Page 61 of Breakaway Goals
What do you think?
Are you as into this as I am?
You felt that too, right?
We could do this, even if it’s crazy?
Three thousand miles isn’t that far.
Anything has to be better than being without each other, now that we’ve found this.
But before he could decide on a tactic, on a single approach, Hayes felt his eyes begin to slip closed, the game and the adrenaline and the booze and the sex all catching up with him at once.
He had one last thought before he fell asleep.
I think I know what this something else is.
And then he was gone.
Chapter 9
Morgandidn’tfallasleep.Hayes knocked out almost immediately, combination of the game, the adrenaline rush and then fall, the booze and then almost definitely the orgasm.
But Morgan couldn’t turn his mind off. He hadn’t had nearly as much to drink as Hayes—almost nothing, other than the few sips of cheap beer and shitty champagne in the locker room and a single beer at the bar—because he’d somehow known he’d need his wits about him tonight.
That Hayes would want to turn him inside out, and he’d need to be able to think for that.
There was no question about it: Hayes had done it. Effortlessly, even, like it wasn’t even hard. Like he’d been doing it, basically from the first day, when he’d spent too much time apologizing for him being Hayes Montgomery and for Morgan being Morgan Reynolds.
He hadn’t apologized for it today. He’d leaned into it, and look what had happened. They’d won, and yes, it had been a teameffort, but Hayes had also put them all on his back. Had said, like it was nothing,I got this, you guys.
He had. Hayes had been his most amazing brilliant self, all the more extraordinary because he didn’t even see how brightly he shone.
And Morgan had never felt the resounding echo of that so much in his whole damn life.
He’d won two Cups, and neither of those wins had felt even close to what tonight had been, with Hayes. A stupid manufactured tournament and he couldn’t say that he was the same person after that he’d been before.
But I don’t want to be different.Morgan didn’t want it, but the thought was impossible to ignore, screaming at him with flashing red lights.
Morgan knew he only had two or three years left, at most. Maybe he’d win another Cup. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d set some more records, maybe he wouldn’t.
Maybe later, when it didn’t feel like he was on his last fucking chance, he could lean into that difference. Maybe later it wouldn’tmeananything, in the scheme of things.
But when he lay here and thought about what this thing between them could look like, he felt soft and happy and like a person, not a hockey player.
You’re not ready to be anything more than a hockey player.
That was the unvarnished truth he couldn’t seem to get away from. He wasn’t ready. He wanted this. A part of him even craved it. Wanted to roll over and press as close to Hayes as he could, to soak up his warmth and affection and his sheer fucking brilliance, but he didn’t.
Become second to him.
But he couldn’t.
Morgan waited until the clock turned over to three a.m. and then four. Five.
Waited to change his mind. And it hurt—no question. The vague concept of getting out of this bed and leaving now, of only meeting Hayes tomorrow morning over his eggs and being able to give him a brief, friendly, bro-y hug as he said goodbye, made him want to hurl.
But the alternative felt worse. Too many years of ingrained habits. So many sacrifices. Believing, even when he’d been married and had a child, that hockey was enough, that it would always have to be enough.
