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By two the next afternoon, Lane was mostly over the Sea Storm’s loss the night before.
A few of his teammates texted him apologies for saying things about Jared, both before and after the game. Lane just sent back believe me i don’t mind i’m using some of them later, and he went for a nice, long run on the beach. Then he asked Ryan if he could have the apartment for a few hours.
“Sure. I’m going to Zoe’s anyway. Her house is so clean.” Ryan’s eyes were wide. Of all of Lane’s teammates, Ryan had gotten over the loss the fastest. By ten that morning he was wondering if they could get tickets to the finals.
Later Lane stopped by Riley’s to check on his friend and make sure he was all right, even though the loss wasn’t really Riley’s fault.
“I couldn’t get there fast enough to throw myself in front of the puck like Jared did,” Lane told him. Riley seemed all right. A little quiet, but not too upset. Then again, considering Ethan Kennedy was Riley’s roommate, even Ryan seemed quiet by comparison.
Lane hadn’t cared for Ethan at all when he first showed up. He thought he would probably be the one to have a very vocal problem with Lane being gay. As it turned out, Lane had completely misjudged the cheerful, tattooed Ethan. Not only did Ethan have no problem with it whatsoever, he promised to pummel anyone who did.
If any of his teammates had a problem with Lane’s sexuality, they weren’t saying anything about it. But they did have a habit of stopping and mumbling sorry at Lane and going uncomfortably quiet if they used the phrase “cocksucker.” Lane’s captain legacy would be that he made his whole team as awkward as he was. But it was Ethan Kennedy who put a stop to all that by sauntering up to Lane in the locker room after practice and saying, “So, I hear we can’t say cocksucker around you because you suck cock. That’s dumb. Not that you suck cock, ’cause blowjobs are cool and shit. But that’s an important word in my on-ice vocabulary, Courts.”
“I know,” Lane told him with his usual honesty. “I didn’t tell the guys not to say it. I think they just don’t want to offend me. Or whatever.” And that was nice. It really was, but it also kept Lane feeling like an outsider, no longer included in the—admittedly juvenile—parlance of their sport.
“Does anybody have a problem with Captain Courts here sucking dick? Like, a real problem? No one’s stupid enough to think he’s gonna make you gay or something. Right? Homophobic people piss me the fuck off, but I can’t fucking play hockey and not say cocksucker. You might as well ask people in NASA not to talk about space.”
Lane didn’t understand Kennedy’s comparisons, but he kept quiet because his teammates were looking around at each other.
“No one cares. It’s just... what if he gets mad?”
“Then he’ll tell you to shut up? What the hell is this shit? You think your captain doesn’t have the goddamn balls to tell you to shove it after he stood up there and said he was gay? That’s not easy. What is wrong with you?” Ethan crossed his arms and glared at the entire room. “So? Problems? Tell me, and I might hit you hard enough to get you the fuck over yourself.”
No one said anything, or at least no one wanted to admit it to their new crazy defenseman. “Courts, you can tell them to shove it if it offends you. Right?”
“Sure,” Lane said. And now he’d done it, so he’d have to. His team went back to saying shit, and Lane spoke up if he had to. “Shut up. Can’t you think of a better gay slur than that? No? Then don’t use them, you sound like a moron.” But he didn’t have to. Not too much.
When he’d thanked Ethan, he shrugged it off and smiled charmingly at Lane. “I’m being serious, Courts. I can’t go out there and worry who I’m calling a cocksucker. But hell no way am I playing with a bunch of homophobic assholes. That shit does not happen around me. I punched a guy on my own team once because he wouldn’t stop using that kind of language. I warned him. Twice. So I’ll punch any motherfucker who gives you shit, Courts. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Thanks, Kennedy,” Lane said, and then Kennedy wandered off and left Lane staring after him with a confused look on his face.
Lane, Kennedy, and Riley played a few games of some pointless, first-person shooter game and avoided talking about hockey. When Lane left his friend’s apartment, he went to the store and got some groceries, which took him a lot longer than it should have because he never did that. When he got back, Jared was waiting for him in front of his building.
“Hey. I thought you’d maybe skipped out,” Jared said, falling into step beside him. Lane hadn’t watched that save of Jared’s, but the minute he saw him, he knew he could. There was no point dwelling on the game. It was over, and that was that.
“Nah. I thought about it, but I figured, wherever I tried to go, you’d throw yourself in front of me to stop me.”
“Ha!” Jared looked a little tired—maybe from partying too much—but he didn’t seem hungover. “Before you ask. No. I didn’t get plowed. I drove the guys around, since I had my car here. They were all a bunch of drunk assholes. I think I would rather have lost.”
“No. I had to do the same thing, but everyone was sad.” Lane handed him a grocery bag. “Hold this.”
“Are you making me dinner?” Jared looked inside the bag. He still had his playoff beard. Lane had shaved his that morning, which was the single good thing about losing, because he was embarrassed at his reflection every time he saw it. He was terrible at beards. Terrible.
“Nope. You’re making me dinner, and I’m going to lie on the couch. Then I’m going to watch your stupid save, but only twice, and you have to be quiet the first time and not narrate it. Then I want to hear your story, and then I want to fuck you, because I really want that, and you said I could.”
“Oh, Lane,” Jared said and kissed him. “You’re the best sore loser I know.”
Lane bit him on the mouth. “Shut up. If you don’t win the Kelly Cup I’m going to kill you. You know that. Right?”
“I know.” Jared’s beard made him look like a Viking. Lane found it attractive, but he wasn’t ready to admit that just yet. Maybe after dinner.
They ate dinner, and Lane watched Jared’s save a few more times than just twice. By the third time, he was laughing at the look of utter disbelief on his face when he saw Jared had the puck. “That’s impossible. Goddammit.” Lane leaned over and kissed him. “It’s also very attractive. Or it would be, if that gaping moron wondering where his goal went wasn’t me.”
“I find that gaping moron very attractive,” Jared told him, cheerfully. “But I wouldn’t, if it weren’t you.”
Lane let him watch it one more time, and that was it. Jared had brought a six-pack with him, so Lane broke his “I’m never drinking again” vow and had one. He thought it was appropriate after losing a conference championship. But he’d played in a game seven and a championship game in his first pro season, and that cheered him up a lot.
Jared, looking hot and pleased with himself and being a badass, was also cheering him up. Lane wondered if they could skip story time and go right to the part where Lane got to fuck him—when Jared started talking.
“So the reason I’ve avoided relationships like the plague is because of my first—and only—one. I met him when I was nineteen and a freshman at Ferris State, where I went to college to play hockey.”
Lane immediately opened his mouth to ask questions, but Jared shook his head and touched Lane’s mouth gently. “Shh. I hate this story, I want to get it over with.”
Lane nodded and let him continue.
“My parents had absolutely no interest in hockey. I told you that, I think? They’re professional people, and they think sports are barbaric. The only reason I learned to play hockey at all was because my mother found me trying to tie my sister’s ice skates to my feet to go with the neighborhood boys and play pond hockey. My sister had taken some figure skating lessons, and I almost broke my arm three times because of that stupid toe pick.”
“When I was fifteen, I got invited to play on one of these developmental-league teams. Not anything like your system in Canada, but if American kids want to play in the big leagues, that’s how they do it. That or college hockey. Anyway, I was invited, but my parents wouldn’t let me because of the time commitment and the expense, even though we could afford it. They didn’t want me to focus on something that was a hobby and miss school and all of that. You know, my parents have never, ever seen me play hockey? Not even once.”
“I’m sorry. What?” Lane couldn’t be quiet at that. He couldn’t. “Did you... did you say never? College hockey, or...?”
“Any hockey,” Jared answered, and Lane made a horrified noise.
“They didn’t? You and Riley. His parents didn’t go to games either. What’s wrong with Americans? I don’t want to live here.” Lane was also angry at Jared’s parents in a primal, visceral way—for refusing to let their son follow his dream and for never seeing how good he was or how happy it made him or....
“I know. It’s okay, Lane. I’m glad you’re angry at them on my behalf, but I’m over it. I think back, and if I’d joined, I probably would have been cut. Or worse, had to play defense, which I didn’t want to do because, like I’ve said before, everyone wanted me to. And I realized yesterday that there’s no point in regretting things you haven’t done, or even that you’ve done, because you have no idea what things would be like if you had or hadn’t done them.”
“Uh.” Lane took a drink of his beer. “Okay? Maybe keep going. You’re losing me.”
“Right. Anyway, I stuck with it and played in high school and got a scholarship to Ferris State. I was actually accepted at Boston University, but the scholarship wasn’t enough to pay my full tuition, and once again, my parents thought it would be a waste of money.”
“Man, fuck that,” Lane hissed, mad again. “Show them that save from last night and see if they still think that. Do they know who Patrick Roy even is?”
Jared’s smile was a little sad. “Nope. My parents hated sports, and my friends idolized the Red Wings, which is why I became a fan of the Avs. They were in a really heated rivalry, you know.”
“I know,” Lane said, eyeing him. “I’m from Canada. We do know about hockey there. So you went to Ferris State.”
“Yeah. I was okay. Pretty good, but not great. I saw your numbers, Lane, and I had nothing on you when I was your age.”
“Or now,” Lane added. He cleared his throat. “Don’t make me watch the save again. I’m still in dickhead hockey-player mode. It’ll pass.”
Jared smiled. “I know. Anyway, let’s just say my career prospects were four years in college, maybe. Maybe get drafted and sent to the AHL. Maybe. But if I’d stayed, I’d probably have ended up right where I am right now. And I’m happy where I’m at, Lane. I really am. You have no idea what winning that game last night meant to me, but it was... something I wanted badly and was afraid to want. If that makes sense.”
Lane took his time and looked at Jared—all fierce, triumphant, and bearded—wearing his faded bruises on his skin like battle scars. “I know about that,” he said very quietly. “Believe me.”
Jared looked pleased and then continued. “I wanted a career in hockey, and everyone told me... well, not that it wasn’t possible. That would have been too much effort to even say. It was basically just.... No one said anything. They thought I was a good player, a good teammate. No one ever said, ‘Jared isn’t playing to his potential or anything.’ No one said I didn’t have any potential. No one really said I did either.”
Lane watched him from his place on the couch, fighting the urge to get up and initiate sex or suggest playing a video game, which was Lane’s answer to talking about feelings that made you sad.
“But then I got to college, and someone did say that. Someone told me, ‘Oh, you’ve been underdeveloped. You’re not getting enough ice time. You’ve got so much more potential than anyone’s recognized.’ Someone told me that with a little work, I could be a first-line center and get drafted. And I fell stupidly, stupidly in love with that person, Lane. I would have done anything for him.” Jared’s gaze was steady. “That person’s name was Andrew Whittaker, but do you know what I called him?”
Lane nodded, a sick feeling churning with the anger. He wasn’t going to like it at all. “Yeah. You called him Coach.”
“That’s right. And he got me, Lane. Hook, line, and sinker. I’d messed around with a guy before that, so it wasn’t a surprise that I was into it or anything, but sleeping with your coach is a whole other ballgame. Excuse the bad pun. And Andrew knew just what to say to me, knew exactly what I’d never heard, and knew he could get anything he wanted from me. Anything. If he convinced me he meant it.”
“And he was smart about it. He started out with some special sessions and working with me privately. And oh, my playing improved. Of course it did. I forgot that I was a player and good enough to make a team on my own merits, and I believed I was whatever he said I was. And then one day, he started to act weird around me. Telling me that we couldn’t meet, that we couldn’t have these practice sessions anymore. And I thought my career depended on him believing in me, that I couldn’t just play the game and learn. Oh no.”
Jared stopped to take a drink of his beer. He sounded angry, and it made Lane want to punch Andrew fucking Whittaker in the junk. Several times. With his Corolla.
“And I was so concerned, thinking it was me, and that I hadn’t tried hard enough and what could I do. Then he told me, ‘It’s not you, Shore. It’s just that I have feelings for you, and this has never happened to me before.’” Jared’s mouth twisted unpleasantly. With that beard, it made him look even more fierce. For a moment he looked like the guy Lane met that first night in the bar, marred by tension and old anger. “He convinced me that it was the first time he’d had these feelings for a man, that he didn’t know what to do, but he couldn’t jeopardize both our careers.”
“I don’t—” Lane shook his head. He felt completely helpless, and there was nothing he could do to make it better and to make it go away. “Fuck, J.”
“I like it when you call me that,” Jared said so quietly Lane almost missed it. “Anyway, obviously I was an idiot, and I bought it.”
“You weren’t an idiot,” Lane yelled, standing up. His breathing was all messed up, and he spilled his beer. “You were—you trusted him, and he abused you. Coaches are supposed to be safe,” he muttered, sitting down again, thinking about Coach Spencer letting Lane flounder around for his own good, his “I know what you’re trying to do, Courtnall” and wondering how long his coach had known he was gay.
“I know. And of course, I wasn’t the first person he’d done it to either. But I didn’t know that at first. I told him not to worry. Hell, I even said ‘I’ve done this before,’ when the most I’d ever done was a terrible blowjob with a friend of mine’s older brother. But when he kissed me, it seemed like he meant it. And I went to bed with him. But I want you to understand, Lane. It wasn’t because I thought I had to. I wanted to. I wanted him, and maybe he made me want him for the wrong reasons, but I wasn’t unwilling.”
“It doesn’t matter. You have a goddamn responsibility when you’re a coach. And besides, you said he knew what he was doing and just what to say to get what he wanted. Fuck that guy. Seriously.”
“He fucked me instead,” Jared responded flatly. “I let him. I begged him. I told him it was all right—that I loved him. When I was a sophomore, a few weeks into training camp, I caught him in the locker room with some new kid, telling him the same goddamn thing. Verbatim, Lane. Fucking verbatim. And I walked out and went home to my little apartment and realized I had no friends, no one to talk to, because I’d isolated myself. I had no friends on the team because he wouldn’t let me. I had no friends off of the team because I spent all my free time with him. But I had the key to his office. So I went in and looked through his files. This new freshman, I don’t even remember his name, but his story was almost identical to mine. Peewee hockey, no real interest from development leagues, ranked at about a four out of seven on some scale I didn’t understand. Then I saw my file, and I was ranked the same. Four.
“He chose me, Lane. He chose me before I’d ever gotten there, just like he did to whatever the kid was after me and the one after him. And the worst part is, he knew how to get all of us, and he knew we’d leave when he was done with us. And it wouldn’t hurt his team. We were no big loss. You can be sure he was nothing more than a coach to the kids who had promise. The fives and the sixes and the sevens. The fours, now, we were just his fresh piece of ass.”
Lane calmly took his beer bottle and threw it—hard—across the room. Not at Jared, but he wanted it to break. Instead, it bounced harmlessly off a chair, fell on the carpet, and rolled sadly to the corner.
Jared picked it up, took it into the kitchen, rinsed it, and put it in the recycle container. “A couple of nights later, I went to find him. I confronted him, saying, ‘I thought you loved me,’ asking him why he’d done it. And do you know what he said?”
Lane didn’t want to know. But he shook his head, stood up, and moved closer to Jared. He was going to find this guy and report him. Something. Get him away from coaching. It made him sick to think about someone doing that to Jared. To anyone. Sick. “What?”
Jared’s chin went up a notch, like he was going to throw a punch. The sneer and the fierce pride in his voice, his expression, his body language—Jared Shore was a fighter through and through, and Lane was so proud of him. “He told me that I was being silly, that he’d just told me all of that stuff so that I’d play better. A coaching tactic. He wanted me to get drafted. I needed someone to believe in me, and he had. He’s sorry it went too far. He should have never let me take it any further. I should go home and get some sleep, because if I kept playing poorly, he’d kick me off the team, and there went my chances of being drafted. If I couldn’t play for him, I wouldn’t play for anyone.”
“Please,” Lane said, voice faintly trembling with rage. “Please tell me you punched him in the nuts and pummeled his face with your fist. Really hard. So that something broke.”
Jared looked back at him and smiled a little. “Bloodthirsty, Lane. Geez. No. I packed my shit in a bag and left. I drove to Cincinnati, Ohio and stayed with a friend who lived there and played for the Cyclones. Alex,” he said, referring to his friend. Lane wondered if there was some kind of card that was appropriate to send Alex as a thank-you for that. He’d have to ask Zoe, maybe. Girls knew about that stuff.
“So Alex put in a good word for me, and I went to the Cyclones tryouts. And even though it meant I was ineligible for the draft, when they offered me a contract, I took it. It was for one year, and I was a fourth-line center with a chip on my shoulder and a temper. And I used my fists more than my skates, because hockey was suddenly all about anger for me.
“A few years after that, I was playing in Toledo, and I saw him after a game—Whittaker. He was there with one of his players, talking to our coach. I looked right at him. He looked right at me. And he pretended not to know who I was.”
Lane stared flatly at Jared. “I’ve never been this angry in my whole life. Can I break something? It would help if I could break something.”
“That doesn’t work. Believe me. I broke a lot of somethings, including other guy’s noses. And I carried that anger with me to every city and every town I went to. I had a pretty good season one year and had that tryout with the Flyers. That was the proudest moment of my life, even though I didn’t make it. They invited me because they’re.... Well, you know. The Bullies of Broad Street.”
“They invited you because you’re awesome and a good player, and apparently you can play forward and goalie,” Lane snapped. “I still want to break something.”
“I know. And it means a lot to me that you feel that way. But you don’t have to, because, Lane? It doesn’t matter. I won. Everything I’ve achieved in my career—that win last night—is because I did it. And I’m glad he thought I was a four, Lane. It meant that eventually, I could make myself a seven. And I did.”
“Yeah,” Lane said, his voice a bit husky with emotion and pride. “You sure as hell did, J.”
“And you’re way hotter than he ever was. Obviously I only go after the young’uns if they’re a ten.”
Lane made a face at him. “That’s kind of creepy, when you put it that way.”
“I know. I told you I was bad at this stuff.” Jared shrugged. “My consolation is you are way worse at it. And that you’re insatiable.”
“What happened to him?” Lane asked, wondering if he could tell Ethan Kennedy about Andrew Whittaker and have Kennedy beat him up.
“I have no idea. I know he’s not coaching at Ferris anymore, because I watch college hockey on television when I can catch it, and they’ve got someone else there now. I don’t know if he’s coaching anywhere, but I don’t really care. I just hope someone found out what he was doing and he got his ass fired, so he’s not pulling the same shit with anyone else. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s over and done with. He’s a pathetic piece of shit, and I’m a champion with a hot boyfriend who’s going to play in the National Hockey League.”
Jared smiled, and the lingering anger was gone from his eyes. His pale eyes reminded Lane of iced-over ponds back home in Canada, of skating breathless and joyful under a cold winter sky. “A hot boyfriend, by the way, who reminded me that I once loved this game for myself, not just because I wanted to prove everyone else wrong. I just love playing hockey. And for the first time since I walked off my team in college, I remembered that. So thanks. Because you did that for me, Lane. You’re the hot boyfriend. In case you didn’t pick up on that, ’cause sometimes you’re slow with this stuff.”
“I got it,” Lane muttered, and he wondered if anyone had ever said anything like that to him before. He marveled that he—Lane Courtnall, awkward Canadian draft pick and socially inept forward for the Jacksonville Sea Storm—had done something like that for someone. “I had a lot of people tell me I was good at hockey, Jared. But this is the best I’ve played. Ever. Including last night, when some veteran forward made the highlight reels and ended the first season of my pro career. Because let me tell you, it doesn’t really mean anything if a bunch of people believe in you, if you don’t believe in yourself. I was afraid too. Because I was ashamed of who I was and so worried about what someone might find out about me. And so, if I made you love hockey again, then that’s good, and we’re even. ’Cause you... you taught me how to fight. For myself.” Lane smiled at him. “So thanks.”
Jared was quiet for a moment, then he made a sound like a choked sob and a laugh. “Jesus, Lane. Are you always going to have to one-up me?”
“Winning, Nothing Else,” Lane mocked, but his voice wasn’t all that steady either. Maybe this was why girls were always having feelings. If you did it more than once a year, it was probably easier to have them.
“I’m pretty sure we both won,” Jared said. And then, just as he went to kiss him, Lane saw his mouth curve up in an evil, evil grin. “Although we both know who won last night’s game, and it wasn’t you.”
Before Lane could bite Jared on the mouth for that, he said, “Now let’s go fuck. I haven’t wanted anyone to do it since Andrew. So it’s been a while. But I bet you’ll be good at it. We’ll probably have to do it twice, Rocket, because I’d like to enjoy it for longer than your usual five minutes.”
“Jared?” Lane disentangled himself from Jared, who wasn’t as tall as he was but was suddenly, inexplicably all limbs. “Thanks for telling me that. The story. Not just the thing about me fucking you twice, which by the way, I’m totally fine with. I’m proud of you. And I think you’re going to win the Kelly Cup. And I’m going to drink Dr Pepper out of it. Because champagne gives me a headache.”
“Oh, champagne gives you a headache, does it? I didn’t know you drank that much of it to know that, Jay-Z.” Jared yanked him closer and kissed him roughly, then pushed him toward the hallway. “You can drink whatever you want out of the Kelly Cup when I win it. And, for the record, I don’t like champagne, but when you win the Stanley Cup, I want to eat Lucky Charms out of it.”
“Do you know where that thing’s been?”
“Lane,” Jared said, exasperated, but he was smiling.
“It’s just that I’ve watched specials on television. That’s all.” Lane followed him into the bedroom. He was nervous, but it seemed like it was important to Jared and meaningful. And that meant it had to be perfect.
The first part—where they got naked and made out on Lane’s bed—that part he was fine with. But when Jared murmured, “Come on. Fuck me. I want it,” Lane had to get his brain reassembled. It had to be good. It didn’t matter that he’d never done it before, it had to be good, and Jared had to get off first, and—
“Lane?”
Lane blinked and realized he was staring off into space, grim-faced, like he was on the bench during a game. “Yeah?”
“You’re trying to treat this like a hockey play.” Jared leaned up and kissed him. “Don’t. You know what to do.”
“Right. No. I don’t. Some of us don’t try and play goalies when we’re forwards,” he said hotly, reaching for the lube while Jared started laughing. He used a little too much, so he slicked up Jared’s cock with the excess, just to make him stop laughing.
It worked, and Lane shifted and teased Jared by rubbing his fingers over him without actually pressing them inside. He couldn’t do that for very long, though, because the noises Jared made were hot, and the way Jared kicked Lane with his heel was clearly a sign to hurry. That was fine. Lane wasn’t exactly the poster child for taking his time in bed, so maybe he should stop trying. He did say he’d do it twice, after all.
He was a little enthralled at how Jared reacted to having Lane’s fingers inside of him, but when Jared gasped something like “For fuck’s sake, Lane,” he was happy to oblige by hurrying up. He kissed Jared when he shifted on top of him, and he was shaking from the effort of holding back. It had been a long time for Jared, and Lane didn’t want to come immediately and ruin everything.
“Stop worrying,” Jared said, smacking him lightly on the face, when Lane cautiously pressed himself against Jared and pushed very slightly and with little-to-no pressure.
Lane was trying to concentrate, so the smacking had to stop. He grabbed Jared’s hands and laced their fingers together, keeping them next to Jared’s head. “I’m concentrating. Don’t do that.”
Jared was breathing too fast, but he didn’t say anything, and Lane was momentarily worried that he was scared. But somehow he knew it wasn’t about Lane fucking him. It was about what it meant, and Lane could understand why that was frightening. “Hey. Jared? It’s okay.” He kissed him and pushed his hips a little harder.
“You’re the one who’s worrying, not—ah—not me.” Jared grasped at his fingers like he was trying not to drown. Lane kissed him, biting at his lip, pushing harder. “Jesus, Lane. Now he slows down.” Jared tried to pull his hands free. His legs shifted, and Lane remembered when it was him—how he was trying to say things, and he ducked his head to hide a smile.
“Jared.” Lane kissed his neck, and he could feel Jared’s heart slamming hard against his chest. “Let me. Okay?”
“Oh, fuck you,” Jared muttered, but he went still and relaxed his killer death grip on Lane’s fingers.
“I’m trying,” Lane said very seriously. “Shhh.” He bit Jared’s shoulder and pushed forward. Maybe it was because Jared was distracted by how hard Lane was biting him, but whatever it was, it worked. Lane’s head went back and he moaned. It was probably the loudest noise he’d ever made in his life that wasn’t related to hockey in some way. But it felt so good. He had no idea it would be like this, and maybe Jared might want to do this more than twice.
That thought brought back some of the anger from earlier. Not at Jared, but at the person who took things from Jared that he had no right to take—hockey and love and trust and Jared panting and pushing up beneath him, fingers tight around Lane’s. Andrew never deserved this from Jared in the first place. Lane wished he could say all of that, but he couldn’t. He was terrible with words anyway, and it would probably end up sounding like a death threat or some kind of joke.
But he was a lot better with other things—physical things—because that’s how Lane had been expressing his emotions since he was old enough to strap on a pair of skates. So he moved carefully, watching Jared’s expressions and his eyes, trying to make it good for him. He could say all of that stuff in the only way he knew how.
He also didn’t want it to be over. It felt amazing, and he rocked his hips down and grinned at Jared’s sudden gasp, the way he twisted and pushed up like he wanted more. “Oh good. You like this. Me too.” Lane moved a little faster, harder, and then they were moving together and perfectly in rhythm, back and forth. It was the same give-and-take as hockey, and no wonder they were good together on the ice. They were good together, period.
It went perfectly for a few minutes. But then it got messy and hard and fast, and they were kissing, and Lane somehow managed to keep himself balanced above Jared and to get a hand on him at the same time. He really, really wanted Jared to get off first. But he started to convince himself that it didn’t matter, as long as Jared got off, which he was definitely going to do. Unless the ceiling fell in. And maybe even then. Who knew. Stress and adrenaline did weird things to people. So maybe....
Lane felt Jared tense underneath him and bite out something like “harder,” and he stopped thinking about the sky falling and instead fucked Jared harder. Jared came a half second before Lane did. But whatever. That totally counted.
They lay there for a long time afterward, quiet, until the sun started to set and Lane’s room fell slowly into darkness.
––––––––
In the sixth game of the ECHL Kelly-Cup Finals, the Savannah Renegades beat the Colorado Bison to win their first championship in front of their home crowd in Savannah.
Jared Shore scored three goals in the series, had two assists, and was the first person to whom the Renegade’s captain, Darcy Leblanc, passed the Cup on the ice. Jared was also awarded the trophy for most valuable player in the playoffs and seemed to be the only person who was at all surprised by that.
Lane, Zoe, and Jared’s friend Alex stood up in the stands and screamed until they were hoarse.
For the entire summer, Lane’s cell phone background was a picture of Jared eating Lucky Charms out of the Kelly Cup.
Jared’s was, of course, that shot of his that blocked Lane’s would-be goal. According to Jared, it was going to stay that way until he had a picture of Lane drinking Dr Pepper out of Lord Stanley’s Cup to replace it with. He liked to call it incentive.
––––––––
It was midafternoon on a sunny, sweltering July day when Jared got a call from his agent.
He was in the middle of throwing some things in a bag to go see Lane for the next few days, so he texted him that he’d be a little late and went off to meet with the Renegades’ management.
He’d never had that meeting in July before. Perks of being an MVP, Jared thought, heading toward the arena. He’d fixed the air-conditioning in his truck, thank God, though the interior was still hotter than the sun and the black steering wheel almost burned off his fingerprints.
Now I can embark on a life of crime, if this new contract doesn’t work out.
Jared’s summer had been pretty great. He’d been on a high for weeks after the Renegades won, and he still couldn’t believe he’d been the MVP. Savannah had thrown a parade for their victorious heroes. And you would have thought it was a Stanley-Cup parade, the guys were so happy about it.
He got to be in a new commercial too, and this time he wasn’t even beating anything up. Nope. Instead of decking high prices, Jared got to fling himself on the ground to save a customer from throwing money at an inferior truck model by catching their cash in his hockey glove.
Lane hated that commercial, which meant Jared could watch it without the same embarrassment he felt for the first commercial. As long as Lane was actually there. If it came on when Jared was home by himself, he turned it off or changed the channel immediately.
His apartment was still mostly boring and plain, but he had a framed photo on his mantel of him and Lane from the party on the ice after the finals. The Flyers invitation was back in the box under his bed, because that wasn’t the thing Jared was most proud of anymore.
And okay. Fine. He had one picture of him lifting the Kelly Cup up over his head too. Zoe took that picture, just as—to Lane’s eternal mortification—she’d taken the one of him blocking that shot of Lane’s. Zoe told Lane she just thought she was going to capture his game-winning, series-winning goal, but that didn’t make Lane any happier about it.
Jared would never have a single problem with Lane being mad at him about that. It was the highlight of his entire career. One day Lane would be an NHL star and Jared could show people how he’d once denied Lane Courtnall a game-winning goal. Perfect.
The only dark spot in the summer was the realization that Lane was very likely not going to be in Jacksonville at the start of the season. And Jared was also very likely on his way to sign a contract with the Renegades, so he would be in Savannah.
His realtor had contacted him about showing him some available properties. But he hadn’t called her back yet.
He was glad that it was happening now, though. He wanted to make sure he made the right decision for himself, and didn’t base it on Lane and wherever he was going to end up. Lane had no official word yet, but it was only a matter of time.
Jared wore a suit and tie to the meeting, and he was doubly glad he’d had the air conditioner fixed. Wearing a suit every day must be weird. How did business guys do that?
His agent, the general manager, and the team’s owner were all waiting for him when he got to the arena. They were in one of the offices upstairs. A conference room. Someone had placed ice-cold bottles of water at each of the places on the table.
They shook hands and Jared took a seat next to his agent. The year before, he’d signed his contract right before the start of training camp, in the coach’s office. He hoped his tie wasn’t too tight or crooked or something. He’d had to watch a video on YouTube to figure out how to tie the damn thing—which he was never telling anyone, ever. Except maybe Lane.
Lane would either know how to tie a perfect Windsor knot or would own a clip-on tie. The thought made Jared smile. But he also mentally told himself to find out which it was. He couldn’t let Lane go to a similar meeting in a clip-on tie.
“We’re glad you could meet with us, Mr. Shore,” Robert Wilson, the general manager, told him warmly. “We’re all thrilled about the season you’ve had, of course. An MVP and a Kelly Cup winner, and a team that speaks so highly of you.”
“We didn’t expect you to do anything but fight” was left unsaid.
“Everyone on this team was amazing,” Jared said, and the three men at the table nodded, all smiles.
“You were very inspirational, you know,” Wilson told him. “The coach, the players, they said your leadership was one of the key components in winning the championship. You’re a veteran player, and it’s obvious they all respected your skills and experience.”
Jared tried not to laugh. The GM was a nice guy, but he reminded Jared of the dude from the car lot where he filmed those commercials. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said honestly, because that praise meant more to him than the other stuff.
“I know that last year, you were hopeful to get a longer contract with us. And at the time, we had an uncertain financial future, and there was some question if the team would stay here long enough to make that feasible.”
Leblanc, Zubarev, and even Wynn had three-year contracts, but Jared didn’t point that out. He also didn’t point out they could just say he was a fourth-line enforcer over thirty, and they don’t get those kinds of deals, since everyone in the room knew that was really the reason.
“You’ve been a popular player here, even before this remarkable season,” the GM continued. “And with the championship win, people are getting interested in the team. We’ve already nearly doubled the number of season-ticket holders from last year, and I’m told we have new sponsors too. And the minor league ball club decided to relocate to Charleston, so that’s no longer a distraction.”
Jared just nodded. His contract negotiations had never taken that long. He opened the bottle of water, even though no one else had touched theirs. They were suit people. Maybe they were used to how stuffy the room was.
“Anyway, we hope you’re pleased with this contract. It’s a three-year deal, and we hope the financial terms are acceptable. We’d really like you to stay with the organization, Jared, and if you want to retire before the three years are up, we want you to know there’s a place for you here.”
It was almost as if someone had written a script of “things that will never happen to Jared Shore” and handed it to the universe with a “go ahead, why not?” post-it note stuck to it. But that wasn’t even the shocking thing, he discovered, as his agent went through the finer points of the contract. There was a no-trade clause, for one, and the other—was he reading that right?
“Does this say it’s a two-way deal?” Jared laughed, a little horrified at how rude that sounded. But now he was convinced he was dreaming. So much so, he actually casually pinched himself under the table. “Are you guys serious? You know I’m gonna be thirty-three after this season. And do you really think the Checkers want me up in Charlotte? The AHL is a developmental league for the majors, not guys like me.”
“We wanted it to be an option. That’s all,” Wilson said, and he did look sincere. “Veteran leadership is something every club is on the lookout for, from our league all the way up to the majors. People noticed you had a stellar season, Shore. They really did.”
“And they have to notice my age,” Jared responded. He was still amused at being called a Veteran Leader instead of an Aging Enforcer. “Look. I’m really, really flattered. Please don’t think I’m being ungrateful. But the likelihood of my having a season like this again.... Well, it’s pretty slim.”
His agent might have tried to kick him under the table.
“All we want you to do is keep playing hockey.” Wilson was watching him very carefully. “Or at the very least, be a part of our team. This is a good, young, and talented club we have. If we can’t have you on the ice, we want you to be a part of it off of it. And that save you made on that Courtnall kid....” Wilson grinned at him, and Jared liked him a little more for speaking more like a fan than a suit. “That was amazing, by the way.” He cleared his throat. “A very smart play, I mean. That’s what we want from you, Shore. That sort of hockey sense, it takes smart players to teach it.
“And you were leading the team in assists,” Wilson continued. “That’s a sign of a leader, a good teammate, and a smart hockey player.”
Jared thought getting an assist meant he’d paid attention to the plays they’d run a thousand times in practice, not proof of leadership abilities. But he wasn’t going to argue. Jared had no idea what he was even doing, or why he wasn’t just shutting up and taking the best contract he’d ever seen with his name on it. Why was he trying to talk them out of it? Maybe his agent should kick him a little harder. “I don’t know what to say,” Jared said, almost helplessly.
Jared felt a weird sensation like the ocean was right outside and was about to crash through the arena walls and sweep him away. The roaring in his ears was louder than it had ever been, louder than the crowd when he’d lifted the Kelly Cup. “The coach know you have all this stuff in here? Because he might be able to tell you that my season wasn’t typical.”
“Who do you think drew up this contract?” Wilson gave Jared a very calm smile. “The coaching staff, the players, and the management all believe in you and what you bring as a player and a teammate to the Renegades. Though I think he wanted to include something about you not acting in any more commercials.”
The coaching staff, the players, and the management all believe in you.
Jared had a horrifying moment where he was worried the burning in the back of his throat was going to spill out over his eyes and onto the table. It occurred to him that, after all of the highs of this season—proving he was more than the player he’d allowed himself to become, scoring game-winning goals, stopping game-winning goals, being a champion and an MVP—this was all he’d ever really wanted. Not so much the money or the multi-year contract or even the two-way deal, but the sentiment behind it.
The last of the cold, empty spaces inside him filled up with warmth, and suddenly there was no more indecision about what to do, no more arguments, and no more fear. He smiled and stood up to shake Robert Wilson’s hand.
“Thank you, sir. I don’t think you know how much it means to me to have this opportunity. This is the best team I’ve ever played for, hands down, and I can’t tell you how happy I am to be able to retire as a member of it.”
Wilson stood to shake Jared’s hand, but didn’t release it. Which was awkward, because there was a table between them that Jared had to lean over. “You’re not signing, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Jared,” Jimmy spoke up for the first time, apparently recovering his voice to keep his client from being an utter moron. “I’m not sure there’s anything more I can negotiate for you, here. This is an extremely generous contract—”
“There’s nothing else I need,” Jared said simply. Wilson nodded in understanding and let go of his hand. “That’s the thing. I don’t have anything else to play for, because I finally have it. And that’s how I want it to end.”
“I hope you’ll consider the rest of our offer, then,” Wilson said smoothly, nicely ignoring Jared’s incredulous expression. “I think you’d make an excellent addition to our coaching staff.”
“And I appreciate that, but I don’t think I’ll be staying in the area. But I love the idea of coaching, and hopefully no one’s too disappointed that they won’t give me a reference.”
“Of course. Where are you going?” Wilson was all business, gathering his things. Jared wondered if he could sneakily pocket the man’s water and take it with him. “I’m friendly with a lot of GM’s, so just let me know. In fact, here’s my card.”
“Not sure yet, but I will. Thank you. That’s great.” Jared thanked him, and slipped the card into his suit pocket. “I’d like to tell the coach myself, if that’s all right?”
“Of course.” Wilson shook his hand again. “Best of luck, Shore. Courtnall’s a lucky guy.”
Well, of course they knew about that. Jared might have... maybe kissed Lane at center ice when they won the Kelly Cup. Or else he hugged Lane like he wanted to kiss him. One of those. He smiled, blushing a little, despite himself. “Yup. He’ll be thrilled I’m not gonna play goalie anymore too probably.”
Wilson laughed, and Jared noticed his agent was still fuming but trying to smile as the GM left them in the room. As he expected, Jimmy rounded on him with an angry glare the second the door closed.
“Shore—”
“Here,” Jared said, handing him the contract. “I’m really not signing it. But you should call a couple of guys on the roster. See if they need agents. I know Leblanc hates his, and I’m sure, after this season, they’d be open to a little negotiation about his salary?”
That appeased his agent somewhat, though Jimmy still muttered something like “hit in the head too many times” as he left Jared alone in the fancy conference room, looking out the window at the bright, pretty Savannah day. It didn’t look as hot as it was outside, and the air-conditioning in the building probably helped, but he was going to miss the place.
Even though he was going to leave, it no longer felt like running away.
Jared’s hands were shaking a little as he opened Wilson’s untouched water bottle. But other than that, he felt fine. More than fine. The emotional highs of the past year, from falling in love to excelling in the sport he loved, settled into a contented peacefulness that he’d never felt before.
Thirteen years before, Jared signed his first professional contract out of anger and heartbreak. For exactly the opposite reasons, he turned his last one down.
And it felt better than lifting any trophy ever would.
––––––––
Jared got to Lane’s a few hours later, a little sunburned from driving all the way to Jacksonville with the windows open. He wanted to remember what heat felt like, before he signed up for Syracuse winters and snow.
It was a good thing he had an insatiable boyfriend in his early twenties to keep him warm. Clearly that was the secret to surviving winter conditions, no matter where they were.
“Hey, J.” Lane was on his couch, playing a video game, when Jared showed up and let himself in. His hair looked dumb and was sticking up every which way, like he’d just rolled out of bed. Though he hadn’t. Lane got up early and went running. How obnoxious was that? He also wasn’t wearing a shirt. All he was wearing, in fact, was a pair of running pants. God. Sometimes Lane looked like he should be making sexist jokes and drinking a Smirnoff Ice. If they even still made those.
Instead, he was drinking a Dr Pepper and asking Jared if he had a nice trip? Why was he all red? Did he need some aloe? Because Lane had some since it was Florida. Had Jared ever tried aloe before? Because it was great. Lane liked it. Did Jared know it came from plants that you yourself could grow?
And this is what I left my career for, Jared thought. He grinned like a moron and possibly drew hearts in his head. Ugh. He had it bad.
“Yes. It was fine. I drove with the windows down because I wanted the fresh air. Sure. I’ll take some aloe if you want to put it on me. And yes, I did know about it and also that it came from plants, but I didn’t know we could have one, because it seems easier to just get it at Walmart.”
“I got mine at Publix.”
“Lane,” Jared said, and he couldn’t stop smiling.
“Yeah?” Lane didn’t look at him, just nodded over the sofa. “Want to play? I’m beating the Wings six to three. Or we can be on the same team, and you can be the goalie. I know how much you like that.”
Jared did, indeed, like that. He wanted to tell Lane about what happened, and there was a stupid, dumb, and totally embarrassing gift in his bag that he wanted to give Lane too. But just because he was newly retired didn’t mean he wasn’t up for some hockey. Hell, no.
“Sure. But we’re starting over, and we’re not playing on the same team. Fuck that shit.” Jared sat down and took the controller that Lane tossed him. “Lane?”
“Yeah?”
“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”
Lane finally looked away from the screen, where he was busy selecting the two teams—the Leafs and the Avs—he didn’t even need to ask. He focused on Jared with sudden intensity, blinked slowly and then shrugged and went back to the game. “It’s hot out.”
Lane’s air conditioner was going full blast.
“Do you know what Smirnoff Ice is?”
“Huh?” Lane gave him a look that suggested Jared was doing everything wrong. “Is that, like, slang for some sex thing? Or for like....” He waved a hand. “Bling?”
“Bling.” Jared started laughing. He laughed harder, and then tackled Lane to the ground. “If it’s so hot, pretty boy, let’s get these pants off.”
They never did get around to playing the video game. And it was kind of weird to fuck Lane on the carpet, with the NHL 13 menu screen on repeat in the background.
Later Jared asked Lane if he’d heard from his agent.
“Oh. Uh. Maybe? I don’t know. I figured I’d just go see the coach or whatever. Do you want a pizza? I’m starving.”
“You’re like a virtual pet,” Jared said. “Except all you need is food, sex, and Dr Pepper.” At Lane’s blank look, he sighed. “Never mind. Lane? I have to tell you something. It’s kind of serious.”
More and more often, Jared saw hints of the player Lane would become in his overall demeanor, the way he talked to people, and the way he concentrated on them. This season had done wonders for him, and while he was still very much the same guy who threw his gloves off and tried to get Jared to eat scalding hot chicken nuggets, there was no denying he was growing into himself. Both that tall, lanky frame of his and his personality were filling out nicely, Jared thought ruefully. But Lane was always going to be a bit weird.
“Serious like, what? Hockey serious, boyfriend serious, or not really serious?”
Jared was dying to get an explanation of all of those. Later. “You sound like Zoe.”
“Dude, no way. She has, like, fourteen different kinds of serious. And upset.” Lane stretched out on the sofa, his feet hanging off the edge, his head on Jared’s thigh. “So is it hockey serious or boyfriend serious?”
“Oh my god. What have I done?” Jared tugged at his hair. “Shut up. Okay? This is... it’s hockey serious, boyfriend serious, and, I don’t know, life-decision serious.”
Lane stared up at him and then sat up slowly. He had bites on his chest and he still wasn’t wearing a shirt. Why did he do that? It was distracting. “Your heart is beating really fast. You’re not dying. Right?”
“This is what you think life-decision serious is?”
“Stop stalling,” Lane said, and Jared hated it when Lane went from being goofy and clueless to goofy and perceptive as hell.
Jared took a deep breath. “I met with the Renegades’ GM and my agent today.”
“And you got a contract extension. Right?”
“Yeah. They offered me three years, good money, and—” this part still made Jared laugh, “—a two-way contract. An option, not a guarantee.”
Lane just nodded, like that wasn’t surprising. “Sure. You were a team leader, you have playoff experience, you’re a champion, you’re apparently a late-blooming goaltending prodigy....”
“Late-blooming?” Jared pulled his hair again. “Are you ever going to get over that?”
“No,” Lane answered immediately. “But I don’t get why you’re laughing.”
“Because, Lane. Why would they want me in the AHL?”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Lane shrugged. “I don’t think this is as serious as you think it is. I mean, this seems like an easy, obvious life decision.”
“Why wouldn’t they? Why wouldn’t they? Lane, I’m thirty-two.”
“Yeah. You’re really into saying that. Your age, I mean. It’s weird, ’cause no one else seems to care as much as you do.” Lane looked briefly excited. “Hey. That’d be cool if we were both in the AHL, ’cause I bet we could fuck in better hotels.”
Jared just stared down at him, momentarily at a loss for words. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Lane blinked. And then he turned two shades of red and tried to pretend he wasn’t blushing. He hit Jared in the shoulder. Hard. “Stop. Ew. Why are you having feelings?”
“Because I have to tell you something.”
“You’re telling me. You’re going to be in Savannah for three years. You could be a Checker, which is a dumb name, but not as dumb as a Crunch. Is that a candy bar? I don’t even know that. And what else? More money. That’s cool, and...?”
“An opportunity to coach when I retire. Or some kind of position in the organization.”
“Hey.” Lane did grin at that. “That’s awesome, J. You’d be good at that. Old and wise, like you are. Us whippersnappers might learn something.”
“Pipe down, pipsqueak.” Jared smiled back. “Okay. Ready?”
“Yup.” Lane cocked his head. “For what?”
Jared leaned down and kissed him. “I turned it down.”
Lane pushed him back, hard, his eyes wide. “Why? That’s everything you wanted. Did you request a trade or something?”
Was he serious? “Who do you think I am, dude? Request a trade. No, idiot.” He hit Lane in the head again. God, he felt good. This felt good, and right... and what he was afraid of, he couldn’t even remember. “I retired, Lane.”
It was kind of great to watch Lane gape like a fish. It was a lot like that look on his face when Jared stopped his goal, in fact.
“Uh. What? Why? You can’t.” He leapt to his feet with more grace than a six-foot-three hockey player should possess and faced Jared with an expression of angst twisting his features. “You love hockey.”
“I can still love hockey, Lane.”
“But....”
Jared waited, but Lane was just staring at him. “Yeah?”
“You were awesome this year. A champion and an MVP. You won all your fights. Sometimes I forget how badass my boyfriend is,” Lane said with a sudden grin. He still seemed like he was surprised he could use the word boyfriend. “But you can’t just.... Wait, does that mean you’re taking the coaching job?”
At any other point in time, Jared might have thought Lane was trying to talk Jared out of going with him. But he wasn’t. He was just making sure it was all right to be happy and that the thing he wanted wasn’t going to be taken away from him. He and Lane had more in common than just stunning good looks and hockey prowess. “Not that one, but they’ll give me a reference. I really like the idea, though. Do you think I’ll be good at it?”
“Yeah.” Lane stopped, head tilting. He looked like a cocker spaniel with a six-pack. “You’re good at everything, J.”
That was so funny. Why wasn’t Jared laughing? He should be laughing. “I’m not... What?”
“Yes, you are.” Lane held up one hand and started ticking things off on his fingers. “You’re good at sex, hockey, driving, fighting, kissing, video games, opening beer bottles that need a bottle opener without a bottle opener, punching—”
“Lane, stop,” Jared said a little desperately. Normally Jared would have wondered who wasn’t good at driving, but then he’d gotten in a car with Lane. “Fighting and punching are the same thing.”
“Fighting and punching are not the same thing.” Lane’s stare was heavy. “Anyway you’re also good at drop passes, shootout goals, mopping the floor, smiling—”
“Smiling? You’re reaching, Courtnall. You’re also biased because you love me.” Jared blinked. “When have you ever seen me use a mop?”
“My twenty-first birthday,” Lane said with a wince. He kept going. “Also you’re good at being a boyfriend, shaving, growing a beard to shave—”
“Lane—”
“Pretending you know the words to songs when I’m pretty sure you’ve never heard them before, Christmas presents—”
“Lane.”
He stopped. “Yeah?”
Jared opened his mouth, then closed it. “I am pretty good at drop passes, aren’t I?”
“Yup. And you’re good at... I wish I could explain it, but I want to be a hockey player like you, J.” Lane looked so earnest it was impossible to think he wasn’t serious. Jared’s entire worldview tilted upside down, flipped over, and then back again.
“What are you talking about? You do remember that you were drafted by the NHL. Right? And who they are?”
Lane smiled, and it was sweet and crooked. He was still standing in running pants with no shirt, and by all rights, should have been the focal point of an ad about the dangers of leaving your drink unattended at a bar. “Jared, you know why I keep talking about that stupid save of yours?”
“Because it sent your ass home and mine to the championship?” He couldn’t help it. Lane would have a million career milestones, and Jared would celebrate every single one while reminding Lane that he didn’t get this one. That’s what hockey love was like.
“I’m over that,” Lane informed him, chin tilting, veering dangerously toward douche bag territory again. Then of course, he ruined the whole thing by saying, “Because I realized I would have never done that. I wouldn’t have even thought about it. I’m too....” Lane made a gesture and dropped his hands to his sides. Jared could see he was frustrated. “I’m too institutionalized, maybe?”
“Do you know what that means? Honestly I don’t think you do, because it sounds like you were in prison and suddenly I’m thinking about you with a bunch of guys in prison.” Jared gave a slow smile. “I like this thought. But that was what we call desperation. It wasn’t like I thought it out. I just did it.”
“I don’t have that yet. That hockey sense that you do,” Lane said simply, and Jared stopped arguing and thought about it.
“That’s years of playing the game, Lane. You’ll get there. And I still think you would have done it. You have great instincts. Trust me. By the time you’re my age, you’ll have a few championship rings in your ears and won’t be able to hear me remind you about that whole blocked-shot thing.” Jared smiled at him. “That was my news.”
“But what are you going to do?” Lane appeared mystified. “You can’t just open beer bottles without a bottle opener and smile all the time.”
“I can so. Because Lane, I’m going to be retired.” Jared leaned back on the couch, his ankles crossed, hands behind his head, grinning. “I’m going to let my NHL-star boyfriend make all the money and keep me supplied with hockey tickets and threesomes with hot guys or Victoria’s Secret models, because you totally have a thing for watching me with chicks. And I’m going to coach obviously. And talk about ‘back in my day,’ and make you watch that save and my Kelly Cup champions DVD all the time. And suck me off.” Jared’s eyes lit up. “Maybe at the same time.”
“Pushing your luck, Shore,” Lane growled, and Jared was surprised to see he still looked upset. “You just can’t, Jared.” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Not for me.”
“Lane,” Jared started. He stood up and moved closer. “I didn’t do this for you. Well, I mean, I did but I didn’t.”
“No,” Lane said, sounding vaguely panicked. “You can’t give up hockey for me. Someone took it away from you, and you just got it back—”
“Shh,” Jared interrupted. He placed a hand gently over Lane’s mouth. “I had my career. And maybe I started it because of what someone did to me—took from me—but you know what? I ended it exactly how I wanted to. As a badass, like you said.”
Lane surprised him by covering his face with his hands. “You mean it. You’re giving up all of that to follow me to Syracuse. Syracuse, of all places? Have you been there? It’s awful.”
“You’ve been there, what, twice? But I’m not giving anything up, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Jared grabbed Lane’s hands and pulled them away so Lane would look at him. “This is my reward. I get a hot twenty-one year old future hockey star who likes me to sleep with girls so he can watch. What part of that exactly is the part where you think I’m giving anything up?”
“But you gave up hockey.” Lane looked torn, his eyes searching Jared’s. “I can’t ever be worth that.”
“Lane, you idiot,” Jared pulled him in and kissed him. “You already are. And don’t ever say that you’re not.”
“Okay.” Lane leaned forward, his hands on Jared’s shoulders. “No one’s ever done anything like this. Not for me.”
“And they still haven’t, because I did it for me. I keep telling you.” Jared drew him closer again. “Maybe I did it a little bit for you.”
“Jared,” Lane said, but he didn’t seem to be able to say anything else.
“It’s okay, Lane. I’ll accept payment in blowjobs, tickets, threesomes, and coming all over your abs.” Jared kissed him, and Lane kissed him back more enthusiastically.
But it was Lane, so he stopped in the midst of enjoying something to make sure it was okay that he did, in fact, enjoy it. “You’re really serious. You’re done with hockey, and you’re going to move with me, wherever I go. Even if it’s Syracuse.”
“Even if it’s Syracuse.” Jared sighed, resting his forehead on Lane’s. “And I’m not done with hockey. I’m just done playing on a professional-level team.”
“I’ll miss watching you fight,” Lane said, starting to go tense for reasons other than unhappiness. “I really liked that.”
“I have a whole section on hockeyfights.com you can watch.” Jared kissed him again. “And I’m not amputating my legs at the knees. I can still skate.”
“You couldn’t keep up with me when you weren’t retired, old man.” Lane started working at Jared’s jeans. “On the ice or off it.”
Jared groaned, but there was a moan in there too. “If you want your dick sucked anytime soon, go back to telling me how great I am at things.”
“You’re great at things, Jared.” Lane nipped at his ear. “And hey. Now that you’re retired and can sleep even more than you did before, you should be able to keep up better and fuck me more often.”
“They say the secret to retirement is having hobbies,” Jared agreed and kissed him.
He forgot all about the present he’d bought for Lane, and Lane’s agent called the next morning, before Jared could give it to him.
It turned out that Lane did know how to tie a Windsor knot. “I’ve seen pictures on the NHL website. Guys wear suits, so I learned how.” He was very careful about tying it, his long fingers dexterously working the fabric in a way that made Jared really hot.
Jared insisted that Lane take his truck to his meeting, since he had air-conditioning. And then he went back to sleep and dreamed about snow and a fireplace they could actually use, and Lane naked beneath him, in front of it.
There was also something in there about supermodels, he was pretty sure.