Page 42 of Shattered On Ice

“I’ll stay with him to make sure that doesn't happen,” I assure him.

Rook nods, easily accepting the help. “Thanks, Knight.” He takes a few steps away before he turns back to me. I follow, so he doesn't have to speak any louder. “I appreciate you staying with him. He shouldn't be alone. I think he has a history with that guy. He was pissed that Benoit called Monty a fag in French before the game started. I’ve never seen him like that.”

I cringe, hating to hear the F word when it’s used in a derogatory manner like that. There’s so much about Westin I don't know. “He’s usually good at controlling his reactions, even to horrible stuff, right? What do you think set him off?” I ask.

Rook rubs his eyes. “Monty said there was an exchange at the face-off right before the hit that was ugly. Westin went off in French after Benoit said some shit about him being gay and it being contagious, I guess. I don't know, he wouldn't talk about it. He was like a zombie at The Hideout.” Rook sighs. “I’m fucking crashing. I need to sleep. I appreciate you staying with him, though. I’m worried.”

“I got this, you go to sleep.” I hate that my brother is worried about his best friend and trusts me because he doesn't realize he has any reason not to. If he knew I’ve been sleeping with Westin for months, he wouldn't want me anywhere near him. Guilt oozes through me as Rook rubs his eyes and turns.

No wonder Westin lost his shit tonight. If that Benoit guy called him gay in front of his teammates, he would have become desperate and mad as hell, which is a deadly combination when you feel backed into a corner. He wasn't ready for anyone to learn his secret, least of all in such a hideous way that stole his autonomy and freedom. It didn't sound like Rook or anyone else put much stock into what Benoit said, but Westin wouldn't have seen it that way. The poor guy.

I watch Rook climb the stairs and disappear into his bedroom down the hall, his door closing softly. I turn back to the couch and look at the big, gorgeous man who looks destroyed, even passed out. I get a glass of water and Advil from the kitchen and set them on the coffee table next to a large bowl and a towel, just in case. I take Westin’s shoes off and cover him with a blanket. I sit on the edge of the couch and brush his hair back from his face.

“What are we going to do with you?” I ask softly. I’m powerless and wish I could take his pain away. Because that’s what this is. He drank himself into oblivion to avoid his feelings and the truth. He’s hiding in the closet to keep something that happened to him from happening again, and tonight blew the whole thing open when he wasn't ready. He’s not equipped to deal with the pain because he never processed whatever that trauma was. He’s emotionally stunted himself and kept himself from fully living ever since.

I place a soft kiss on his sweaty forehead and take up my watch in a chair across from him.

I must have fallen asleep, because at some point, I’m roused by Westin mumbling. I sit bolt upright, fighting the cobwebs in my brain to understand what I’m hearing.

“Non… Pas lui… Touches-y pas… Non, crisse, y’est icitte…” Westin’s voice is full of fear as he rolls his head back and forth, his face screwed up in pain. His body is rigid, hands clutching the blanket.

My heart breaks. I don't speak French, but it sounds like he’s terrified by whatever he’s dreaming. I go to the couch, kneeling next to him, and gently take his hand. I place a palm on his clammy cheek and lean over him, inhaling the scent of stale booze and fear sweat. “Wes, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Westin thrashes for a moment before he stills, his eyes blinking open and looking around blearily. He’s disoriented and shaking, and when he notices me, his free hand shoots up to my chest and tangles in my shirt as he pushes me away.

“No, no, no,” he gasps.

“Hey, it’s just me. It’s Knight,” I say, smoothing my hand over his cheek. He flinches, eyes shutting and face jerking under my touch before my words seem to finally penetrate the fog of nightmares and alcohol.

“Knight?” he croaks, voice broken, like he’s been screaming.

“Yeah, baby, it’s me.” I’m rattled, trying to control my own tremor from the viciousness of his reaction. How can he live like this, with these kinds of nightmares chasing him in the dark?

“You shouldn't be here,” he says, urgency in his tone. His eyes are wild, casting around the dark room for whatever is haunting him.

“You’re at my house. Rook is asleep in his room and knows I’m staying up to take care of you. It’s okay to be here, together,” I explain quickly.

“Oh, thank God,” he moans, his body sagging in relief. “I thought…” he trails off and places his hand over the one I have on his cheek. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Was he dreaming about me? “I’m okay. I’m more worried about you, sweetheart,” I murmur, stroking a hand through his damp hair.

“As long as I have you, I’ll be fine,” he rasps, voice gravelly and broken.

My heart bursts like Pop Rocks in my chest. I move onto the couch and pull his head into my lap. He turns, burying his face into my stomach, and wraps an arm around my back, holding me tightly as I stroke his hair.

When his breathing evens out, his arm slackens around me, sliding out until he finds my hand, grasping it like he needs to maintain the connection, even in his slumber. I don't let go. It’s not the most comfortable way to sleep, but I stay there the rest of the night, making sure he doesn't succumb to the nightmares again.

In the morning, I extricate myself from his hold as gently as I can and make my way into the kitchen when I hear Rook moving around his bedroom. He comes down a few minutes later, and I hand him a cup of his black coffee.

“Is he okay?” he asks me quietly, blowing on his steaming mug before taking a sip.

“Well, he didn’t throw up. He had some nightmares, so I’d say he’s not doing well. I think he’s going to feel terrible today,” I admit, drinking my own light and sweet coffee.

Rook rubs his face and yawns. “I’ll go get some breakfast sandwiches. That should help with the hangover. A little grease to soak up the booze will help him feel better. I’ll get you some avocado toast or something.”

I smile at his attempt. “Thanks. A breakfast sandwich is fine.”

Rook raises his coffee mug in salute, taking it with him when he leaves. I make another cup of coffee, adding a splash of creamer, and pull a blue Gatorade from the fridge. I take both drinks back to the couch, looking at Westin’s sallow complexion and dark circles under his eyes as I take a deep, silent inhale to stop the secondhand pain.