Page 73 of Shattered On Ice

“You really are my dream man,” I sigh, curling into his arms as he scoops me up like I weigh nothing. “I’ll give it to you that a Canadian s’more is quite tasty the way you prepare it. I would call this case study a success.”

He chuckles, the rumble vibrating through his chest and sending a shiver coursing through my body as he walks into the bedroom. “And now I’ll blow your mind by cleaning you up as well as I turned you into a sticky, convinced mess.”

“You should know by now that I’m ready to get dirty with you any time. It doesn't matter what we’re doing, as long as I’m with you, it’s perfect,” I say into his neck as I place a soft kiss against his pulse point.

Westin pauses in the middle of the room, his arms tightening around me. He looks back through the doorway toward the living room, where Callum’s fabric swatches are still littered over the coffee table—the messy, chaotic evidence of a life being built, not just lived in.

“Good,” Westin rumbles, his voice dropping an octave as his hazel eyes meet mine, burning with a quiet, fierce permanence. “Because once Callum is done tearing down walls and turning this place into our home, I’m going to need you to have that same energy when we start talking about the rest of our lives.”

My breath catches. The word forever hangs unspoken in the air between us. He smiles, kisses my forehead, and carries me into the bathroom. Dr. Stephens may have cured him, but Westin Dumont just secured a lifetime contract with my heart.

Epilogue

Westin

Warm sunshine pours over the reclaimed oak dining table Knight and Callum aggressively haggled for a week ago at some offbeat antiques warehouse. I take a sip of my coffee, letting the quiet, domestic peace of the morning wash over me. My house doesn't look like a sterile, modern showroom anymore. The walls of the living room have been painted a warm, deep sage. There are plush throw rugs scattered over the hardwood, a stack of Knight’s psychology journals resting on the coffee table next to my Xbox controller, and Indiana Bones is currently dead to the world, snoring loudly at my feet so Rook can have a quiet few days off.

It looks like a home here. It looks like us.

I set my mug down and stare at my phone resting on the table. The screen is black, perfectly reflecting the tight, anxious knot twisting in my gut. My thumb rubs absently over the edge of the phone case.

“You're staring a hole through the table, Wes. You know it was ungodly expensive, even with Callum’s connections. Don’t scorch it with that laser stare.”

I look up as Knight comes in, carrying a plate of avocado toast and eggs. He’s wearing a pair of my old gray sweatpants that pool around his ankles, and a faded Hydras T-shirt that hangs off his shoulders. His dark hair is a messy, sleep-tousled disaster, tortoiseshell glasses slipping down his nose.

He looks soft, unguarded, and perfectly, entirely mine. The sight of him padding barefoot through my kitchen in the broad daylight still hits me square in the chest every single time. There are no more ticking clocks. No rushed hookups and secret exits. No frantic scrubbing of the evidence that we were in the same space together.

He sets the plate on the table in front of me, but instead of taking the seat across from me, he steps up behind my chair, wrapping his arms loosely around my shoulders. I instantly lean back into his solid, comforting warmth, letting my head fall against his shoulder as his fingers gently thread through my hair.

“You don't have to do it today,” he says softly, his voice a low, soothing rumble right next to my ear. He presses a warm kiss to my temple, his thumbs tracing slow, steady circles into the tense muscles at the base of my neck. “You can put the phone in a drawer, and we can spend the entire day in bed. The world will keep spinning.”

I close my eyes, practically melting under his touch. It’s a wildly tempting offer. Before Knight, I would have taken it. I would have shoved the phone away, built a wall around the anxiety, and let it rot quietly in the back of my mind.

“I have to,” I murmur, my hand coming up to cover one of his, lacing our fingers together over my chest. “It’s been out in the media for months since our post-game kiss. Everyone in the league knows. If I don't call them today, my dad will ambush me at our next away game in Ottawa or insist I come home this summer for a visit so he can grill me. I’d rather take the hit on my own turf, in a way I’m comfortable with.”

“Okay,” Knight says simply. No psychoanalyzing. No clinical pushing. Just complete, unwavering support. He kisses the crown of my head. “Your turf, your way. I’m right here.”

I take a deep, expansive breath. The air in my lungs feels clean. I look around the warm, sunlit dining room, taking strength from the physical evidence of the honest, beautiful life we’re building together. I’m not the terrified junior hockey player bleeding on the locker room floor in Montreal anymore.

I pull away from his chest just enough to pick up the phone. I tap my mother’s contact, put the phone on speaker, and set it back on the table. I keep my hand wrapped tightly around Knight’s as the line begins to ring.

The phone rings twice before the crackle of the speakerphone connects, breaking the quiet of the kitchen.

“Westin? Honey, is that you?” Mom asks, her voice filtering through, bright and familiar. The background noise sounds like she’s doing the dishes in the kitchen of the last permanent home I had.

“Yeah, Mom. It’s me.” I swallow hard, my pulse speeding up a notch, the blood whooshing through my ears with a faint thump. My thumb unconsciously strokes over Knight’s hand where it rests against my chest. “Listen, I’m calling because…well, you’ve probably seen the sports networks lately. Or social media. And I wanted to tell you myself.” I take a breath, forcing the words past the tight lump in my throat. “Mom, I’m gay. And I’m seeing someone.”

There’s a brief, heavy pause on the line. I brace myself, muscles tensing under Knight’s gentle grip.

“Oh, thank God,” Mom exhales, a long, gusty sigh of absolute relief. “It’s about time, Westin. Good for you, honey. You deserve to live out loud.”

I blink, completely thrown, and look up at Knight. He offers a soft, knowing smile. I reach out and pick up the phone, holding it closer as my brain spins. “Wait, you…you knew? You aren't surprised at all?”

She lets out a warm, affectionate laugh. “You were securely in the closet, and I wanted to respect your privacy, but I’m your mother. Do you remember when you were nine and the MacLeod kid joined your squirt team?”

I groan, a hot flush creeping up my neck as she mentions this mortifying memory. “Mom, please.”

“You used to follow that boy around the rink like a lost puppy,” she teases gently. “You didn't even care where the puck was. You just wanted to be paired with him for skating drills. And you’d get so flustered when he actually talked to you. A mother knows these things, Westin. I just figured you’d tell us when you finally felt safe enough.”