Page 43 of Speed

Noah’s lips curved into a small smile, his expression softening. “Feelings. Right.”

I felt embarrassment creeping in as I hesitated. My words felt clumsy, too big for my mouth. “When are you home?”

“Three days,” he said, his voice low and warm, carrying that sexy sleepy rasp that tugged at something deep in my chest.

“Can I be there when you get back?” The question came out quieter than I intended, as though I feared the answer.

“In my apartment?” he asked, one eyebrow lifting in amused surprise.

“No, I’ll get a hotel and—” I started, but he cut me off with a laugh, the sound light and teasing.

“I was joking,” he said, his smile gentle. “I’ll send you the code. Make yourself at home.”

“You trust me with your place?” I asked, the weight of his offer settling over me like a warm blanket. It wasn’t just a casual invitation; it was something I wasn’t sure I deserved but desperately wanted.

His gaze was steady. “Right now, I trust you with everything.”

His words hit hard, and I couldn’t speak for a moment. He didn’t look away; his eyes locked on mine, and I could see the sincerity there, the strength that made him Noah. Then, he yawned, and it made me smile. He had a cute yawn.

I have it bad.

“Night, Noah,” I murmured.

“Night, Brody. See you in three days.”

He ended the call, and I stared at the screen for the longest time.

Three days.

That was a long-ass time to wait.

FOURTEEN

Noah

I wasn’tsure how the married players, or those with long-term partners, did it.

I’d not seen Brody for a couple of days, yet I missed him so much it felt like a bad toothache, only in my chest. A chest ache. I rubbed idly at my sternum, the monitor hidden under my clothes, as we waited for our TSA check to return to the States from a game we’d played in Toronto. I’d not had much ice time, but the coaches were trying to get the remaining players rotated to see who was making the next round of cuts. I’d done well, considering my meager ten minutes. I’d won a few key faceoffs, taken two quality shots on goal, and blocked a slapshot aimed at our net. With my leg. The bruise on my calf was enormous, and of course, that had brought in the medical team to hover and ponder over the contusion.

Bruises are part of hockey, and I’d been iced to the gods and told to monitor my numbers over the next few days. I was to let the team doctor know if I had any other symptoms that might need medical attention, which was… I don’t know. It was good the team cared so much, but it sure would have been nice to just have a bruise be a bruise.

The discoloration was gnarly, and when I showed it off to the other Railers, it devolved into a bruise-sharing contest that ended when Coach told us to stop showing our war wounds and get the line moving. Guess he wanted to get home too. My bruise and I cleared security with no hassles although I had a joint passport, so I had to travel with my US and Swedish passports when we left the States. I had dual citizenship in both countries as I was born in Sweden but became a US citizen when I turned eighteen. Pops had been emphatic about his children being American citizens, as he proudly was. As kids, we visited Sweden many times, but Pops didn’t return to Russia after bringing my siblings home. Ever. Sad but understandable.

On the short flight home, I rested, earbuds in,Hamiltonplaying as I napped on and off. The next two games would be on home ice, one against Carolina and one against Boston. I was looking forward to both. I needed to push harder now that we were getting closer to the final roster decisions. Ihadto make the team. Getting things settled with Brody was my priority when I got back to Harrisburg.

With that goal in mind, I accepted a ride from the airport with Nic and Blake, agreed to go bowling over the weekend, then bolted—aka limped—to the lobby of my apartment. A new security guard sat behind the chrome desk, smiling at me, his teeth so white my eyes rebelled.

“Afternoon,” he called as I signed in. His hair was thinning, his nose long, and his skin was pockmarked from teenage acne. He was an older guy, in his mid-fifties or so, with a paunch straining the buttons on his uniform shirt. “Oh, Mr. Gunnarsson. Your guest is waiting for you in your apartment.”

I noted his nametag. “Cool, thanks, Tim; good work keeping the tenants safe.”

“That’s our job. And hey, who was I to not allow Brody Vance in when he had a pass? Are you and he friends? Is this a sport thing?”

“Something like that,” I fluffed off as I strolled to the mailboxes, gathered up the bills and junk, and went to the elevators. I felt bad for Brody. No matter where he went, someone was scoping him out. I got why he had fled Atlanta after that fiasco with the Kiss Kam. Hopefully, in about four minutes and counting, I could kiss his worries away.

The elevator opened on the sixth floor with aping. I made my way to my door, opened it, and was met by the sexiest man in Harrisburg wearing an apron that saidHot Rod Under Apronand a killer smile. Pity that wasn’t the extent of what he wore, but he was fully dressed. Damn it.

“You’re home,” he said as he produced a charcuterie board from behind his back loaded with nuts, fruits, meats, olives, and several tiny jars of seasoned mustard. “I was going to bake you a cake, but went with something better for your sugars. I looked this up on a webpage about taking care of your diabetes, and they suggested the mustard and low-carb crackers.”

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