Page 39 of Shattered On Ice

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against mine. “The moment I picked him up, it was reflex. I acted how everyone expects me to, the armor in place, because it’s what I’ve done for years. But ignoring you in your house felt like swallowing glass. I hated it.”

The knot of anxiety that’s been suffocating me since my brother got home slowly begins to unravel. Callum’s warning echoes in my head—you’re burning yourself out to keep him warm—but held in his arms, feeling his absolute devotion vibrating through his hands, the warning fades into white noise.

“I know it’s a reflex, Westin. It’s just…jarring,” I confess, closing my eyes as I lean into his touch. I roll my face into his rough palm, taking courage from our intimacy to say what I have to. “All day I take care of people. Whether it’s my patients, my brother, or even the dog, someone is always depending on me to be the voice of reason and to have the answers. Being with you these last two weeks, I didn't have to be the therapist or the responsible brother. I could just be yours.”

“You are mine,” he says fiercely. He slides his hands down to my shoulders, thumbs digging into the tight knots at the base of my neck. He works the tension out with expert pressure, an involuntary groan slipping from my lips. “And I’m yours,” he whispers against my hair. “Let me take care of you. You don't have to do a fucking thing.”

Making good on his promise, he strips my shirt off, gets me out of my pants, pulls back the covers, and leads me to bed. It’s not frantic or desperate. There’s no rush to get off before we get caught. Instead, he wraps his massive body around mine, pulling me tight against his chest, and just holds me. He presses soft, lingering kisses against my nape until my breathing evens, and the exhaustion pulls me under.

That soft night in the dark became our new normal.

As August bled into September, the demanding schedule of the Hydras’ training camp completely took over Westin’s life. We adapted. Our lazy mornings making breakfast in my kitchen were replaced with hurried, desperate hours. It was Westin showing up at my back door smelling of the ice and sweat from practice, pressing me against the laundry room wall to swallow my moans for ten breathless minutes before Rook pulled into the driveway.

We learned to communicate in the shadows, fueled by adrenaline and the sheer terror of getting caught. It was the bruising grip of his fingers on my hip when we passed each other in a narrow hallway. It was the heavy, deliberate press of his thigh against mine under the dining room table as Rook obliviously recounted a practice drill right across from us. We were surviving on scraps, but those scraps were potent enough to keep me nourished.

As October hit and the regular season got underway, the physical distance increased. He was swept away on planes, living out of hotels, and battling on the ice across the continent. Still, Westin found a way to bridge the gap. Exactly fifteen minutes before every puck drop, my phone would buzz. Never a lengthy message or anything too heartfelt, just a single black heart emoji, an I miss you, or a watch me tonight. Still, that quiet vibration became a lifeline. It was his silent promise that no matter how loud the arena was, no matter how heavy his All-Star mask felt, I was the last thing on his mind before he hit the ice.

Fourteen

Westin

“Listen up,” Sebastian Montenegro—the Hydras captain we all call Monty—barks in the locker room. “My guy is out there with his whole organization of amazing trainers and service dogs. Tonight, we’re playing for more than a W. We’re playing for the veterans we’re honoring. So don't make me look bad, got it?”

I nod and smile as I adjust my gear, making sure everything is taped perfectly while going through my pre-game routine.

Monty’s new boyfriend is Tucker Covington, the owner of Combat Companions, the charity organization the team has partnered with this season. Tucker and his team train service dogs for veterans, and since tonight is Veterans’ Appreciation night, they’re all here with the dogs and some of the veterans they’ve matched. To Monty, this is maybe bigger than a Cup run.

“Who knew you’d go soft when you got into a relationship,” Rook calls from beside me, sending a ball of used tape across the locker room at Monty.

“There’s nothing soft about me, Stephens, and don't forget it.” Monty bats the tape away and looks around the room. “I don't say shit about your relationships, so I expect the same courtesy. Now, get your heads right. Montreal is a mean team, and they’ll get under your skin if you let them.”

“Oh, I know it,” I mutter under my breath. Fucking Jérémy Benoit is the captain of the Montreal Monstres, so I’ll be facing one of the worst people I’ve ever known tonight. He knows exactly how to get in my head. I have the scars to prove it. I can't believe he made it pro, and someone thought it was a good idea to make him a captain. I’ll do my best to ignore him no matter how big a monster he really is.

I look at the clock and see it’s time to send Knight my usual pre-puck drop text.

Westin: *Black heart emoji*

I close my phone, knowing I’ll have something to look forward to when the game ends. Knight is so good about sending positive and encouraging messages back, but I don't dare hang onto my phone any longer than needed. I grab my helmet and stick with the team as we troop out of the locker room and down the tunnel toward the ice. The crowd is so loud tonight. From what I heard, it’s sold out. But there’s only one person in the arena who matters.

Knight showed up for the game. It’s the first hockey game he’s attended in years. Rook was so excited to know his brother wanted his family tickets to a game that he didn't even question why. Knight brought Callum with him, so I know he has someone to keep him company. As I skate out, the pre-game music and lights are a match for the inside of my head, knowing Knight will watch me play against the ghosts of my past. I stay on the ice for the national anthems, both American and Canadian, and then Monty heads to the boards for the fake face-off and puck drop while we get our last pep talk from Coach Kennedy.

I spare a glance into the stands, hunting for the family section, and lock eyes with Knight. In an arena of eighteen thousand screaming fans, seeing him sitting halfway up the lower bowl is the only thing that makes my lungs work. He stands out from the typical hockey fan, not wearing a Hydras jersey or branded merch. He’s wearing an olive green sweater over a gray collared shirt, looking professional and stunning as usual. Callum, on the other hand, is wearing one of the Hydras plush mascot hats, so he has writhing, stuffed serpent heads wiggling around his shimmering face. I smile and turn away to stretch.

What the fuck is taking Monty so long? A roar goes up from the crowd, and I look up at the Jumbotron, where Monty is kissing Tucker in front of everyone. Well, shit. He really came out and did that. Monty’s had a bit of a queer awakening this season, and he’s never been happier. His kid, Enzo, adores Tucker and his dogs, so they’re a happy little family.

He’s the second person on our team to come out. People have been mostly great about it. I know Monty had to change agents because his was a homophobic dick, but otherwise, it’s been accepted overall.

Finally, Monty comes back from the face-off and pulls me aside. “Dumont, I have a question for our team Frenchy.”

“Oh, so my French is welcome now, eh?” I ask, smiling and elbowing him before squirting water in my mouth.

“What does fifs mean?” he asks, voice low and serious.

I choke on the water. My lungs seize as a violent, phantom ache blasts through my jawline. I bend forward, coughing and spitting onto the ice, my gloved hand flying up to press against the indentation on my jaw. “Where’d you hear that?” I growl, the tang of copper flooding my tongue.

“Benoit said it after I kissed Tucker. He said some other stuff I didn’t catch, but that was the last thing, and then he spit, so I figured it was insulting,” Monty explains.

I look over my shoulder at the Montreal bench where Jérémy Benoit is laughing with his teammates. The roaring crowd fades, replaced by the deafening, echoing slam of a locker room door.