Page 42 of Home Ice Advantage

And just like that, his marriage was over.

The news as Eric was getting his morning coffee ready seemed more and more dire these days. The lawsuit against the Railers for their role in covering up the assault on an anonymous player had been proceeding through the courts. Eric wasn’t familiar with the way the American court system worked, really, but the team had hired an independent investigator to look into allegations that the front office and even the coaching staff had been aware of what happened. The report was going to come out any day now, or at least, had been about to come out any day now for the last few months. Privately, Eric wondered whether they’d ever release their findings. It seemed like the kind of thing the team would do its best to squash.

Today, the other dire thing was that he was getting his coffee ready in Ryan Sullivan’s apartment, and it turned out that Sully did not have any proper coffee-making equipment at all. He had a $20 Mr. Coffee and a single-serving Keurig machine both taking up space on his counter, and it looked like he’d never used the Mr. Coffee in his entire time staying here.

“You know this shit is terrible for the environment, right?” Eric called, fiddling with the flippy top of the Keurig.

“I never use it,” Sully mumbled, still burrowed deeply in the covers where Eric had left him. The apartment was small enough that Eric could hear him, even muffled by the blankets, even in the kitchen. “I just go to Dunkin’.”

“Of course you do,” Eric said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What’s wrong with Dunkin’?”

“If you wanna drink vaguely coffee-flavoredwaterthat’s mostly cream and sugar, there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Jesus, I didn’t know I was fucking a coffee snob.”

“It’s not being snobby, it’s called havingonetaste bud, Sully.”

“Fuck off, it’s too early for this.”

It was, of course, a little early. And they had been up late last night. Late enough that when they were finished, Sully had rolled over and wrapped his arms around Eric’s body, closed his eyes and muttered into Eric’s chest hair, “Come on, it’s ass o’clock, you can stay over foronce, it’s not gonna fucking kill you.”

Eric had felt his heart beating too loudly in his own ears, knocking against his ribs. It was probably loud enough that Sully could have heard it, too. This felt like something he shouldn’t have been doing, but the bed was warm, and he was so fucking relaxed and loose and comfortable, that he’d said, “Fine,fine.”

He’d woken up in the morning to the light streaming through Sully’s blind-less window and Sully’s arm slung over his waist still and his phone buzzing on the floor next to Sully’s bed and thought:fuck.

By the time he’d spoken to his mom and jury-rigged passable coffee in the percolator, Sully had stumbled into the kitchen, wearing only his boxers. He yawned hugely, stretching one arm a little, like it was aching, and he wanted to test it. Eric tried not to stare at him when he did it, at the way his stomach and shoulder muscles shifted, the way the boxers rode up his thighs. It was just his fucking luck that he had developed some kind of temporary derangement about Ryan Sullivan, where every stupid thing he did made Eric want to shove him against a wall.

“Do you do that every morning?” Sully asked.

“What?”

“Talk to your mom?”

“Most mornings,” Eric said, warily prepared to get defensive about it.

“That’s really sweet,” Sully said, and smiled at him, still sleepy-eyed, hair messy.

“You tell anyone about that, I’ll fucking kill you.” To cover his discomfort, he turned away, so he could pour them both cups of coffee.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Sully said, and Eric heard him opening some cabinets, and the fridge. “Itissweet, though. Does she still live in Canada?”

“The only way she’s leaving Montreal is in a coffin,” Eric muttered. “Born and raised there. Loves it. I offered to move her out close to me, since she’s kind of frail these days, and she refused—whatare you doing to that coffee?”

“Making it drinkable,” Sully said, as he dumped heaping teaspoons full of sugar into the cup, followed by long glugs of hazelnut-flavored creamer.

“Oh my god. Jesus, Sully, you do thisevery morning?”

“I go to Dunkin’ every morning, usually. But someone insisted on making coffee here.”

Eric reached out and gripped his shoulders, and said, “Ryan Sullivan, I’m going to fix you. Somehow. I’m going to teach you how to be better.”

Instead of answering or trying to twist out of his grip, Sully went up on his tiptoes and kissed Eric on the mouth. It was disgusting. He tasted like morning breath and artificial hazelnut and sugar, and somehow, Eric was still kissing him back anyway, his hands slipping down to grip Sully by the biceps.

“Oh,” Sully said, with a little sigh as he pulled away, “you want breakfast? We have time. I have eggs.”

“You really missed your calling as a lawyer. Very convincing argument, right there.”

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