Jonah’s eyes were wide and staring, his brow furrowed. “I fucking knew I recognized that cologne. What is that? Brut?”
“I don’t know,” I grumbled, taking a step back.
“You smell like my granddad right before he died.”
“Fuck off.”
He snorted. “Was there a reason you were creeping in on my meeting with Tucker? Do you get that much of a hard-on watching me get chewed out by my coach?”
“Not everything is about you, dickhead,” I snarled. I tried to pass him, but with freaky precision, he stuck his cane out in front of me, and I nearly fell on my face. “You’re so fucking lucky I’m not interested in beating the shit out of blind people.”
“Right. Yeah. Lucky.” Jonah bared his teeth at me. “It has nothing to do with the fact that you’re terrified I’d be better at fighting than you.”
“You’re a goalie. What do you know about fighting?”
“I grew up a blind nerd. Trust me, I know a lot.” There was an edge to his tone that I wanted to ask about, but I wasn’t brave enough.
I let out a sigh. “This wasn’t about you. I didn’t know you’d be there tonight. I just had some questions about the event bullshit my coach has us doing with your team.”
“Right.” He licked his lips. “Did you—ah. Did you tell Tucker about tonight?”
“Your dad? The one you abandoned in his apartment, just like the rest of your family has done?”
His face went beet red. “Fuck you. You have no idea what I—” He growled, and I hated—hated—that the sound went right to my dick. “Never mind. Fuck off. Just don’t say anything, please. I’m trying to figure out how to handle it.”
I wanted to say something awful back, but I could tell he was hurting, and I might have been a dick, but I wasn’t a monster. “It’s no one’s business,” I finally answered.
His shoulders sagged. “Thanks.”
“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for Peter. He’s a nice guy.”
“Well, we clearly know very different versions of him,” Jonah snapped, and without another word, he turned and let his cane slam against the wall as he guided himself back down the hall.
I watched him go, trying and failing not to stare. I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to catch up to him. To slam him against the wall and kiss him, then suck his dick so all that anger and tension would leave him.
Just for a moment.
I knew what that was like—fucking to forget. Running to avoid everything that hurt.
It never lasted long, but the journey was at least more interesting than the ending.
Taking a breath, I stared at the back of the net. There was no one in the goal, but it was easy to envision the mask there. The pads.The glove. The stick. The look in his eyes telling me that there wasn’t a fucking chance I was getting through.
I skated hard, shoulders flexing as I brought my stick back and sank the puck all the way to the back. It landed with a dull thud, hitting the fibers, then the ice before sliding out.
Rolling my neck, I skated back to the bucket of pucks and took another.
Then another.
My shoulders were burning, and Aleks was not going to thank me if I showed up with six trapped nerves along my neck, but it was hard to give a shit. It was still early in the season, but we weren’t having a great start. We’d lost two home games and four roadies, and so far, my shots on goal were the worst I’d had in decades.
And my points were worse.
Retirement was peeking out over the horizon at me, a heavy thing with piercing eyes that never let up. One wrong move—one wrong check—and it would be over. But that was the fate of every hockey player.
I wasn’t foolish enough to think I was alone or unique. And plenty of players lasted past thirty-six, but every year, more and more guys from my rookie season were calling it quits. It was like going down a list and ticking boxes, and god only knew where I was there, but I wasn’t ready to give up yet.
I had no idea what the fuck my life was meant to be off the ice.
