Page 94 of One More Time

“Baby, talk to me,” I whispered in his ear. He shook his head against my collarbone, his longer hair moving with him. It fell in waves past his ears now; not long enough to tie back yet, but just enough to wrap around my fingers. I picked my hand up to tap at his temple. “What’s going through here?”

I felt as he held his breath before he spoke.

“If we lose tomorrow, that is our last game together.”

I flinched as if I’d been physically hit. I was certain we’d nail it, so the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. I was confident we’d at least make it to the final. After only three months on the ice together, we were killing it. All of the articles painted the two of us as some kind of dream team. Tyler might not buy into it, but I’d stashed away every one of those articles like secret entries in a diary, evidence of what we represent together in the game we both adore.

“We won’t lose,” I said, certain of the fact. He let out a choked sound, a half-sob half-laugh. But I didn’t turn him to face me—not yet.

“Ever the optimist.”

“I’ve got a good feeling, Aussie. We’ve had a killer season and we’ve taken out Minnesota every time.”

“Yeah, I know.” He resigned, but there was still no lightness in his tone. I held him tighter, hoping he would offload his thoughts.

“Boston, even if we snag this win, it’s just another game, you know? I mean, I’ve been counting down the days, but I don’t like the thought of not playing on a team with you.”

For some reason, I felt like the last bit meant something more. As if the game were a metaphor for his life. Because after The Frozen Four, I was off to Vancouver. My bags were packed and sitting in his room. An annoying little reminder that we’d been trying our best to ignore.

“I know,” was all I could say. I’d had four perfect months of knowing what it felt like to be this man’s partner. We were a team, damn it. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

I wasn’t ready to give up these stolen moments.

My life once was a mixture of flinching to avoid the brutality of my father’s hits and using sex and booze as some sad version of therapy. Then the man in my arms made it all go away. He showed me love and affection I didn’t know I deserved; he showed me the true meaning of family. That man was my hero.

I finally turned him to face me, kissing away the wet paths down his cheeks; kissing away his sadness. Those three little words sat on the tip of my tongue, and I bit back the urge to set them free. We hadn’t said them yet, and it was sort of an unspoken understanding that we hadn’t. The closer I got to leaving, the more painful it became to admit it.

At least, that’s what I was banking on. The way he reacted at that moment suggested he felt the same. Tyler’s lips met mine, hot and heavy as our wet bodies writhed against each other. I wanted nothing more than to be fucked by my man tonight—even if it was just one more time.

We stumbled out of the shower, hardly any cleaner than we were before. I dragged him by the hand I had in his hair, the wet strands dripping over his body. He followed as I crashed onto the bed, mumbling the word “lube” against his lips. Tyler smiled against my mouth, leaping off the bed. He was only gone for a second, but my wet body felt cold without him. With the bottle in hand, he blanketed himself over me once more, attacking my mouth like he owned me. And in truth, he did.

“I need you this time, baby,” I said, not missing the way those gorgeous eyes flared with heat. He needed the control, and I just needed him.

The room got hot; the air got heavy. Before we knew it, I cried out his name as we hurtled over the edge together. Quick and dirty—just how we needed it. We collapsed together, lips grazing over well-earned scars from prior games. Once we got cold and sticky, I brushed his hair away from his face, suggesting we hit the shower again.

We did things properly this time—only together. I washed his hair, then gave those tense shoulders a much-needed massage. Tyler, being the sweetheart he was, returned the favor.

After folding our laundry and setting multiple alarms to ensure no chance of being late, we snuggled up in the same double bed by the window—like always. That’s where my man put on his tapes and curled up next to me. We watched, and I listened to his breakdown of plays. I always thought if playing hockey didn’t work out for him, he’d make a great coach. He had a natural talent for reading the players, picking up on things that most couldn’t without years of training.

Eventually, my baby fell asleep in my arms; lips slightly parted as always and those long, dark lashes fluttering against his freckled cheekbones. I fell asleep later than I should have, my mind wanting to savor every part of Tyler Riley.

I wasn’t surprised when Tyler wiggled out of bed before either of our alarms. He was engrossed in studying plays, simultaneously maneuvering his hockey stick over the bathroom tiles. As I lay there, I observed the effortless dance of tendons and ligaments beneath his skin, akin to a seasoned pianist effortlessly playing Beethoven on a quiet Sunday morning. His gaze met mine, and an embarrassed smile played on his lips, yet it didn’t quite reach those sad eyes.

To break the subtle tension, I got out of bed and noticed Tyler mimic me as I got dressed. We left the room together, heading for the ice in a routine that spoke more than words could ever convey.

I never imagined I’d feel more like a spectator than I did as we made our way to the hotel’s foyer. Tyler’s infectious smiles were directed at teammates, accompanied by heartfelt bro hugs for Jarman, Mouse, Amon, and Preston—those closest to him. The camaraderie extended to the entire team, but I found myself lingering at the periphery—and the others noticed. It was my final year at BU and in the past, it would have marked the end of my hockey career. I never thought things would turn out the way they had.

I was genuinely thrilled for the opportunity to join a pro team. Though my last altercation with my father and subsequent recovery worried me, Connor assured me that the Vancouver team was still more than satisfied with my performance. As I absorbed the atmosphere of my last year, I realized it wasn’t just my farewell. Jarman and Mouse were also bidding adieu to their collegiate hockey careers. Mouse chattered away, detailing the arrival of his girlfriend to the competition. Jarman stood quietly to his side, and I found myself drawn to the friend I’d overlooked for far too long.

I stepped closer, placing a comforting hand on Jarman’s shoulder. We watched together as Tyler gave Mouse every ounce of his focus—an unexpected moment where even the guy known for his witty banter received genuine attention.

“To think your guy is only going to have Amon next year,” Jarman muttered. A wave of sadness washed over me at the realization. Cal was graduating as well, and my chest ached at the realization: that his dorm would be void of our presence. No me, no Cal—and no Jamie.

Jarman placed his hand over mine and squeezed, seeming to read my mind. “Have you told him yet?” I’d always wonder how Jarman got to be so perceptive.

I sighed and shook my head, just enough so Tyler didn’t notice the movement. “Why not?”

Jarman kept his voice low as Tyler made his rounds through the team. For Mr. Serious, he had a way of connecting with each player, putting them at ease before every game. The curse of an empath, I suppose- feeding everyone from an empty plate.

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