Page 45 of Gravity
I don't remember most of the drive. I remember holding his hand, and at a stoplight, we lose ourselves in another kiss until the driver behind us lays on their horn.
We're in each other's arms before we're through my front door. Jackets dropped. Boots toed off. Duffels ignored. He backs me down the hallway, his touch igniting me from the inside. There's nothing in the world but him. The feel of him, the warmth of him. I strip him as he strips me, and we end up flat on our backs in my bed as we writhe out of our jeans and kick them to the floor.
He kisses me tenderly, his hands on my face like I'm something precious he has to hold and caress. I hold him in turn, and my fingers play with the ends of his hair as we lay on our sides and bring our bodies together. Every time, every single time, the feel of his body takes my breath away. I gasp against his kiss. He draws me closer, turning me on my back as our kiss deepens.
We share our breath as we rock against each other. As my legs rise around him and he holds my thigh to his hip. As our cocks slide together, first slowly, then faster. I press my cheek to his and cling to his shoulders. His lips pepper my face with kisses.
I can't conjoin thoughts, can't connect the impulse to kiss and hold and grind into a logical sequence. I'm worn raw, reduced to chasing sensations. His lips, his touch, his hold. I buck against him and see stars. His arms bracket me against the mattress, and I press my face against the swell of his bicep before biting on his muscle. Thighs and hips press and push. We're chest to chest, his hair rubbing against my bare skin, teasing my nipples. Our cocks grind together, apart, together, and heat builds between us so sharply it feels like we're sparking flames.
I can't breathe. I can't think. I can only cling to him. Who we are is blurring. Where does his body end and mine begin? Do I care?Non, he is everything I need. I can fall to pieces in his arms. I'm close. I'm so, so close, and he's going to bring me to the edge, where I will soar intole petite mortagain—
I come apart with his name on my lips, and he kisses it away before following me. Our release is hot against our bellies, and we keep grinding like we can make love for hours and this feeling we've built up will never end. We chase the burn and the slickness, the feel of falling into each other.
Eventually, we slow, and then still, and it's just our lips that keep moving. His eyelashes flutter over my cheek, and he ends our kiss with a sigh. His breath ruffles my hair when he whispers my name.
“We don't have to be on the ice until eleven a.m. tomorrow?” he asks.
“Oui. Not until then.”
We have practice and another home game tomorrow and the day after, and then we are on the road again, heading westward before returning to Montréal to close out the regular season. It's that part of the year when the days bleed together, when time is measured in chunks. Before and after practice. Before and after games. There are days we wake up in one city, play a game, and fall asleep in another city. Flight after flight, city after city.
Something tells me that I'll be marking time differently now. Hours spent in Hunter's arms, and then counting the hours until I can be in his arms again. Minutes since our last kiss, and minutes until we're tasting each other once more. What will it be like to be on the road with him? And with the team?Calisse, how on earth are we going to keep this between us?
These are worries for later. Right now, he is here.
Hunter burrows into me with a sigh. He takes my hand in his as he kisses my cheek, my forehead, then the tip of my nose.
I nuzzle him back, and we lay entwined, hands clasped as we breathe each other in and trade achingly slow kisses. The light from the moon gleams off the snow outside my windows, washing the bedroom in a shivering glow. The world is silent. Inside this room, inside this bed, it is quiet enough to hear Hunter's heartbeat, and the sound lulls me intodoux et beaux rêves.
ChapterSixteen
Hunter
“Allez Montréal!”MacKenize leads the toast.
We raise our glasses and roar together,“Allez Montréal!”
We've won again. And again. And again. And again. We've put up four shutouts, and we're not just beating teams by one or two points. We're winning by four, five, and six points, every time. Zero to six is a devastating score in hockey.
News headlines that screamed about the Étoiles collapse now call us “the most dominant team today.” Bryce was vilified in articles and blog posts and on Twitter, but those same people who rushed to breathlessly announce his tumble from on high are falling over themselves to try and describe his return to greatness.“Bryce Michel is the best hockey has to offer. He's pure talent, honed by both artistic majesty and a mind trained to pick up on the most minute detail of each play.”
But Bryce isn’t winning all of these games single-handedly. If you put him on the ice alone against another team, he would lose.
What all those articles and blogs and Twitter threads fail to realize is that, while he is individually stunning, Bryce is a thousand times greater when he is part of something larger than himself. When he is part of a team. And not just any team, but this team.Ourteam.
I am Bryce's biggest fan. He's the brightest star in my sky, a man I look up to not only as the best athlete in my sport, but because he is an incredible human being. He still is my hero, not because he plays hockey or because he is the next Great One. He is my hero because he is Bryce.
“To Bunny!” MacKenzie roars, toasting again. We are eating a late dinner at the hotel in Edmonton, celebrating our win.
Everyone slaps the tabletop. Silverware clatters. Water sloshes out of our glasses. Our beers and our sodas are in the air, and we toast as Karel and Janne chant“Bun-ny, Bun-ny, Bun-ny.”
Bryce ducks his head, but he's beaming. He's so damn happy. He's as ecstatic now as he was despairing weeks ago, like he's found answers to the questions we both asked on two different rivers.What does it all mean?Looking around at this table, at the smiling faces of our teammates, I think I know.
I understand why Bryce plays as he does. The river is for playing against yourself, but the team is for playing with each other, and it's thewiththat matters most, especially to him. This isn't just his team. These are his brothers, and this game is a gift of love he bestows upon them.
Bryce and I are seated side by side. He has his elbows on the table, and his cheeks are burgundy as everyone cheers and chants his name. He ducks his head to hide his face, but his eyes find mine, and he smiles up at me.
We're not out. We haven't said a word about our relationship. We don't kiss in front of the team, and we keep our hand-holds and our stolen moments away from everybody. We only let our lips brush in the darkness of the tunnel or the corner of the dressing room, when it's just the two of us alone.
