Page 24 of Second Shot

By the time I come out of the bathroom, he’s sitting on his bed checking his phone, fully dressed. He looks up when I emerge, and for a split second, I think I see something flicker in his eyes. But then it’s gone, replaced by that same professional distance he’s maintained since he came out of the bathroom.

“Bus leaves in twenty,” he says, standing and going to his suitcase.

“Yeah, I know.” I start getting dressed, hyperaware of his presence in the room. Every movement feels stilted. Not sure why I’m so uptight. It’s not like he’s interested in looking at me.

We pack in silence, moving around each other with careful choreography to avoid any accidental contact. When I reach for my supplement bottles on the dresser, the ones I apparently knocked over in my drunken stupor last night, he’s right there organizing his own stuff, close enough that I can smell his cologne.

For a moment, while standing inches apart, the memory of last night crashes over me again. The way he looked at me when I was on my knees, the sounds he made when he came, the way hecommandedme to come and I obeyed without question.

My cheeks burn, and I step back quickly, nearly tripping over my own bag.

“Careful,” he says, grabbing my elbow to steady me. But there’s no warmth in his voice, and he lets go of me immediately.

“Thanks,” I mutter, ignoring how my skin tingles where his warm fingers touched me. I try to shake off my body’s response to him, shoving the bottles into my bag with more force than necessary.

The bus ride to the airport is awkward. We end up near each other because we’re late getting on the bus, and the only two seats left are side by side. After greeting the guys and trading a few laughs about how drunk we were last night, Jacobs listens to music through his earbuds, and I stare out the window at the Vegas landscape scrolling past. Empty lots and half-finished developments that look even more depressing in daylight.

I slide down in my seat, feeling depressed. It’s weird to think that Tam and I aren’t a thing anymore. I can’t call him and talk about how gutted I am that I lost my first game with my new team. He doesn’t care. He’s moved on already with some other guy. It hurts to think he doesn’t want me anymore. He wants this other guy instead. After two years, he literally doesn’t care if he ever speaks to me again. The thought of thatleaves a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. It feeds into my feelings of worthlessness.

When we first got together, Tam and I were great together. We had a lot of fun. He’d been impressed that I was a professional hockey player. He’d been understanding of the demands on my time. That’s the Tam I missed. Not the surly, moody Tam who’d grown to resent hockey. I know he changed because he was unhappy, but there was nothing I could have done other than quit hockey.

The fantasy of being with a professional hockey player hadn’t been as fun for him as the reality. I wasn’t home a lot, and he wasn’t wrong when he’d complain that I put hockey before him. I know he was deeply hurt when I accepted the trade to California. Especially when I made it clear I didn’t want him to quit his job and move with me. That had really wounded him and we’d never recovered from that. I’m sad he left me, but I understand why he did.

I wasn’t enough.

On the plane, my thoughts drift to last night with Jacobs. At least I don’t have to feel guilty about fooling around with him. I don’t have to confess to Tam that I slept with someone else. Even though we’d agreed it was okay to see other people, that still would have been an awkward conversation. Too bad Jacobs made it clear he doesn’t want more of me. It might’ve helped meget over Tam. Sleeping with other people can definitely soften the sting of rejection.

I’m relieved Jacobs saidwe’re goodat the end of our night together. I don’t want to be at odds with anyone, especially someone on my team. I’m hoping he meant it when he said he had no beef with me anymore. Then I can just relax and focus on hockey.

I close my eyes, thinking about how Jacobs insisted on jerking me off. Why’d he do that? Why’d he want to watch me come? That wasn’t just about power or control. There was something else there, something that felt like real desire. And when I had his cock in my mouth, the way he stroked my hair and murmured gentle words of praise. Even now, my body warms and throbs at the memory. It was like he knew exactly what I needed to hear. Even I hadn’t known how much I wanted that.

But none of it matters because Jacobs made it clear he doesn’t want anything else to do with me. He wants a purely professional relationship. Every time I glance over at him, he’s either sleeping or staring out the window, completely unreachable. It’s like last night never happened. He went right back into his shell this morning, as if he hadn’t been the one to tell me to suck his cock. As if he hadn’t come in my mouth, loving every fucking second of it.

By the time we land, I’ve convinced myself this is for the best. Whatever happened in Vegas stays in Vegas. We’ll just go back to being professional teammates, nothing more. I’ll stop trying to win his approval, and I’ll stop caring whether he likes me or not. We had a little fun, but I can accept that it’ll never happen again.

Except I know that’s a lie. Even now, walking through the airport with him on the other side of Kincaid, I want his attention. His approval. His hands on me again. I want him to notice me. Want me again. I’m not sure how to forget what we did. It felt like more than just sex. There was a weird emotional bond too.

And that scares the hell out of me.

I’m not sure how to put the genie back in the bottle.

****

The puck comes to me clean at the top of the circle, and I don’t even have to look to know where Jacobs is positioning himself. It’s been a few days, and ever since Vegas we’re finally finding that rhythm Coach Donnelly keeps talking about. I snap a quick pass across the ice, leading him perfectly into the slot.

“Noice,”Foster shouts from the bench as Jacobs one-times it past Niko’s glove. “That’s what I’m talking ‘bout.”

But it’s the quick nod Jacobs gives me as he skates past that makes my chest tighten. Not much, just a brief acknowledgment that the pass was good, that we’re clicking, but it’s more than I’d gotten from him before we played the Raptors.

“Nice play, Caldwell,” he says quietly as we line up for the next drill.

The compliment catches me off guard. Usually, I’d come back with a cocky retort, but because it’s Jacobs, I hold my tongue. Since Vegas, Jacobs has been... different. Not warm, exactly, but professional in a way that feels less hostile. He passes to me now when I’m open instead of looking for other options. He occasionally acknowledges good plays. Sometimes he even offers tactical suggestions during line changes.

It’s like someone flipped a switch, and now he can see me.

“Yeah, well you made it easy. Your positioning in the corner was perfect,” I reply, because it’s true and because I want to keep this tentative peace between us. “Makes it easier to find you.”

Another nod. Another small crack in his guarded facade.

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