Page 51 of From Coast to Coast

After a while I stop trying to sleep and just listen to him breathe. He doesn’t nap long. When he wakes up, he stretches and pushes his ass further into my pelvis, rubbing against my dick in a way that ensures it wakes up, too. He looks over his shoulder at me, grinning sleepily. Putting an arm over him, I angle his face back and lean over him enough that I can kiss him.

Slow and unhurried, the kind of kissing meant for people who have time to learn their partner—the way they taste and the way they react, the sounds they make withoutmeaning to, and the first thing their hands reach for. I desperately want to know these things before I won’t have a chance to experience them again.

When he starts rocking his hips rhythmically backward, I break my mouth away from his long enough to grab the lube and another condom. Remy doesn’t move or speak, either sated enough from our previous round that he doesn’t care how we do things, or content to let me take the lead.

I keep him where he is—the little spoon to my big. When I push his leg forward and enter him from behind, he lets out a softohthat settles in my chest and makes it hard to breathe. My brain is screaming at me to not get attached, but my heart is letting me know that ship has long since left port and I need to settle in for the ride.

Sliding an arm underneath him to bring him closer to me and give myself more leverage, I lean over him as far as I can in order to not strain his neck but still be able to make out. He reaches up and puts a hand to the back of my head, holding me in place as I roll my hips achingly slow. We fall into an easy rhythm, never once picking up the pace or breaking apart further than is needed to breathe.

Afterward, we manage only a halfhearted attempt at cleanup before we’re tucked back into bed and Remy’s eyelids are fluttering closed. He falls asleep with a foot of distance between us, but slowly migrates across the bed to me until his face is pressed into my chest, cheek smooshed and lips parted.It’s because he’s cold and you’re a furnace,I tell myself firmly, while my heart tries to equate snuggling with more.

Twice more we wake up and have sex before sinking back into sleep. I wake up at 6 a.m. thanks to my internal body clock, but Remy remains dead to the world even after Iwriggle out from under him. He makes a small noise of disapproval that has me pausing at the bathroom door, but he only turns over and lapses back into silence. I shower as quickly as I can, not wanting the sound of the water to disturb him, and then tiptoe my way to the kitchen.

While the water boils for tea, I check my emails and read through the documents Lisa sent me. The trade went through and I’m expected at afternoon practice in Colorado tomorrow. When I try to feel excited about it, all I find is a wearied sort of resignation. This is absolutely the right move for my career, no doubt about that, but it feels like I’m making a questionable personal choice and I’m not sure which one should hold more weight.

I prepare myself a massive cup of tea and take a moment to just inhale the bitter scent of it to clear my head. My phone buzzes with a text message. Troy’s name flashes up in a notification, reminding me that it’s been a few weeks since I’ve reached out. During the season we keep in touch mainly with sporadic text messages, too busy to commit to more, but still trying our best to stay in touch. As always, his name sends a small pang of loneliness through me.

Troy

Morning, Gray. You awake?

Grayson

I’m awake. How are you doing, little brother?

Troy

Can I call you?

The question—sent so quickly after my message, he’d obviously already had it typed out—makes me pause foronly a second before I pick up the phone and dial his number. He answers on the first ring.

“Hey.”

The stressed sound of his voice has me straightening from my lazy repose against the counter and setting my mug down.

“Hey, Troy, what’s going on?” I glance at the clock. 7 a.m. here means 9 a.m. there, and he’s a chronically early riser. Still, a phone call at this time is out of the ordinary for us. “You okay? And Sam?”

“We’re fine,” he says hastily, but it’s not exactly reassuring when his tone is still threaded with anxiety. “I just saw about the trade. Are you happy? Colorado is a good team.”

“Yeah, it should be good. I’m excited.”

Liar, liar, liar.

“I’m sorry you’ll have to leave Calgary, though. It’ll be weird, won’t it? You’ve always been based in Canada.”

“A little bit,” I admit. “I’ll miss living here, definitely, but I think the team will be a little more to my taste.”

“Still wish we could have you here,” he says, laughing even though it sounds forced and a little bit sad.

“Me too. You sure nothing is going on, Troy? If something happened with Sam, you know you can tell me?—”

“Sam is perfect,” he replies immediately, sounding more like himself than he has this entire conversation. I smile. Troy wouldn’t have a bad thing to say about his husband even if you held him at gunpoint and demanded it. “Uhm, but actually there is something going on. I wanted to tell you before you heard it on ESPN.”

“Okay.”

“Lawson is out. He got hurt a couple weeks ago and they won’t clear him to come back. Career-ending injury.”

“No way,” I breathe. That can’t possibly be right—South Carolina without Anthony Lawson between the pipes? “I thought they had him on IR, but were expecting a recovery.”

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