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“I really need to get some homework done,” I grumble against Brendon’s lips.
“I do too.”
We grab our stuff, and I sit up against the pillows and headboard. Brendon lays down between my legs with the back of his head against my pelvis and puts my thighs over his shoulders. It’s surprisingly comfortable, so I don’t argue.
As he reads his textbook and makes notes, he strokes my leg, and it’s the most comfortable I’ve ever felt.
Brendon’s phone pings, and he groans.
I snort at his reaction and watch over his head as he opens the app and clicks on Nikki’s name. Twelve unopened messages.
“Why don’t you just ignore her? Eventually she’ll just stop, right?”
He opens the pictures of her with stupid filters on. Teddy bear, hearts, bald.
“No,” he huffs. “When I ignore her, it makes her worse.”
Brendon lifts the phone and takes a selfie with my legs still over his shoulders.
“Are you really going to send that?” I sit up a little as he types out “study time” on the screen.
“I’m wearing your legs as earmuffs. Maybe she’ll get the message and go away.” Brendon puts his phone down and lifts his book. “I doubt it, though.”
“I’m not ready for everyone to know about me.” My words are soft, but he hears them. Brendon turns around and sits up, his eyes locking with mine.
“There was nothing in that picture that could be identified as you. It was just leg and hip.” He squeezes my leg. “I wouldn’t out you. You can change your pants or something in case she shows up, if that will make you feel better.”
My head buzzes with too many thoughts. The fear of being found out and being made a target. Living out in the open makes you vulnerable. I’m a hockey player. I know I can take a hit and stay standing, but that doesn’t mean I want to be judged for who I’m dating or for who I find attractive. Homophobia runs rampant in sports. As soon as a player comes out, no one cares about how they play, only their sex life. It’s bullshit and not the way I want my life to go.
I nod and settle back on the pillow while I suck on the inside of my lip. Brendon leans over me, his hands on the mattress on either side of my hips, and he kisses me softly. He sucks on my bottom lip and presses his mouth against mine again.
“Do you trust me?” he whispers against my lips.
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.
He smiles and kisses me again; it’s a light pressure, soft, and sweet. More comforting than anything else.
“I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you on purpose.” He pulls back enough to meet my eyes.
“I know.”
11
Brendon
From the second my skates hit the ice, I know something is wrong.
Dread sits heavy in my stomach, and a weight pulls hard on my shoulders, but it isn’t until the Minnesota lineup is announced that I start to understand why. I didn’t look at the list of players this time. Hockey is a small community, and we know a lot of the players either personally or in passing.
The announcers call out “Chad Fenwick,” and nausea rolls through me. Fuck. I played with him when I was teenager, before I joined the Lumberjacks. A shiver runs through me, and my skin breaks out in a cold sweat that has nothing to do with the ice under my feet. I would like to believe that he doesn’t recognize my face or name, but I’m not that lucky.
Memories try to invade my mind, making my hands tremble and my stomach roll, but I can’t let him fuck with my head. I’m not the same kid I was when we were on the same team.
The game starts, and I’m on the bench waiting for my shift, watching my old teammate across the ice. His eyes meet mine, and he sneers, leaning toward one of his teammates and says something to him. They laugh, both looking in my direction, and my stomach clenches.
“What’s up with you?” Paul nudges me with his shoulder, and I straighten up, looking back at the ice to watch the game. I can’t show him that I’m a victim.
“Nothing.”
