Harrison laced the skate on his bad leg, wincing at the ache already crawling from his ankle to his knee. He didn’t need to have it on for long, until he could check the ice conditions before he sent Jett out there.
Fuck, maybe he should get him to sign a waiver. The guy was a walking disaster on solid ground, but should be okay on the ice.
When Harrison was sure that the skate was tight and it had the correct support, he got off the bench and stepped over the lip where his blades met the ice. It was an amazing feeling to glide slowly around the rink, for all of two minutes—then his legreallystarted to hurt.
The injury was healed, but the scar and the fragile bone weren’t the source of his pain. The metal rods used to piece his leg back together were permanent, and they didn’t like the cold. They made the bones ache if there was damp or chilly weather.
He hated winter now because it brought only pain and misery. He got so stiff that he had to return to his physio routines to keep functioning, which made it impossible to skate.
His parents had asked for third, fourth and fifth opinions, but the diagnosis was the same. Could he skate? Yes. Could he play professional hockey? No.
The damage had been too severe, and every part of his leg was now weakened. One good hit on the ice would set him back to square one.
But fuck hemissedit.
When he was sure the ice was in perfect condition, Harrison turned for the bench, only to run into Jett, who was stepping out. He was wearing his Sunburst jersey and gloves, but he had left his helmet behind in his haste to get on the ice.
Jett skated to him, holding onto his hockey stick with his mouth open in awe. Harrison didn’t find it too cold on the rink, but Jett’s golden-tanned skin turned red as he looked at him, blinking owlishly.
“We’re on the ice,” said Jett, swallowing hard. “We’re on the ice together.”
Jett was shamelessly admiring him, and it stirred something inside Harrison—an urge to dominate and possess that he’d never felt before. He had never felt anything like this for anyone, period. In the past, he’d experimented with two different guys when his ambition slowed long enough to think of something other than hockey, and while it had been fun, he hadn’t truly been into it.
But Jett made him think about the stuff guys talked about in the locker room. He hadn’t understood what his teammates had meant when they said they were so turned on by someone that the need to claim them became overwhelming. But with Jett? Fuck. All he wanted to do was bend him over the edge of the rink, grab onto his golden curls, and fuck him until he was begging and crying his name.
What was it about Jett? What was so special about him compared to all the other attractive men Harrison had met?
“Fuck,” said Jett breathlessly, making Harrison take notice. “You look so hot on the ice. I don’t think I can do this.”
Harrison had only seconds to catch Jett by the arm before he bolted for the gate. He gripped Jett’s jaw and held him there, watching the gold in his eyes get quickly swallowed by black.
“Fuckingstay,” Harrison growled, making sure to hold Jett long enough to feel the fight leave him. “You run and I’ll chase you down and drag you back here. I’m already invested in teaching you what I know, so don’t make me regret taking a chance on you.”
Harrison could feel Jett’s pulse beating frantically against his thumb. Was it possible to give someone a heart attack by touching them?
“Dude, I know I’m not subtle about how attracted I am to you,” said Jett. He backed out of Harrison’s reach, and Harrison let him go, but he was ready if Jett tried to take off again. “If I say stupid shit like that again, just spare me the embarrassment and pretend you didn’t hear it.”
Harrison scoffed loudly and pushed toward the gate. “I didn’t realize I was being subtle either,” he muttered.
It’s not like he could tell Jett about what happened when he saw him getting out of the lake. Watching all those water droplets trace the grooves of muscle on Jett’s chest and abs had immediately turned his braindumb. He couldn’t think again until he made it back to his room and wrapped his hand around his cock, barely getting two strokes in before he came on the back of his door.
“What are you muttering to yourself, Killinger?”
Harrison lifted Jett’s helmet off the bench and shoved it into his chest before he could follow him off the ice. “Go warm up, Fraser.”
Jett narrowed his eyes and shoved the helmet on, making a big show of clasping the straps before taking off with a burst of speed, flying to the other side of the rink.
Harrison sat on the bench with a groan and unlaced his skates, keeping an eye on Jett’s condition. He looked good despite how hard he had played during Friday’s game with a two-day break. Anything they worked on would have to be low-energy because there was no way Harrison was sending Jett back too exhausted to complete his training camp.
Despite how he felt watching Jett’s career advance, he would never do anything to jeopardize it. He was growing fond of his goofy personality, no matter how hard he tried to fight it.
He used to get annoyed listening to Jett’s interviews, but his opinion was begrudgingly shifting. The guy had this wholesome, sunny glow that the media was addicted to, but Harrison was beginning to understand him now.
It took three conversations with Jett to see the darkness hidden behind Jett’s charm. It was a pain he recognized. He saw it every time he looked in the mirror.
Harrison had never faced that inner darkness and wanted to change it. He hid behind it like a shield to keep people from seeing how fucked up he was on the inside. He couldn’t save himself. He didn’t want to save himself. But for some stupid reason, he needed to save Jett.
Fuck all those fake, goofy smiles; he wanted to see a real one. He got an endorphin rush every time he glimpsed it, and it was becoming addictive.
