Page 168 of Forbidden Hockey
“Please don’t use ‘but’ after a sentence like that.”
“But I need even more of you. Don’t move in with them, move in with me.” It’s too close to hockey season for us to find something new; we’d have to make do at my place. “And I know what you said about Hunter?—”
He twists a hand into my plaid shirt like it’s a hockey jersey, pulling me toward him.
“I was hoping you’d get territorial.”
“I’m not.”
He laughs. “You are, and I love it. I love my friends too, and it would have been fun, but I’m sure I’ll be over there often enough.”
My heart hammers. “Is that a yes, pretty boy?”
“It’s a take me home, Travis, and never let me leave again.”
Well, that I can fucking do. I drag him from the tattoo parlor, without getting my matching tattoo, but I’ll be back tomorrow.He’s my pretty boy, I’m his keeper, and I want everyone to know it.
Epilogue
Dirk
“Fuck me,” Trav says as I climb off his bike. “I forgot to grab the wine. I had a nice bottle picked out.”
“It’ll be fine, Trav.”
“No, it won’t. I can’t show up empty-handed when your brother’s finally extending an olive branch. Go on inside, I’ll run back and grab it.”
There’s no use arguing when he’s that adamant, so I don’t tell him that Hunt hates lateness more than anything. I don’t want him to speed, because he will.
He takes off his massive black helmet just to kiss me, and I head inside. I almost knock, but fuck it. Dash never does at his dad’s place. Yeah, still. I do think he should knock before he storms into Trav’s office, or one day he’s gonna see something traumatizing, but maybe he’s got a point about the house. I have a key; I don’t have to knock to enter Hunt’s house.
Besides, the heavy oak door makes a loud enough sound when it shuts. He’ll hear that.
It’s Wednesday, and we leave this Friday for Vegas and the Sutterchuck wedding. That’s gonna be a gong show and a half. I’m hoping the fireworks don’t start tonight, that it’s a nice, calm dinner. But with my brother and Trav, hard to say.
Removing my shoes and jacket, I head toward the kitchen, but something’s off. There’s no buttery air. No bread baking, no roasted garlic, no heat coming from the general direction of the kitchen to give a hint as to what Hunter’s made for us. Do I have the right day? He can’t be planning take-out, or can he? No. Not unless he was trying to insult Trav, and he wouldn’t do that—invite us over only to be a dick.
My heart claws at my ribs. Something’s wrong. My mind spins into wild scenarios, like … what if a rogue beater flew off the hand mixer and into his eye—what if he’s on the ground, what if he’s?—
Okay, calm the fuck down, Boulder.Maybe he worked late, that’s more like Hunter. But I didn’t get a text, so my nerves remain on high alert. I storm into the kitchen. The light’s on, but no one.
Until I hear the fucking war cry. I turn, a thin man with hair so blond it might as well be white’s hurling toward me. There’s a flash, metal, and all I’ve got time to do is react. Thank the hockey gods for my quick reflexes. My hand moves, a searing line of hot pain breaks across the underside of my forearm, and blood sprays over Hunter’s pristine counter.
But I’ve got his wrist now, and I’m at least two and a half times the size of this dainty little waif. I make him eat granite, pushing him flush with the countertop.
“Who the fuck are you?” I bark.
“Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you?” His voice is kinda … posh. And this little fucking criminal smells like a flower bouquet—an expensive flower bouquet.
“Let go of the knife, or those pretty teeth are gonna be on the floor.”
The knife clatters to the ground, and I wince—poor Hunter’s nice hardwood flooring. He installed it himself. “There, knife gone. Now, tell me who the fuck you are,” he demands. “Are you fucking him—is he fucking you?”
“Ew! Hunter’s my brother, you little dipshit.”
Boots stomp across the entryway. There’s a jingle of keys and the heavy oak door closing. I’d know that combo anywhere. “Hunt! A little help in here.”
“Dirk?” The boots get louder, and there’s rustling. “Shit, you’re bleeding.”
