Page 50

“So that hasn’t changed either,” I murmur, and his tense face breaks into a smile.

He kneels over me and clamps my legs between his.

I reach for his thighs, stroking them up and down. Evan is leaning over my stomach and rubs himself quickly and pragmatically. He lifts his head and looks me straight in the eyes.

Our gazes lock. Like a bolt of lightning, our connection is there. The thing that has kept our relationship alive for so long. That tingle, that spark that turns every ember into a fire, that thread that, no matter how long we’ve been apart, is immediately stretched between us again, vibrating between us.

His eyes close, and he comes in white splashes that land warm and wet on my stomach.

Did he sense that connection between us, too?

He sinks down onto me. His ejaculation is forgotten, or he doesn’t care.

“This is completely crazy. I shouldn’t be saying anything. It’s been eight years.”

“I know what you mean,” I whisper to him.

“It’s all brand-new, and yet familiar. Parker, I’ve never had this with anyone else.”

It’s the same for me. But just like our mutual attraction, we’ve brought our problems along, neatly wrapped up.

But since I’m fed up with reality anyway, I ignore the fact. “I feel the same way.” Not saying it doesn’t suddenly make it untrue. We’d have to deal with it.

His touch is intense, warm, and loving.

“Can you stay here tonight?”

I lean back slightly. “Yes. I promised you I would.”

We quickly clean up and climb back into Evan’s bed.

I’m sitting almost upright with the pillows behind my back, and Evan is lying on my chest. I run my fingers over the tattoos on his shoulder, arm, and chest. The ornate, almost artistic pattern on his upper arm, with a duck incorporated into the inner side of it. “You’ve gotten some new ones,” I note.

He nods and kisses my chest. “Yeah.”

“The puck is cute.” I trace the lines. A ‘P’ extends from it. “P-uck,” I repeat and continue my exploration. The Olympic rings. “Did you get those for your first Olympics?”

“Yeah. I know, not very creative. Everyone does it.”

I snort. “Not everyone. You’re the only person I know who’s been to the Olympics.”

“Mhm.”

I keep tracing the lines. “Rookie of the Year.” I actually caught wind of that honor back then. Even though I did everything I could to ignore any news about Evan, I couldn’t manage to do so at our university during Evan’s first year in New York. Everyone was over the moon that one of us had swept up every award there was. “On a podium.” I point to the stand holding the trophy. “That’s quite a sturdy base it’s sitting on.”

“Hmm.” Evan adjusts his head. “That’s not the name plaque. But everyone thinks it is.”

“Okay? What is it?” Indeed, the base isn’t quite the shape you might expect for a trophy pedestal.

Evan takes a deep breath. “It’s supposed to represent a Pride flag. Without colors. So . . . not recognizable. Just stripes.”

I stare at the tattoo. Now that he’s explained it, I think I can see it. It doesn’t quite have the shape of the flag, but . . .

“It was the worst time of my life. I was happy to finally be where I’d wanted to be my whole life. But the fear of being outed was indescribable. I missed you. At the same time, I was panicking that you’d get in touch or that someone would leak to the press that I’d had a boyfriend in college. Every time a homophobic remark flew through the locker room or out on the ice, I thought it was directed right at me. Every insult was a blow that made me smaller. Or was meant to make me smaller. I was about to burst. Everything inside me wanted to break free. I could barely hold it in anymore. And at the same time, I wanted to be invisible. Then came the award. Rookie of the Year. The Calder Memorial Trophy. And I was angry. No. Relieved. Because I finally had something in my hands to prove to them, if it ever came out, that I wasn’t a weakling. I had been voted the best in the league. I couldn’t tell anyone. But I could show them. With the tattoo. Even if they couldn’t recognize it.”

I don’t know if I’m clinging to him or holding him. All the pain inside Evan is laid bare on the canvas of his skin.

“Almost all the tattoos I’ve gotten over the last few years have a similar meaning. Things that make me who I am. My roots. What has shaped me. What I’ll never forget but can’t tell anyone. They aren’t works of art, like the ones many others have. I’ve had to alter a lot of them so no one would figure out what they’re about. If someone asks, I can say it was a sloppy tattoo artist who couldn’t keep the lines straight.”