And…
Jude said he was neverhappy.
It makes me think of the boy I first saw with his face turned up to the sky and his eyes filled with stars…
Alone.
In the cold.
Fuck.
I step closer to him, sliding my arms around his waist and nestling against his broad chest. I can’t crawl between his ribs like I want to, can’t look at his heart and see if it will tell me all the secrets it’s obviously still holding.
He wasn’t happy until now.
I didn’t know I was capable of making someone happy. Up until this point, I was pretty sure the only thing I could make was art and dead bodies. It… means something, I think. Something important.
But…
“Dance with me?” He’s smiling when he asks, and I shake my head.
“I don’t know how to dance.” Even as I say it, he’s slipping his body against me, draping those long, capable arms around my waist and pulling me closer. “I’ve neverdancedbefore.”
That just makes his eyes go brighter. “Good.” Donovan leans down, and his mouth is warm when he kisses me, but I’m more drunk on the feel of his lips turning up when he speaks in a low shout over the music. “I like being your first.”
If he understood how many of myfirstshe was, I don’t know if he’d be happy… but I do know I can’t resist wrapping my arms around him and letting him sway our bodies in a slow dance, lit by the flashing lights on stage and set to the tune of a guy who I’m pretty sure has a broken heart.
“I like making you happy, Donovan.” I blurt it out, half muffled against his chest and so low I’m not even sure he hears me when I say it until his hands around my waist tighten and he lifts me up like I’m weightless. My legs automatically go around his waist, and Donovan keeps swaying our bodies in perfect rhythm as his lips crash against mine in a kiss that tells me he heard every word.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DONOVAN
The morning after the concert,I step off the ice with a smile on my face that feels far more real than any smile I’ve had since I moved here. My head is still buzzing a bit with the echo of guitars and drums, and I’m in serious need of a nap after my late night out, but I wouldn’t really trade this feeling for anything else right now.
No, that’s a lie.
There are two things I’d trade this feeling for, if I’m being honest. Number one? The Stanley Cup. I wish I were more complex sometimes, but I’m really a basic hockey player at my core, and hoisting the Cup has always been one of the biggest goals in my life. Thing number two I’d trade this feeling for? Shiloh. Just Shiloh. He’s the reason for the feeling, but I’d trade the feeling away if it meant he were actually here. I tried to convince him to spend the night at my place after we left the Dome, but he had an early morning class he couldn’t risk missing. If ever there comes a time that I end up with both Shiloh and the Stanley Cup in the same moment, I’ll probably explode into chunks of happiness.
Or maybe something less gross. Chunks probably isn’t the right word here, but I’m at a loss for another one.
I’m on such a high that the workout in the gym after the on-ice practice part of the morning flies by and before I know it, I’m in front of my locker stall slipping out of my towel and into a pair of fleece-lined sweatpants printed with tiny golden snakes. Technically they’re pajama pants I bought myself at the team store, but I’ve been wearing them out in the winter chill because they’re the warmest pants I own.
I should get Shiloh a pair.
He’ll love them, I’m sure. Plus, if I get him a pair for himself, the chance that these ones won’t go suspiciously missing from my bedroom increases.
I smile to myself as I finish getting dressed, the locker room buzzing around me as my teammates start trickling in from their time in the gym.
“Woah,” Tucker comments, eyeing my legs. “Those are sick, dude. I didn’t know we had Snakes pants.”
“They’re pajamas,” I offer, gesturing at the snakes on my legs. “Folded up on the rack in the back corner by the pennants, if you want a pair.”
“Hell yes, I do.” He raises a fist and I give his knuckles a bump with my own before he grins and wanders off toward the Bluetooth speaker. He sidles up to it slowly, eyes darting around the room at the rest of our team, who don’t appear to be watching him carefully enough to stop what’s about to happen. A collective groan echoes through the room as Tucker grabs his phone from the open shelf of his locker stall and quickly connects to the Bluetooth before anyone else can. Country music blares through the air, and as a few of my teammates start to sing along with whatever song this is, I take that as my cue to get the hell outta here for the day. Stepping out into the hallway, Ileave the loud twangy guitar and the singing behind me, closing the locker room door tightly and muffling the noise.
“Not as good as Dragonfly, huh?” a voice comments, and I startle a bit. Kyle Penton laughs softly as I connect eyes with him. “Sorry, Donny. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
I eye him carefully, unsure why he’s down here. Though the locker room’s off limits to media, aside from select player availability right after a game, sometimes reporters will pop down and wait outside the locker room after a practice if they have a question, but he never does. Shit, he rarely shows up for practices to begin with, preferring to rub elbows with players inside the locker room after games.
