“Donovan, I’m not going to lie,” Sean says, offering a wary smile my way. “I’m happy for you, but the NHL is a beast, and this may cost you a roster spot. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
“Did you plan this?” Krystal asks, the moment Sean stops talking. She holds up her phone, her face pale but her eyes sparkling like she’s uncovered something juicy. My mouth drops open as I catch the image of Oakley on the screen, a rainbow flag draped over his bare shoulders and a New York Eagles hat on his head.
Holy shit.
I told him earlier that I was going to come out, but I was worried about everything. He talked me down, reminding me that all it takes is one person stepping out of the closet for more to follow their lead. I should have guessed this idea was what had started banging around in that wild brain of his in that moment.
“What’s going on?” Walker asks, craning his neck to see what I can see.
“Oakley Keddimore just came out on Instagram. He’s gay.”
Coach Bob lets loose a surprised laugh that rattles the panes of glass around us, and Sean sits back looking a bit relieved that he isn’t Oakley’s agent in this moment. Walker sits back in his chair, his jaw dropped so low in shock that he could probably catch flies.
I grab my phone from my pocket to shoot a text off to Oakley, but turn on the screen to find a simple two-word text sent just moments ago from him.
You’re welcome.
I fly through the front door of our new home, my hands cradling packages of pancakes from Sal’s and my head full of news to share. Shiloh sits on the couch in the living room, wrapped in a blanket even though outside the sun is shining, the last remnants of winter snow are melting away, and the grass is turning green.
“Hey,” he says, rising from the couch and waddling over to me, still wrapped like a burrito in his blanket. “How’d it go?”
I place the containers of food on the table in our entryway and catch him in my arms, pulling him toward me. I smile, leaning down to place a kiss to his lips that makes him smile back at me. “Good. It got crazy. I got breakfast for us.”
“Crazy how?”
I lean down and press another kiss to his lips because I can’t help myself, then I let him go. “Well, Oakley came out on social media and distracted the whole damn room, so there’s that.”
Shiloh snorts a laugh as I turn and grab the containers of food, carrying them into the small kitchen that overlooks our open living room.
“So he stole your thunder?” Shiloh murmurs, sidling up beside me as I open the containers to reveal thick, fluffy pancakes with little containers of syrup tucked in beside them and a stack of bacon.
“I don’t know if I had any thunder to begin with,” I reply, turning to face him. “I’ll still come out, though. In a few weeks, a statement will appear on my social media. Krystal and Walker are handling it.”
“Walker?”
“New guy. Publicist, apparently.”
Shiloh nods, slipping his fingers from between the folds on the blanket and grabbing a slice of bacon. He chews it, then swallows and turns away toward the hallway that leads to his studio. He’s silent for a few moments before he turns back to me. “I painted something this morning.”
“I know,” I reply with a smile. “You will note that I stayed away like you asked.”
“I did note, yes,” he says, biting his lower lip nervously. “Do you want to see it?”
“Of course I do.” I’m hungry, but food can wait. In the back of my mind, I’ve been wondering all day what he’s been up to in there and why I wasn’t allowed to enter. It was weird not giving him a kiss goodbye and instead yelling that I loved him through a half-closed door when I left the house earlier. I close the food containers as he nods, taking off down the hallway to the small spare room. I follow behind, stepping into the bright studio behind him.
And there on the easel is the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen.
It’s messy, splatters of blacks and reds dotting the white canvas, and every line looks like it’s been scratched onto the page with a knife, but it’s perfect.
It’s Shiloh and me, captured in a deep maroon, holding hands over a background that doesn’t look like anything but washes of lighter shades of red, but I know different. As much as we are the subject of the image’s core, we’re also included in the paint that Shiloh used to create it. Earlier in the week, Shilohcame to me with his knife in hand, asking if he could have some of my blood for a painting. I willingly gave it to him, enjoying the moments the blade slid through my skin and the way his eyes clouded with his need for me to be deep inside him while he collected the droplets. We both ended up bloodied and coated in cum that day, and as I stare at the painting that was created from that afternoon, a tiny thread of arousal creeps through me.
I force myself to take a deep breath and instead focus in on the artwork in front of me again, because as much as I’d be more than willing to bend Shiloh over his painting table and fuck him into tomorrow, there are things that are starting to pop out at me from within the piece he’s created. I’m floored as I look past the core image and see that hidden behind us are some very familiar shapes. My jaw drops as I note Mothra’s decorated wings, the outlines of butterflies, and a scaly texture like Godzilla’s skin, but Shiloh hasn’t stopped there. As I look even deeper into the painting, I can see that there are tiny shoelaces trailing through the color and the signature shape of macaroni noodles littering the background.
“Oh, Shiloh,” I breathe, unable to take my eyes away from this gorgeous piece of us. “It’s perfect.”
“You think so?” he asks, like he doesn’t believe it’s the most beautiful gift I’ve ever been given.
“I know so. It’s us, baby. You painted all of us.”
