Page 4 of Home Ice

When I look up at Brant, he looks as if he wishes he could die. His eyes are wide, and I've never seen someone so pale. His mouth drops open so slowly it's almost cute. Until I realize what's really going on. "I mean, to get to know each other." He shakes his head. "Not like that. As friends. Never mind, this is a bad idea. I need to go. Just pretend I stopped talking once I handed you the donut."

CHAPTER 3

TAKE THE LOSS AND MOVE ON

BRANT

What the fuck is wrong with me? I let my head drop forward so hard it makes an audible thunk as it hits the steering wheel. Maybe it will give me a concussion. Maybe I already have one. That could explain the last two days.First, I make an ass of myself in front of her yesterday—storming up like I'm some medieval knight protecting a damsel about to be murdered by an outlaw. Just to find out, the only thing she was battling was a bookend. And now?

It took her a second to realize I'd asked her out, but once she did, I thought she was going to choke to death on raspberry donut filling. Is that even possible?

Then, instead of just letting her say no—like she was obviously about to—I regress into some socially awkward, grade four boy and tell her to pretend it never happened. The look on her face… was what exactly? Disappointed? There's no way she was disappointed. Hurt? Confused? Whatever it was, it made my heart wrap around itself.

If any of my teammates told me they did something like this,I would make them skate laps until they puked. Then I would make them apologize to the woman. But how does a person apologize for being an idiot while they were already in the middle of apologizing for being an idiot before? It's like giving up six goals before the end of the second period. There's just no way back from it, so you take the loss and move on.

That's exactly what I need to do. Hockey has to be my number one priority right now anyway. Hell, it has to be numbers one through ten. That's the only way I can make this work. And being around a woman who makes my dick feel things it didn't even feel for Serenity is not going to let me keep my focus where it needs to be.

BeforeI pull away from the curb, though, I look up one last time. Part of me—obviously the part that's not too bright—hopes she might be at the door or the window watching. When she's not, that part deflates just a little. But I'm glad she's not there. I've made a fool of myself in front of her twice, and now I need to put it in the past. I need to work on me, and I know exactly how to do it. I shift the car into drive and press the garage door opener before driving the thirty meters to my driveway. I was so excited to get these donuts for her this morning, I didn't even think about parking at home and walking them over.

Just as I pull into the driveway, the garage door finishes opening, and I am so glad she wasn't watching this. Although, it wouldn't be any more embarrassing than everything else I've done since meeting her.

I don’t bother with anything else. I go straight to my gym. The gym has always been special to me. Next to the rink or Mom and Dad's house, it's my favorite place in the world. I love that smell of iron and steel and rubber thatfills my lungs the instant I walk in. It automatically centers me.When I'm in the gym—no matter how many people are around—it's just me and the steel, and there's nothing like the sense of accomplishmentfrom pushing more of those plates than you ever have before.

Building a gym was the first thing I did when I bought this house. The last owner rented the outbuildingto their nephew when he was in town for college, but I had a set of contractors in here the day after I got the keys. Even before I had the leaky toiletfixed in the primary bathroom, I had my equipmentin here. And since my injury, I've come in here every day, focused on getting back to that peak. I didn't win the Vezina Trophy two years in a row by sitting on my ass, and I'm not getting back to that level unless I work harder than ever this year.

I run a hand along the barbell that's waiting for me in the power rack. My fingers cling to the textured grip like they know they belong right there. Being the goalie I used to be, leading the Sting out onto the ice every night, needs to be the only thing on my mind as I rest that bar across my shoulders and wrap my hands around it. And when I take those short steps back and drop into a squat before driving back up, I need to focus on being in the net, thrusting myself left and right, blocking every shot that comes at me. I don't need to think about the way those lipsparted as she raised the donut to her mouth. Not those eyes that rolled back just a little as she took that bite. And the last thing I need is my mind wondering what it would feel like to have those lips around me. To have those eyes looking up at me.

"Fuck!" My scream almost drowns out the clank of the barbell falling onto the safety catches.I grab the supportbars on either side of the rack and stare at myself in the mirrored wall across the room. My eyes catch on the bulge in my shorts. What is wrong with me? Nothing ever comes with me inside these walls. Definitely not some girl I don't even know. I have to get my mind off of her, but I need to take care of this tension first.

I peel off my clothes as I head to the bathroom where I crank the water for the shower, letting it run until the small room fills withsteam. When I finallystep in, the water is so hot I gasp, but I stand under it and let my muscles uncoil. I take breath after breath, bringing the moist air deep into my lungs. Then I wrap my hand around my cock. I haven't had sex in nearly sixteen months, and in that time, I've become closer to my right hand than I have been since high school. But my dick has never felt this ready before. As soon as I wrap my fingers around it, it pulses. My hips buckinvoluntarily, and I draw in a sharp breath. "One time," I whisper. I'll let myself fantasize about her one time, but that's it.

I close my eyes and lean forward. My left forearm braces against the wall, and I let my head fall against it as I pump my fist. The water pours down my back, and I picture her standing on her porch wearing that cute little tank top. But instead of being an ass, I imagine walking up and introducing myself. I try to envision the way she would have smiled instead of scowled. The same heat would have rolled through us as we touched, but maybe it would have flared instead of being snuffed out.

I spread my legs a little more. And now I imagine her here in the shower with me. I imagine this is her hand stroking up and down my length. Her mouth is right here. Inches away from mine. I press my lips against her, and she pumps me harder. A low grunt slips from my mouth and my body tenses as I imagine her dropping to her knees. Her wet, black hair sticks to the sides of her face as the water runs down, and I've never seen anything so hot in my life. "Fucking Christ." It feels like flames cover my entire body when I picture her lips wrapping around my cock. Taking me all the way until my tip bumps against the back of her throat. Then she looks up. Even with her mouth wrapped around me, I can see her smile.

My fist is pumping so fast now I hear the slosh of the water. It's only a few seconds before every muscle in my body tenses. My dicksomehow gets even harder, and then I stumble backwards until my shoulders collide with the other side of the shower. I have to use the grab bar to hold myself upright as I go weak from the waves of orgasm spreading through me.

It takes almost a minute before I'm able to stand without support. Once I can, I grab the bar of soap and lather it over my body. "There," I announce through still-ragged breaths. "It's done. She's out of my system, and I can move on."

CHAPTER 4

A REAR END FULL OF CASSEROLES

LILY

What was that? As the door closes, I replay the last few minutes in my mind. The way he looked at me when he came in? It's like he was genuinely sorry. When he touched my arm? I wish I could deny the way my body reacted. It was enough to make me forgive him for yesterday. Maybe he was just being protective, in a completely misguided and totally unnecessary way. And when he asked me out? I thought maybe Em was right. For a split second, I was ready to say yes. I'm just grateful he didn't give me a chance to actually say it before he called backsies like a teasing fourth grader.

The worst part is I should know better. Guys like him are never interested in girls like me. My mom told me that years ago. I didn't believe her then, but as Brant practically ran out of the house to get away, I heard her voice sneering. "I can't believe you almost fell for it." And that voice was right. Like it had been with Tyler. If I didn't learn the lesson from him, I never will. But it's fine. It used to hurt, but it doesn't anymore. I won't let it.

I lean back against the living room wall and wait. Brant is still parked out front. What’s he doing? Laughing? Calling his friends to tell them he just pulled off the greatest deke of all time? Maybe he's hoping I'll follow him out so he can make a scene in front of the entire street. Bonus points if you can make the girl look nuts in front of the whole neighborhood. But I'm not giving him anything more than I already have. I'll stand here all day before he gets the satisfaction of seeing me again.

When I finally hear the soft catch of his engine starting, I grab my keys and head out. I've never been a car person, so I don't know what Brant's driving. But I know it's a lot shinier and way more expensive than my used Subaru parked a few spots away. But I'd bet his car doesn't mean as much to him as Sebastian means to me. He might be fourteen years old. His maroon paint might be dotted with orange rust spots. And the glovebox might randomly pop open like there's a ghost who really wants to get to that pack of stale Mentos in there. But he's gotten me through the last four Colorado winters. And he's the first car that's ever truly been mine, not a hand-me-down.

"You're the only man I can really count on, aren't you?" I run my hands down the sides of his steering wheel before I twist the key in the ignition. Just to prove his loyalty, he starts up right away. His engine rumbles and the whole car starts the familiar vibrating shimmy. I prefer to think of it as Sebastian trying to offer massaging seats, rather than the sign of imminent engine problems like the last mechanic told me. "He just didn't appreciate you the way I do." When the engine rpms settle down, I slip Sebastian into drive and pull away from the curb.

I still can't believe Salt Lake City has a place like Bridges. They sure didn't when I was growing up. Not that I would have needed it if they did. Dad is great—was. He was great… I blow out a deep breath and try to think of literally anything else so I don't start crying in the middle of the spaghetti bowl mess of highway entrance and exit ramps. This area is confusing enough without tears blurring my vision. Whoever designed it was clearly either a huge fan of anarchy or a covert agent working for Big Public Transit. Nothing has ever made me want to give up my car and take the bus or Trax as much as this section of highway. "Just kidding, Seb." I tickle him under his turn signal stalk. "You and me are forever." Or until oil erupts out of him like a volcano, but I'd never say that where he could hear me.

Ten years ago, a homeless shelter for LGBTQ youth in Salt Lake City would have been unthinkable. And just a couple of miles away from Temple Square too. Last night when I was searching for homeless shelters to donate all of this food to, I almost couldn't believe it. When I called this morning, I expected a message telling me it wasn't a working number. Or a voice saying "haha, got you!" But the man I spoke with assured me it was not only real, but that they would be more than happy to take four casserole dishes filled with funeral potatoes and three bowls of completely different desserts that all still somehow contain green Jello and cottage cheese.

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