Page 54 of Save the Game

“I might have, if you’d committed to that foreplay any longer,” he says dryly. I beam, settling myself more comfortably against him. His cum is slowly drying between us and I really do need to get rid of this condom. Fuck it, though—who cares about hygiene when you could lay on top of Luke instead.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” I chuckle, not really feeling sorry at all. “I just wanted you to feel good, and be prepped enough.”

“Well, you accomplished both, so good on you,” his fingers card through my hair again, and I smile, helplessly. I’m obsessed with how obsessed he is with my fucking hair.

“Thanks for…talking to me, too.” Words that I’ve kept repressed seem to bubble up my throat, ready to be spoken now that I’ve found a safe space. “I feel like I needed the reminder that it was you, and nothing bad was going to happen. Taking off my clothes around people is sort of hard for me. It doesn’t even make sense, but sometimes I get nervous in the locker room when I’m changing. Like, being naked in front of others is now a problem where it wasn’t before. And I can’t control my reaction, and it’s fucking frustrating—I know nothing is going to happen in the locker room full of my teammates or here with you, but it still stresses me out.”

I stop, taking a deep inhale and trying to reorder my chaotic thoughts and get to the point of what I’m really trying to say. Luke is silent, head tilted against mine and fingers still combing through my hair.

“And I know this isn’t the first time you and I have done stuff before, but I was still nervous, and I know you noticed that. So, thanks, for talking to me, and for making me feel comfortable, and for letting me finger you to death.”

“Not a bad way to go, all things considered,” he says lightly, but lifts his head to kiss my forehead. “You don’t have to thank me, Max. I would do literally anything to make you feel comfortable. And—just putting this out there—but you know we don’t have to be naked to fool around, right? If you don’t want to take your clothes off, then you shouldn’t?—."

“Please do not suggest any scenario where you are fully clothed,” I interrupt, and he snorts forcefully enough to ruffle my hair. “I wasn’t saying that I didn’t want to, I was… I guess, to sum things up, all I was trying to convey was that things like that freak me out, but you make me feel safe. And…I know I was pissed at you before, but after thinking about it this week, I’m—I’m sort of glad that you know about what happened.”

He inhales, chest rising and lifting me up where I’m lying on top of him. “Me, too,” he responds, voice low.

Quiet falls between us, then, and I give myself another solid five minutes of snuggle time before I lift myself off of him. Immediately, his arms come around me—not holding me down, but letting me know that he wants to.

“Do you have to leave?” He asks, worried.

“No. Not until later this afternoon—I’ll have to go home and get ready for the game. But I probably should go get rid of this condom.”

“Christ, I forgot about that,” he mutters, dropping his arms down to the bed and propping himself up on his elbows to watch me cross the room to his bathroom. I hear the bed creak from where I’m standing in the bathroom, cleaning up. A moment later, Luke appears in the doorway, naked and looking like a walking work of art. He holds out my boxers, which he must have snatched up off of the floor on his way over.

“Thanks,” I smile, gratefully. Pulling them on, I turn and watch him as he cleans himself off. When he notices me observing, he winks and turns so that I have a better view. Rolling my eyes, but unable to stop smiling, I head back into the bedroom to inspect the bed. Deciding that it’s clean enough, I slip back under the sheets and prop myself up against the headboard.

I can see a sliver of Luke through the open door of the bathroom, all muscles beneath smooth brown skin. I’m giddy, sitting here and mentally congratulating myself on not being quite as broken as I was yesterday. If it wouldn’t be wildly inappropriate to do so, I might call up Coach Mackenzie and tell him. Smiling, I lock eyes with Luke as he walks back across the bedroom toward me, snatching up his own boxers and slipping them on.

“What are you grinning about?” He asks, flopping down and jostling me. Grabbing my hand, he leans forward and drapes it across his shoulders like a scarf. I laugh, using that hand to push his chin toward me so that I can kiss him.

“You,” I say simply. He beams.

“Oh, Maxy,” he shakes his head, leaning into me and pulling my arm tight around himself, “what the hell am I going to do with you?”

We line up to take the ice for the third period, everyone fidgeting with pent-up energy. It’s always like this—exhaustion taking a firm backseat to the adrenaline rush and excitement of the game. I glance over my shoulder and see Vasel shuffling his feet, head down. Coach calls for us to take the ice and his head snaps up, a smile on his face. We step out of the chute and onto the now pristine ice, taking a few laps around our zone before lining up for face off.

We’re ahead, winning by a 3-1 lead, but with twenty minutes of regulation play left we can’t get too comfortable. As expected, Michigan comes off of intermission hot—they know as well as we do those two points are nothing, and a game can change in a blink of an eye. They also know that this late in the season, every win matters, just like every loss.

It’s two minutes down in the period and one of their guys snows our goalie, initiating a fight between our third line and their second. McIntyre, our starting net minder, skates off aimlessly as he waits for the refs to break up the fight and award roughing penalties to both sides. I glance over my shoulder at Coach Mackenzie, who looks like he’s chewing rocks.

I’m sent over the boards to take over the offensive line, Vas by my side, and the usual sense of calm washes over me. My life outside of hockey might be out of control and chaotic but here, on the ice, I know what I’m about.

Michigan is playing tic-tac-toe in our zone, sending the puck back and forth as they try to find a shot they’re willing to take a chance on. That is, until one of our defensemen intercepts a sloppy slot pass and immediately taps it to me. Less than a minute later, Vas and I have a two-man advantage on the opposing goalie and I already know what he’s going to do.

He’s young, not yet seasoned enough to realize that if he doesn’t cover the outside edge of his crease and challenge the shooter, he’s not cutting off a single angle. I score easily, putting the puck through the high slot off of a one-timer from Vas. He’s the first to get to me, pulling me into a hug and banging our helmets together. The rest of the line joins us and we skate off to the bench, tapping the gloves of our ecstatic team.

“Don’t get comfortable,” Coach Mackenzie barks at us, once we’re seated back on the bench. Our backup goalie smiles at me and I return it, easily.

We win handily, and the celebration on the ice is a little more exuberant than usual, everyone high off of a 5-1 win against the current division leader. McIntyre, in particular, is beaming and enjoying himself more than usual as the team lines up to congratulate him. It’s been hard for him, this season, to make his mark on the team after following behind Carter Morgan when he was called up to the AHL.

“You killed it,” I tell him, forgoing my usual head tap and pulling him into a hug. He reciprocates enthusiastically, patting my back. “Way to go.”

“Fuck,” is all he says in return, grinning and shaking his head.

It was a home game tonight, so everyone gets back to the locker room and immediately plans are being shouted to the masses. Party offers are thrown around as everyone decides they’re a little too wound up to go home and celebrate alone. Shaking my head and leaving them to it, I start pulling my gear off at my stall. My phone buzzes and I reach for it so quickly I crack my knuckles against the underside of the shelf.

Hockey is so fucking sexy.

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