Page 35 of Second Shot

The front door opens onto the living room. He flicks a switch and warm light from a table lamp illuminates built-in bookshelves filled with an eclectic mix of novels, hockey biographies, and art books. A stone fireplace anchors one end of the room, with French doors that I assume lead to a deck overlooking the valley below.

“This is great,” I say. “It makes me hate my place even more.”

He laughs. “In that case, you should definitely move. You seem to have a lot of anxiety, and that place isn’t exactly calming.”

My face warm at his observation about my anxiety, but I don’t address it. What can I say? I do have a ton of anxiety right now. Tam breaking up with me the way he did didn’t help any. But it’s not just that. There’s a lot of stress and uncertainty in my life. Being traded and moving across country has been rough. Especially since we’ve lost the only two games I’ve played with the team. I’m doubting my hockey skills, which makes me feel more lost than I’ve ever been, and that’s saying something.

He watches me move through the space as I take in the details of his home. He has a guitar in the corner that shows signs of actual use. The black leather couch looks expensive, but comfortable. Paintings of the ocean hang over the mantle, where there are some photographs of him with what look like his elderly parents. Theyappear to be a happy family. I can tell from the body language and the warm smiles that they’re close.

Photos like those don’t exist of me and my parents. Mom had one professional family portrait scheduled once when I was in middle school. But Dad gave me a black eye the day before, so she had to cancel. She never bothered rescheduling. I didn’t care. I had no desire to pretend we were a happy family. All I cared about was playing hockey so I could get the hell out of that house.

“Can I get you something to drink? Beer? Wine?” Gabe’s voice breaks me out of my unhappy reminiscing.

“Whatever you’re having.”

He disappears into what I assume is the kitchen, and I wander over to the French doors. Through the glass, I can see twinkling lights scattered across the valley below, like stars that fell to earth.

This is so different from my sterile condo with its designer furniture and million-dollar view that might as well be a screensaver. This place feels lived in, chosen, loved. It’s another glimpse into who Gabe is. He’s built himself a refuge up here, away from the noise and expectations and constant scrutiny that comes with professional hockey. He’s not bowing toexpectations, rather he’s guarding his peace and mental health.

Unlike me.

“I can see why you live here,” I say when he returns with two bottles of beer. “After spending all day around people, this must feel like a sanctuary.”

“Something like that.” He settles onto the couch.

I join him, sitting close enough that our legs brush. No need to play coy. The guy told me he wants to fuck me tonight. Nothing wrong with our legs touching. He puts his arm along the back of the couch and I shiver when his warm fingers brush my nape. We sit there in silence for a few moments, me enjoying the caress of his fingers, and him sipping his beer.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Gabe asks suddenly.

I have to think about it. “Breakfast, I guess. I had some scrambled eggs.”

“It’s almost ten at night. You need food. We need food.” He stands up, already moving toward what I assume is the kitchen. “Come on.”

“I’m not really hungry,” I say, though, in truth, I must be hungry on some level since my stomach is empty. Stress has a way of making you forget basic human needs.

He huffs. “You will be once you smell what I’m making.”

I follow him into the kitchen. It’s both rustic and modern with dark wood cabinets, smooth granite counters, and a six-burner gas stove that looks like it’s seen plenty of action. Gabe moves around the space, pulling ingredients from the fridge and pantry.

“Sit,” he says, nodding toward a bar stool at the kitchen island. “Just relax and drink your beer.”

I do as I’m told, watching him move efficiently around the kitchen. Watching him cook is oddly mesmerizing. He starts by throwing thick-cut bacon into a cast iron pan, the sizzling sound immediately filling the kitchen with an aroma that makes my mouth water. While that cooks, he cracks eggs into a bowl with practiced ease and starts whisking them with what looks like heavy cream.

“What are you making? Scrambled eggs?” I ask.

“Ha! As if I would serve anything that commonplace.” He smirks, pulling fresh pasta from the fridge. “I’m making Carbonara,” he corrects. “Quick, filling, and more nutritious than anything you’ll get delivered at this hour.”

“Are you saying Taco Bell isn’t nutritious? How dare you.”

He laughs. “You didn’t get that body eating Taco Bell, dude. Don’t even pretend.”

My stomach flutters and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m pleased he likes my body. I want Gabe to like everything about me. And I’m determined to give him anything he wants tonight. I don’t often bottom, but I will for Gabe. In fact, I want to for him.

I clear my throat. “Uh, did you still want… you know… what you said earlier? In the locker room?”

He’s turning over a slice of bacon with tongs and he doesn’t look up. “You asking if I still want to fuck you tonight?”

“I guess I am.”

---