“He might also be freezing.”
“Oh yes. He’s probably having a terrible time.”
“Nate and mom might not be back from the hospital yet,” I observe with a casual glance at my fitness tracker.
“And your father said not to wait for him with dinner,” Hart adds.
I nod as I bend down to brush the snow out of Coach’s fur, then pat his side.
“Race you back to the car!” I announce a second later, taking off without another glance over my shoulder.
Xander, December 19th
The hallway in the Van der Hoff residence isn’t long enough to properly pace up and down. Definitely not long enough to get my mind off of what happened in the forest. Every time I reach the front door, I imagine pushing Nicko against it like I did against that tree. I picture how I’d pull his legs around myself, push his jacket open—something I couldn’t do while surrounded by snow—and how he’dagainsnark at me about dropping him, how I’d just buck forward and drag a moan out of his throat instead of more sass.
I’m so caught up in my head that, when I next turn around to face the entrance, seeing it swing open startles me. I’ve taken two steps forward on autopilot before freezing on the spot, worried that it’s actually Nate and his mother, back from the hospital.
The sight of Nicko’s tousled hair and flushed cheeks is a relief at first, before sending another spark of heat down my spine. He’s breathing harshly, like he ran back here as soon as he dropped off Coach. I don’t know if that’s the case, but I’m all toohappy to assume that he too was eager to come back. To make use of the time we have alone.
The idea of it is enough to get me across the distance between us. Unlike in the forest, Nicko meets me halfway this time. One hand is still busy shaking his jacket off, but the other grabs for my sweater, bunching the fabric.
I slide my own hands over his sides, pushing him against the wall. My mouth brushes along his jaw and to his lips, eager to taste him again. They part readily this time, no biting needed. I gasp when Nicko’s tongue strokes against mine. When his hand wanders into my neck mine make their way down to his thighs again. But before I can lift him, Nicko turns his head, breaking our kiss.
“Wait!” He urgently pushes against my chest. “Wait, wait. Let’s– my room!” he orders, and I relent, letting him push me back. A room sounds good. More secure, and with the promise of a bed.
I follow him down the hallway; not entirely voluntarily, since his fingers are firmly wrapped around the collar of my sweater, dragging me along to the stairs. Like there's a chance I want to go anywhere else when his ass is right in front of me as we climb up, inviting me to frame his hips with my hands. I give in and worm my fingers into his back pocket.
Nicko doesn’t even flinch.
He leads me up to the second floor, past the door to the guest room and the one I recognize as Nate’s, to the one at the end of the hallway.
There’s still some underlying aggression when, as soon as we're through, Nicko pushes me against the door, closing it with our combined weight.
His mouth is hot against my neck, moving downward until he reaches my shirt, hissing when the sweater won’t stretch farenough for his liking. With an annoyed huff he pushes his hands under the hemline, briefly getting tangled with my own.
I move to pull my sweater off as a sharp thorn of a memory pokes me.
“What about Michael?” I switch my grip from my sweater to Nicko’s arms.
He doesn’t even pause, tugging on the fabric. “What Michael?”
I frown and pull his hands away again, holding onto his wrists, and wait until he looks up at me. “The Michael you wanted to go out with? Nate said–”
Nicko snorts and shakes his head. “Oh, that.” He reaches for the bottom of his own sweater, pulling it off and throwing it at me. He laughs when I’m too slow to catch it and the fabric momentarily blinds me. “MaybeNatewanted to go out with Michael? I sure didn’t.”
It doesn't answer all my questions, but I can pretend it does. I finally pull my sweater and shirt over my head in one move.
“So this is…” I start as I drop my clothes next to Nicko's bed, my fingers working on my belt as I toe off my socks.
“Just to get it out of our system,” Nicko interrupts. Already in just his underwear, he reaches over to undo my jeans. His fingers make quick work of my fly and don't hesitate to give me a squeeze over my boxers.
“…right.” I should be relieved to hear that, since he will be my teammate in less than a year. My entrance to the NHL has already been complicated enough without me having even set foot on the ice yet.
I can't be the first out, gay NHL playerandthe one fucking his teammates. No agent would put up with the publicity nightmare of that, let alone the team’s PR manager. So I reallyshouldhope that whatever odd attraction we're harboring toward one another will be out of our systems after today.
Still, there's an odd sinking sensation in my stomach.
I'm torn out of my thoughts when Nicko pushes me, and I tumble backward onto his bed. He laughs at my yelp, and then pulls my jeans off my legs, dropping them to the side.
