Maybe if nobody else ever saw them, I’d let him paint me like this.
The thought of it has blood whooshing around my body, heading for the one place it shouldn’t be going on this bus ride when I can’t do anything about it. My cock starts to thicken in my pants as I click out of the nude artwork and remind myself of where I am, but my brain is a traitor and doesn’t move past the thought of Shiloh painting me in the nude. I click into YouTube and throw on a documentary about whales, hoping that’ll take my attention and settle my shit down.
It does the trick, somewhat. I’m not horny as hell at the back of the bus anymore at least, which is a damn blessing really. I’m still thinking about Shiloh, though. I still wonder what kind of art he makes, not that I’m going to risk opening my browser again and doing more searching. Who knows what the hell else I’ll find that will take my brain places it shouldn’t be going right now. No way. One erection-induced panic on the bus is good enough, thanks. Instead, I settle into the documentary and turn my mind off, listening to whale song as the bus carries us back home to Boston, Shiloh existing in the corners of my mind where he always seems to be these days.
“That’s one hell of a mask you got there, bud,” Blake, one of the team equipment managers comments as I step into the locker room. We got back from the road trip at about two in the morning, but that doesn’t mean we get a day off. After a sleep, we’re all due at the rink to work on our game off the ice. Some of the players will hang out in the gym, working on the programs set out by a strength and conditioning coach, while others will hang out in medical with the athletic trainers and physical therapists. I’m due for some time in the gym, then Gilly and I are heading to a yoga class to work on our flexibility and core strength.
But first things first.
“My mask?”
“Yeah. It’s a beauty,” Blake comments with a grin. “Who did the work? Doesn’t look like anyone I know. Gilly uses JohnCo Arts, but he has a signature style and your new lid ain’t it.”
I’m baffled as I stare at him, trying to figure out what the hell he’s talking about. “I don’t have a new mask. I mean, I have that blank, but I haven’t had time to get anything put on it yet.” Or the money. It’s expensive to get a goalie mask custom painted, and I’m not exactly raking in the millions down here in the minors like Oakley is in the NHL.
“You sure? Because it’s in your cubby and it’s got your number on it. You take a hit to the head or something?”
I shake my head, then walk past him toward my locker stall. He’s been busy this morning unpacking gear after the road trip, and everything of mine that doesn’t need to be washed is in my stall.
Along with a freshly painted mask.
My heart leaps into my throat, and I swear my eyes must be as big as saucers as I reach for it, lifting it gently off the shelf it sits on. It’s fucking gorgeous as it catches the light, reds, greens, and a deep black popping off and shimmering. I breathe in as Iturn it over and over in my hands, stunned into silence by the number on the throat guard that sits below the silver cage.
43.
It is my helmet. Holy shitballs. I nearly drop the damn thing in shock, but manage to stop myself in time. A coiled red-and-green-scaled snake hovers on the top of the mask, its vicious golden eyes shining out from just above where my eyes will be when I wear it. Along either side of it, two more bright red-and-green snakes curl, their tongues flicking out and fangs painted razor sharp against the backdrop of pitch black.
It’s what rests on the backplate that has my heart skipping a beat, my lungs squeezing, and my core filling with warmth and recognition.
I stare at what he’s left there, tears forming in my eyes that I have to blink away fast because crying in the locker room is a fucking atrocious decision. Swallowing hard, I trace my fingertips gently over the red-and-black Godzilla painstakingly painted onto the rear of the mask, its mouth open in a silent roar that speaks volumes. Behind him sits a pair of wings I instantly recognize as belonging to Mothra, my heart skipping another beat as I recall telling Shiloh she was my favorite.
That she reminded me of my mom the most, even though I didn’t tell him that part. I swallow hard again as I trace my fingers over her wings, blinking back more embarrassing tears. I don’t have words to explain how much this means.
How seen I feel in this moment when all I’ve ever really been so far in this city is number forty-three, one of the goalies on the team.
“See? Beauty of a paint job,” Blake comments from behind me. “You don’t remember commissioning it?”
I don’t know what to say in response that won’t have him hauling me to medical under suspicion of a concussion, but I really didn’t commission this piece. I would never have beenable to find the right words that would have led to this mask being painted as beautifully as it is. “I forgot.”
Blake gives me a funny look, then shrugs, nudging me in the side with his elbow as he laughs. “Hopefully you remembered to pay for it. You remember who the artist is?”
I nod, turning the helmet over in my hands as I look for a signature of some kind to confirm what I already know. There’s only one artist who could have done this, and he made it very clear that the green snake mask I’ve been wearing is a tragedy in his eyes. Though I’m not sure how I feel about him going into my apartment once again while I wasn’t there, I am blown away by the work Shiloh’s left behind. He clearly had a copy of my key made, and I’ll sort out how to get that back from him later, but for now I’m filled with awe and the tiniest bit of comfort at having been seen by someone in such a vivid way.
Blake wanders away, leaving me alone with the present from Shiloh. I stare at it for a few more moments before placing it down on the shelf of my locker stall and pulling out my phone. I send two text messages to two different people, snapping a pic to send along with both.
One picture goes to Oakley and includes a snake emoji.
The other goes to California and reads, “I know it was you. Thank you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHILOH
I’ve been textingwith Donovan all week.
Well… that’s notexactlyright.
Donovan has been texting me, and I’ve been replying while I stalk him from a distance when I’m not in class.
