I’d been thrown into a wall—or more accurately, the boards—repeatedly.
A bath. That’s what I needed. Hot water and twenty minutes of not moving.
I grabbed sleep pants from my room and headed to the hallway bathroom. I reached for the bathtub tap, then hesitated. Epsom salts. Did Marco keep any under the sink? I checked the cabinet—nothing but extra towels and toilet paper. But Marco might have some in his bathroom.
I headed down the hall to his room, my footsteps quiet. From downstairs, the low murmur of a sports broadcast drifted up. I opened the cabinet under the bathroom sink,crouched down, and rummaged through the contents. Deodorant, extra toothpaste, a first aid kit…
My hand brushed against something wrapped in a towel, shoved toward the back.
I pulled it out, curious what he’d need to keep wrapped up and hidden, and the towel came loose.
Something fell into my hand.
Long. Curved. Thick. Silicone. With a suction cup base.
A dildo.
I froze, my brain stuttering to a complete stop.
Marco had a dildo. Hidden under his bathroom sink, wrapped carefully in a towel like something precious or shameful or both.
Heat flooded my face. My pulse jumped. And before I could stop it, my mind supplied an image—vivid and unwanted and impossible to unsee.
Marco. In his shower. Using this.
My body responded immediately. Traitorously. Blood rushing south, my cock hardening despite the shock, the guilt, the absolute wrongness of thinking about my best friend like that.
Bon Dieu.
I should put it back. Should wrap it up, shove it in the cabinet, pretend I’d never found it. But I couldn’t move. Could only kneel there, holding it, my imagination running wild.
Marco had the book. The gay romance with the sex scene marked. And he had this. Hidden in his bathroom, where no one would find it.
