Page 16 of Shattered On Ice

I inhale a deep breath of fortification and head downstairs to face whatever judgment Dave Dumont wants to pass on me.

“About time you showed up,” he says as soon as I enter the kitchen.

Mom is making sandwiches, and Dad is relaxing in a chair at the table, overseeing her work. She gives me a quick smile before returning to piling turkey and condiments on the thick-sliced bread.

“Hello to you, too, Dad,” I say, keeping my voice mild without letting him intimidate me with his underhanded unpleasantness. I bet he’s going to recount every penalty I received this season, or every moment of the playoffs I could have done better.

“You played like shit against Edmonton. You lacked stamina and left holes big enough to drive a Mac truck through. You should work on your conditioning this summer. We can hit the gym while you’re here. You need Chris to design a program for you,” he says, right on cue.

“I have my own trainer, Dad. I don't need your buddy to design anything for me, but thanks for offering,” I say as magnanimously as I can manage. Chris is a dipshit who doesn't know a Russian twist from a Bulgarian split squat, but loves to fleece my father for money with new workout programs, meal plans that Dad won’t actually stick to, and routines that just wreck his battered body more than build strength.

“I’ve gained muscle working with Chris. He knows what he’s doing,” Dad says, leaning his weight into his hands as he presses against the table and makes himself bigger.

That’s when I see it. Dad’s smaller than me. Softer. He’s no longer the hulking defenseman of my childhood.

I slide onto a stool at the island and take the plate Mom hands me, laden with a thick sandwich, carrot sticks, and fresh hummus. “I’m meeting up with some of my friends tonight after dinner. I’ll probably be out late, so don’t worry about staying up,” I tell them. I’m a grown adult, but staying in my parents’ house means I have to give them a courtesy heads-up.

“First day here, and you can’t even stick around to spend time with your family?” Dad says, not trying to disguise the disappointment in his voice.

I bite back the reply I want to give. We have plenty of time together. It’s not like we actually enjoy each other’s company much, anyway.

“I’m here for three days. I’m sure we can do all the catching up needed without worrying about what I’m doing at night.”

“He needs to see his friends, too,” Mom says, placing a gentle hand on Dad’s arm as his face grows red. “He’s a major player and has a lot of demands on his attention now, just like you did. We should encourage him to spend time out and about so his star continues to rise.” She kisses his head and puts another sandwich down in front of him. It seems to do the trick, because my father ends his tirade and lets me eat.

The League is a sports bar in the middle of town, known for showing every sport imaginable, with very mid, overpriced food, but strong drinks that keep everyone coming back.

I pull my hat down as I enter the bar, not sure how focused the patrons will be, or who will recognize me and want to give me a hard time for our cup loss.

“Westy, over here!”

I turn toward the familiar voice and spot Thomas and several of his friends at a booth in the back. Thankfully, no one else seems to care about me, which is a relief. I don't think I can take random fans or hecklers coming up to me tonight after experiencing my father’s questions and commentary throughout the evening.

I slide into the booth next to Ethan, who played right wing on a travel team with me when we were pre-teens. “Hey, man, good to see you,” I say, holding out my fist and accepting the knuckle bump he gives me, along with his lingering gaze. Ethan is bi, but quiet about it, and we’ve hooked up a few times over the years once we realized we were both into each other.

“Always great to have you back in town, Westy,” Ethan says, dropping his hands below the table and brushing my leg with his fingertips.

My heart rate spikes, a hard, erratic thud against my ribs. I stiffen, my eyes immediately darting across the dimly lit bar, furiously scanning the shadows and the surrounding booths for anyone watching us. My hand shoots up, rubbing the indentation on my throbbing jaw as I clench my teeth. Ethan’s discreet, but the sheer, suffocating panic of being touched by another guy in public, especially by a hockey player, always makes my throat close up. Thankfully, that’s the extent of it, and he keeps his hands to himself.

“Westy, you remember Tyler Carpenter and Danny Brazeau, right?” Thomas asks, gesturing at the other guys in the booth with us.

“Yeah. Good to see you guys again,” I say with a tight nod. We’d played together for a few years, but they built their real bonds in secondary school after I’d shipped off to Juniors. For all my accomplishments and star power, I’m the outsider here, which is only reinforced when Tyler launches into a glory-days story from secondary school. None of these guys went pro, though Thomas and Ethan both played university hockey.

“How long are you in town this time?” Ethan asks, leaning back against the padded booth and eyeing me as he lifts his beer.

“Just a few days. It’s the required minimum my parents need each year, and enough time for me to remember why I was happy to leave,” I say, taking a clean glass from the table and pouring from one of the pitchers of amber liquid.

“I’m always happy to have you back. If you want to go out to the lake tomorrow, I’ve got the day off and can meet you. Get reacquainted,” he says with a smirk.

Hell no. Unease settles over me with that instantaneous response. I take a drink from my glass to keep from answering. It’s the same piss-water budget beer they drank when we first started coming to the League at eighteen. I manage not to make a sour face as I think about my reaction to his invitation. Normally, I’d agree to a quick hook-up like he’s suggesting without a second thought. I know he’s a safe bet, and we’ve had fun in the past. I desperately need an outlet for the pent-up frustration I’ve been holding onto as well, and he’s more than willing to let me take it out on him. So why was my initial thought no?

Ethan’s mention of the lake has me thinking of the last time I was on the water, which inevitably drags my thoughts straight back to Knight. God, he’s so beautiful. Just the memory of his body molded against mine at Luscious makes my chest ache. I lost my mind so completely that I came in my fucking pants just from dry humping him while he sucked on my fingers. I pride myself on my stamina and restraint, but the second I had unrestricted access to Knight, I devoured him like a starving animal and came undone. I was feral for him.

And I terrified him.

The memory of Knight snapping his eyes open and violently shoving himself away from me feels like a jagged blade to the gut. I saw the sheer panic in his expression before he scrambled backward, throwing the “friends” label between us like a shield to protect himself. I was too aggressive. I let my hunger take over, and he looked at me like I was a monster. It makes me sick to my stomach to know I made him feel cornered, but it’s exactly what I deserve. He felt the insane chemistry between us, and still he wanted nothing to do with me.

I want him with a desperate, clawing yearning that keeps me awake at night. But even if I hadn't scared him off, I can never actually have him. If I let myself get close to Knight—if I claim him the way my body is screaming to—I just paint a target on his back. Staying away from him is the only way to keep him safe from the ghosts I can't outrun. So maybe Ethan is exactly what I need—a hollow, meaningless distraction to keep my hands busy, so I stop reaching for the one man I have to protect from myself.