Page 64 of Slew Foot
“Oh. Mine aren’t that much younger,” Rafe said. “Brianna is twenty-seven, Lauren is twenty-six, and Sophia is twenty-three.”
“So my age,” Mickey said drily.
Rafe looked surprised. “Oh yeah. I always forget you’re actually younger than Tanner and me. You never seem like it.”
“My parents divorced when I was a kid,” Mickey said slowly. “And I was an only child until then. I had to—I had to grow up a little fast then. And then my dad re-married and had the girls.”
“Did you not see him anymore?” Rafe asked, glancing over, a little frown creasing his forehead.
“Oh, no, I definitely did,” Mickey said with a smile. “It wasn’t like he forgot about me or anything. We spent plenty of time together and he was there whenever I needed him. He still is. But he was busy with his new family a lot and I was getting more serious about hockey then. And then I moved to Munich to play when I was fifteen and so I was away from my mom then too and …”
“You had to take care of yourself,” Rafe said.
“Exactly.” Mickey was glad Rafe understood. “I had a host family I stayed with and they were very good to me, but it was my job to be sure I was up and ready for practice and getting the nutrition I needed and doing my own laundry and keeping my room clean and all of that adult stuff.”
“Ahh.” Rafe scratched the back of his neck before he stuffed his hands in his pockets again. “See, my mom did all that for me until I left home.”
“I suspect Tanner’s did too,” Mickey said drily.
They made a slow circuit of the block as they talked about their families and early playing careers. When they were back in front of the restaurant, Mickey turned and headed for where he’d parked the car.
It took a little while for the car to heat, but as they headed back to the apartment, Mickey cranked up the fan.
Rafe moaned, “Ooh, that’s good,” when the warm air hit in a way that made Mickey clench his jaw because really, how much was he supposed to endure?
But when Mickey glanced over, Rafe was rubbing his hands together, then flexing his fingers.
“Well, maybe you should have worngloves,” Mickey teased, looking back at the road. But he adjusted one of the center vents so more of the warm air would blow on Rafe.
“My dad used to yell at me about that,” Rafe said with a sheepish look. “Well, not gloves, because I had hockey gloves on obviously. But not wearing enough layers or coming in when I started to get cold. But my mom always had hot cocoa waiting for me when we got home.”
Mickey smiled because it seemed like it was a good memory for him. Hot cocoa would certainly warm Rafe’s cold hands now. An idea popped into Mickey’s head and rather than turn left to head back to the apartment at the next light, he turned right.
“Where are we going?” Rafe asked, sounding confused as he craned his neck to look around. “Maybe I’m wrong but I thought we lived back that way.” He pointed behind them.
“We do. I’m going somewhere else to pick up something,” Mickey explained. “If you don’t mind.”
He should have asked.
“Okay.” Rafe settled back, apparently content with that explanation.
When they pulled into the parking lot in front of the market, Mickey turned off the ignition, but before he got out, he glanced at Rafe. “How are your hands?”
“Still cold.” Rafe touched his fingers to the back of Mickey’s hand.
They were downright icy. “Give them here,” Mickey said firmly.
Rafe looked a little confused, so Mickey reached for his hand, then sandwiched it between his own, rubbing briskly to get the blood flowing. It would have been easier if Rafe’s hands had been smaller than Mickey’s, instead of the other way around, but he made it work, feeling Rafe’s hand slowly warm and trying to ignore the flood of images in his head about how those big, calloused hands would feel on his body.
Mickey did the same to Rafe’s other hand, then pressed them together between his own for a moment. “Better?” he asked when he finally, reluctantly, let go.
Rafe nodded. “Getting there. Thanks.”
In the dim car, lit only by the light a few parking spaces over, Mickey couldn’t see himthatwell, but he could see Rafe smiling at him. He lifted Rafe’s hands to his mouth, intending to blow on them to warm them with his breath but he froze, his lips scant inches from Rafe’s skin and felt a bolt of need go through him.
It tore through his gut and left him breathless.
He wanted so badly to tug Rafe to him and curl a hand around the back of his neck. He wanted to haul Rafe closer and press hot, bruising kisses to his mouth. To bite at his lip and suck on his tongue and …
