Page 90 of Our Secret to Keep

“Is that River Rousseau?”

In the video, I turn to look at the girl filming the video, but you can’t see her. She zooms in on me, then wanders to Nate, getting a good shot of his face and glassy eyes.

“Holy shit! He’s into dudes.”

“So hot,” her friend says. “Are you guys gonna kiss or what? I’m dying over here.”

The camera angle changes to Nate as he grits his teeth and moves toward them. “Give me that fucking phone.”

“Hell, no,” she yells, the video shaking as she runs toward the movie theater. “You want it, come get it, sexy.”

The screen flips to images of Nate and me over the years, and then The Kingston Spy does an AI-generated voiceover.

“I wonder what River was talking about,” the fake voice says as photos from my Instagram flash on the screen. “Anyone got the deets on Nate Brooks and his addiction? Or is he just addicted to River Rousseau? Can’t say I would blame him. Share this video with a friend and comment with your theories.”

After the video ends, I scroll through the comments. A bunch of trolls talking shit. Girls hoping we’re hooking up and want pics. They also want in on the action. Of course, we get some Bible thumpers bitching about God and gay people and how it’s unholy.

Whatever.

Fuck them.

I close out of the app and hand Nate the phone. “Doesn’t matter. They have no proof of anything.”

He nibbles on his bottom lip. “My dad will want to know about my addiction.”

“Mine didn’t mention it. Maybe he won’t tell your dad. He doesn’t spend any time on TikTok.”

“Yeah, but his PR team keeps tabs on me. They set up Google alerts so they know if anyone posts about me. And they check all of the social apps.”

“We can tell the world whatever we want. Without proof, they have nothing.”

His arm bumps into mine, and my skin sparks with heat, going straight to my cock that is now awake again and wants to play. With him.

Down boy.

“I’m not worrying about this shit on game day,” I tell Nate, slapping a hand on his back. “Can you make us breakfast? I’m starving.”

He winks, and then he’s gone, leaving me to deal with the massive boner he left in his wake.

* * *

When Coach Martencalls for a line change, Parker and Nate hop over the wall, sticks in hand. I follow behind them, skating down the ice. Fueled by adrenaline and rage, I want to take out my pent-up aggression on the opposing team.

I need to hit something.

Anything.

I’m wound too tight.

Thankfully, I have a distraction. We’re playing Penn State at home and winning by two goals. I check a defenseman into the boards, fighting him for possession of the puck. He’s not as good of a puck handler as me. No one in the league can touch my skill, and how could they? An NHL legend trained me.

The defenseman attempts to knock the puck through my legs instead of taking the toe of his stick blade to move the puck away from me. A winger throws his right shoulder into my left, trying to push me out of the way. But I’m quicker and better than them, tapping the puck away from the defenseman’s stick using a toe drag to slide it to the other side of my body.

At least I’m good at hockey.

Lately, I feel like I am failing at life. Being on the ice gives me an instant pick-me-up. A thrill rolls down my arms and spine, sending a ripple of excitement through me.

I set off down the ice on the breakaway, crossing the puck in front of me with my eyes on the goalie. Players trail behind me in a poor attempt to match my speed. I can skate circles around them. While I may lack confidence in many areas, this is not one of them.

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