Page 34 of Shattered On Ice

“In the flesh, you big, beautiful jock. Now, this is a much better spot for spectating a race,” he informs me as we stop in the shade of a giant oak tree just off the marked course. “I take it you’ve heard of me? Love that for me,” he says with a flourish, eyes closing and face looking rapturous for a brief moment before returning to what has to be his normal cheeky grin.

“Knight has mentioned you,” I say cautiously. I don't know this man, and I don't want to give too much away. But if he was at Luscious, he likely saw me kiss the ever-loving hell out of Knight. My whole body grows hot, a bead of sweat trickling uncomfortably down my spine as Callum lets me go and pops his hands on his hips.

“Well, that’s lovely to know, even though I think I should command a larger amount of his storytelling, but that’s neither here nor there. We need to talk about you.” His expressive face grows serious.

I’m fucking petrified. “What about me?”

“You’re here! That’s huge. I know this has to mean a lot to Knight. Weren't y’all keeping it casual? What changed?” he asks, leaning toward me, his rings biting into my skin as he grips my forearm.

This guy knows way too much. Knight must have confided in him at least enough to know the bare details. He could know everything, but I’m not going to pry. It feels shitty to have some stranger know more about me than I’ve told my best friend, all because he was in the right place at the right time and befriended the man I now feel a little too possessive over. After last night, there’s no way we can be casual. I know what he feels like bare, and he spent the night in my arms, full of my cum. He’s mine now, and I'm not letting go.

I swallow hard. “I want to support him.”

Callum looks like he’s going to grill me some more, but shouting breaks out from the small crowd, and someone rings a cowbell, sending my thoughts scattering. I look down the path and see a group of runners headed toward us. Just as Callum predicted, it soon becomes a chaotic mess of racers clumping together to grab small paper cups of water or streaming past to snatch a cup held out for them by volunteers, with water and cups littering the ground. The crowd thins and the pace increases again just before they reach our location, and we’re able to clap and cheer for the runners.

“There he is!” Callum shouts, jumping in place as he points into the crowd.

Knight finishes his cup of water and successfully throws it into a trash can instead of littering the ground like so many others. His tank top is soaked with sweat, and his shorts are the perfect length to show off his legs as his stride lengthens and he pulls away from the crowd. A surge of pride overtakes me, and I start screaming for him.

“Halfway! You got this. You’re doing so great!” I shout, clapping and jumping along with Callum now, probably looking like an absolute fool and not caring a bit when Knight spots us and smiles, his face lighting up despite his exertion.

He veers to our side of the course and holds out his hand to smack our palms as he runs by. We keep shouting encouraging things at him until he’s once again out of sight.

Is this what it’s like to be proud of someone else’s accomplishments? I’m elated, fully living for him while he runs a race he knows he won't win, and has no intention of doing so anyway. He’s doing this for himself because he wants to and because he can be better than a previous version of himself. That kind of measurement is entirely new to me, and I respect him so much for it.

Callum and I walk back through the park to the finish line together. He speaks nonstop, chattering about literally anything, but thankfully, he doesn't question me about my situation with Knight again.

“Okay, jock daddy, our boy is heading to the finish line,” Callum says, using the fucking weird-as-hell nickname he’s settled on.

I tried to argue with him about it earlier, but that seemed to make him stick to his guns. I ignore him now as I search the crowd coming down the path toward the big arch that marks the end of the race. There are a lot of people milling around just past the finish line, getting their race medals, snacks, and water, or taking photos. I finally spot Knight, who has increased his pace to a sprint and is finishing the race strong. I’m so impressed as I watch him fly past other runners, his long, lean legs eating up the distance to the finish line. He looks so determined as he focuses on the finish line that I feel my own competitive streak rising. I scream for him, wishing I had my own damn cowbell now as someone nearby rings theirs, and shout the odd encouraging race slogans I’ve been hearing the entire hour we’ve been spectating.

Knight crosses the finish line with a huge smile, and I have to physically stop myself from meeting him out there, scooping him into my arms, and kissing the hell out of him to show him how proud I am. It’s a gut punch to realize I can't do any of those things. I look around and finally notice the huge crowd. Even if none of them recognize me now, there’s always the possibility that I’ve been spotted, photographed, filmed, and someone’s noticed.

When Knight finally reaches us, my arms twitch with the violent urge to crush him against my chest and kiss him until we’re both breathless. I nearly give in to the urge until I catch sight of a man in a Hydras hockey shirt a few feet away.

I freeze. I force my arms to stay rigid, offering a stiff, one-armed bro-hug, clapping him roughly on the shoulder like he’s just another guy on the team. I can feel Knight’s confusion in the split second before he masks it, accepting the physical distance I just slammed between us. It feels like a betrayal of everything we did in the dark last night, and it makes me want to put my fist through a wall.

“I’m so proud of you,” I offer instead. It’s not nearly enough, but it’s all I can say in this public place.

“Thanks,” Knight says, smiling at me as sweat drips from his face. “I’m a mess. You wouldn’t want to get any of this on you anyway,” he assures me kindly. He has no idea.

“Well, I do!” Callum says, reaching over and pulling Knight in for a huge hug that lasts long enough for Callum to sway them back and forth aggressively. “That was amazing. My little Twinkerella is such a stud.”

I gape at him and the term he just used. Twinkerella? What the actual fuck?

Knight laughs when he catches my expression. “I called Callum my fairy godbrother once, and now he’s taken to calling me that, like Cinderella.”

Oh. I guess I’m not the only one who has nicknames for Knight. I look at Callum, who is preening and fussing over Knight like a proud mom. I just nod my acceptance. I can't fight the bond they seem to have, and I’m not jealous of it now that I’ve seen them together. There isn't a hint of attraction between them.

However, I’m jealous that they’re obviously comfortable enough with each other to hug and be close like this. Knight and I have kept most of our interactions private or around people I know. Being out in public, where I can't interact with him as I’ve come to expect, has me thrown.

It has me re-evaluating what I want, and what I’m willing to do to have it.

So I do what I can, while I can.

Twelve

Knight