There were fifteen seconds left on the clock, and we were tied. The Pistons, a travel team from Massachusetts, were down a man because of cross-checking. Asher had won the face-off.
He passed it to Cody, who raced down the ice. Their team was fast, and their men covered him in a moment.
I was wide open by the net and screamed for Cody to pass it. He ignored me, his eyes searching for anyone to pass to but me. He found Asher and passed it, but Asher was already covered, and their left defenseman intercepted the puck and bolted for our net.
It felt like the game moved in slow motion as he barreled toward Rowan. Asher did his best to catch up. The defenseman shoulder-checked Asher, sending him flying. Rowan braced himself, and all I could do as I charged forward was pray that this guy couldn’t shoot.
He could.
He scored with two seconds left in the game and secured the win.
Cody was done for.
Cody
Coach reamed out, and I deserved it.
I was ashamed of myself.
I let the hurt of it all sway my performance on the ice. What a fucking hypocrite I was. I did precisely what I was worried Rafael would do.
Hockey was my life, my passion, and I was letting our bullshit affect my commitment to the sport I loved.
Rafael sat in the corner of the locker room, his stare burning into my back, but I wouldn’t make eye contact.
He would have easily scored the winning shot had I passed it to him, but I wanted to take that away from him. It was a cowardly move.
We arrived at an empty house, and I made my way to the upstairs bathroom to shower. The warm water cascading down my aching shoulders was a welcome relief.
I toweled off and made my way to my bedroom, only to find Rafael sitting on my bed with his arms crossed.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” I asked.
His face was red with rage, and his jaw clicked as he ground his teeth. “We are going to work this out so you never pull a stunt like that again.”
“It was a scrimmage, Rafael. Relax.” I was bluffing. The heat of embarrassment warmed my cheeks. I should have never brought our shit onto the ice.
Rafael rose from the bed and approached. My body tensed as I prepared for the worst. He stopped inches before me with an unreadable look on his face. “Hit me.”
I blinked in confusion. “What?”
“Get it out of your system. Hit me,” he said again.
My heartbeat accelerated. Standoffs with Rafael stirred my emotions like nothing else. A collision of anger and arousal rumbled within. “Why would you let me hit you like this?” I asked.
“Because I hurt your feelings.” He said it so matter-of-factly that it left me speechless. “Hit me,” he said again.
His blue eyes stared into mine with quiet resignation. He braced himself for whatever I decided to do. Jesus, we were so fucked up. I didn’t want to fight with Rafael anymore. My hands didn’t long to pummel him like before; they longed to hold him.
“I don’t want to hit you.”
Our chests heaved as we stood face-to-face. The air in the room buzzed with the intensity radiating between us. Rafael’s hands slowly rose, and he cupped my face. My breath hitched at the touch. His fingers caressed my skin, and I closed my eyes as the longing I’d fought for days finally consumed me. Our foreheads pressed together, and my arms wrapped around his neck.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Our lips connected, and desire pooled at the base of my stomach. I pulled away and asked, “Rafael, what is this? What’s happening to us?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “But, I want it—I need it.”
