As my orgasm slowly builds, as our pace begins to pick up, as the frenzy starts to peak, I’m overwhelmed with a surge of emotions that bring tears to my eyes. When I try to turn away, when I try to close my eyes, Dekker leans forward, my name a moan on her lips before breathing life back into me with her kiss.

  And I’m gone. Done. Restraint breaks and I empty myself into her—my head thrown back, my hips pushed up, my fingers gripped tight.

  Jesus Fucking Christ.

  She’s a savior and a sinner, and I’m not quite sure which one I need to hold on tighter to.

  But I do know one thing. I want both.

  DEKKER

  MY HANDS ARE THREADED THROUGH his hair as we lie in my bed. His head is on my stomach, and the covers are thrown haphazardly over our bodies.

  I know he has to leave soon. He’ll need the time to take the train back to the Jacks arena in Jersey and get ready for his game tonight, but we don’t talk about that.

  We don’t utter a sound about what he confessed to earlier and what we shared in the sex we had after that. Because it wasn’t just sex. It was so much more than sex and I think both of us have our reasons for being scared to admit to it.

  So we lie in my bed, where we’ve been for some time, and let things settle around us in a way that it no longer feels like confused chaos but more like something we might be able to work with. Something we might be able to make something out of.

  “He’s dying. My brother.” They’re the first words he’s said, and I’m sure they’re probably the hardest ones he’s had to admit to himself.

  Yes, everything else earlier was difficult, but admitting your brother is dying means you’re acknowledging it. It means you’re realizing it.

  “I know,” I murmur as I lift his hand and press a kiss to the palm. “I’m here for you. I’ll be here for you when the time comes.”

  It’s all I say. It’s all I need to say, because that’s the crux of everything. Hunter’s anger. His urgency. His defiance.

  He made a promise to his brother and he’s worried Jonah might not make it to see it come true.

  That’s why this all makes sense.

  DEKKER

  HE PLAYS WITH QUIET CONFIDENCE tonight.

  There’s steadfast arrogance to his touch that is trademark Mad Dog Maddox, but there’s also a peace to him that I haven’t seen in the longest time.

  I know part of it is playing in his hometown arena for the first time after a long road stretch. The fans, the chants, the support.

  But I like to think a part of it is because of what we shared in the past twenty-four hours. What he confessed and learned and heard.

  I bring my fingers to my lips, the tenderness in the kiss he gave me before he left this afternoon still a memory there. The look in his eyes—gratitude, understanding, and something much more profound I cling my hope to—makes my heart feel so much happier tonight.

  Wrapped with a blanket around me that smells like him still, I watch him clinch the LumberJacks first ever playoff berth, hoping somewhere in the suburbs of Boston that Jonah watched it too.

  HUNTER

  Dad: It’s about damn time. Good thing you had that Maysen beside you tonight or your three points would have never happened. Gonna need a lot of practice if you think you can make it through to the finals.

  Dekker: Incredible. Every minute of every period you were phenomenal. Congratulations on clinching a berth to the playoffs!

  THE ALCOHOL IS FLOWING FREELY in Dante’s Inferno, our hangout after the game. The bar is dark and crowded, but we’re able to stay in the back room where the servers know us, know our drink orders, our occasional tendencies to get rowdy, and our penchant for leaving large tips.

  I lean my head back against the booth and close my eyes. My legs are stretched out and my ankles are crossed, and the two texts keep running through my mind.

  Oddly enough, one stands out more than the other. For the first time in forever, something is drowning out the negative.

  “Hey Cap? You good?”

  I look over to Katzen as he slides into the booth opposite of me and smiles. “I’m well on the way to being drunk so there’s always that.”

  “Aren’t we all?” He laughs that obnoxious laugh of his.

  “You had some incredible saves tonight, Katzy.”

  “And you played like I haven’t seen you play in a long fucking-ass time.” He lifts his beer to his lips and mimics my posture on his side of the table. Then he angles his head to the side and just stares at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “What happened? Did you figure out the answers to life’s problems? Meet the Messiah? Eat some really good pussy that cleared both your head and your pipes? What?”

  “Jesus,” I say through a laugh and just shake my head, unfazed by my goalie and his crassness.

  “Whatever it is, don’t change it.” He smacks his hand on the table with a resounding thud that startles me. “Superstition and shit.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “No, I’m serious. It’s nice for us all to sit and celebrate instead of one of us having to keep an eye on you, worried you’re going to throw a punch at some dude or fan or who the fuck knows who because they pissed you off.”

  “Huh.” I don’t know what to say to that if I’m honest. But suddenly I realize how much my poor behavior has affected my team. Has it really been that bad that one of my teammates has had to babysit me after every game? Even the ones we win?

  Fuck. And yet, they’ve stuck by me.

  Nothing showed me that more clearly than all the punches of encouragement they’ve thrown at me since I first stood up in the locker room and congratulated them last week. Is that the difference tonight? That I can celebrate? That I can believe I played a good game and led my team well?

  The dynamic, the comradery, the whole of us. That’s something I should feel guilty about. Shit. That’s a hard pill to swallow.

  Katz yells something else, but I miss it, no doubt distracted by my thoughts, the alcohol, and the noise level of the bar. “What?” I ask just as Maysen runs to our table.

  A long, drawn-out, “Fuck yeah! We made the playoffs, baby,” is yelled into the room as he slides two shot glasses our way. “Shots!”

  I laugh with him. I drink with them. But the whole time I keep thinking about what Katz said and wonder why I played differently tonight.

  But deep down, I know.

  The weight was still there on the ice, just not as heavy as before.

  The guilt was still there that I’m moving to the playoffs, I’m shaking champagne bottles in the locker room and not Jonah, but I could start to see around it.

  The resentment of my dad’s text was softened by the one right below it from Dekker.

  Numerous changes in such a short time, but Christ, it feels so much better. I feel so much better. And that showed in my game. And in how I relate to my team. The emotions—sadness, guilt, anger, pain—are still there, but they’re not as . . . loud. Consuming. After being bottled up for sixteen years, they feel lighter somehow. The change feels sudden, but I know it’s been gradual . . . and because of one person.

  One person who saw and believed in me.

  I shove up out of my seat.

  “Holy shit, you okay, dude?” Katz slurs as he looks my way, his eyes half-closed, and a stack of empties on the table between us. “You sprung up like you got a rocket in your ass.”

  “I’m good.” I stumble when I walk. “I’m . . . I’ve gotta go.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure.” His laugh carries over the noise and some of the guys turn their heads our way. “Don’t lose this guy we had tonight. He—you—were fucking awesome.”

  I laugh and hold my middle finger over my head.

  “Why you leaving?” Finch shouts as I walk past another table of teammates.

  “Things. Gotta do things,” I say, but it has nothing to do with things.

  And everything to do with someone else I want to celebrate with.

  This time, when I knock on her door at one in the morning, there’s a need there, but it’s different.

  This time, it’s because I want to share in something with somebody.

  This time, it’s because I want her near.

  DEKKER

  WHEN I OPEN THE DOOR, I’m not exactly sure which Hunter Maddox I’m going to get. The knock alone at one in the morning was unexpected, but the sight of him even more so.

  “Hi,” I say. I don’t fight the grin that comes at the sight of him all disheveled and glassy-eyed or the surge of emotions that hits me seeing him on my doorstep on a night that’s obviously momentous for him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m drunk.” He shrugs, and it throws him off balance so he sways.

  “So I noticed.” I lean against the half-open door and hate that the sheepish grin on his face has me gripping the handle instead of pulling him into a hug I so desperately want.

  “We won.” Such a simple statement, but the emotion in his face is so pure, so relieved that it tugs on my heartstrings. It gives me hope that some of the words I said to him helped bridge the divide between his self-imprisonment and his eventual freedom.

  “I know. I watched.”

  “And?”

  “And you were incredible. One of the best games I’ve seen you play all year.”

  “I was? It was?” His cheeks flush red and that little-boy smile kills me in every way imaginable—all of them good.

  “You most definitely were.”

  “I’m back,” he says, and it sounds funny because he is physically back at my place but he means figuratively as in on the ice. He realizes the humor the minute it leaves his mouth and we both laugh.

  But when the laughter fades, we’re left staring at each other as how we left things between us hours ago replay in my head. There were no words spoken, there was nothing mentioned of where we go from here after this experience that no doubt drew us closer. There was just a bear hug that lasted so very long where words we both wanted to say were exchanged without speaking.

  Thank you.

  I’m here for you.

  What is this between us?

  Where do we go from here?

  But when he left, we both had smiles on our faces—his eyes were still hollow, his shoulders still weighed down with the guilt I think he’ll forever own—but I swear it was less than he walked in here with. And that’s what I hope for. Each time I see him, to chip it away a little more. To lessen it bit by bit.

  That he’s here, tells me I might be right in my thinking. That I might have seen what I thought I saw as I sat astride him and rode him to bliss.

  “Why are you here, Hunter?”

  A scratch of his cheek. A lopsided grin. A rock back on his heels. “Because your bed is way more comfortable than mine.”

  And with that, he walks past me, into my apartment, and does a dive bomb onto my bed with the biggest whoop of laughter I’ve ever heard.

  I stand there shaking my head at him until he notices me, grabs my hand, and yanks me down onto it with him. “Come here.”

  My shriek fills the room, and while I’m more than certain the drunken, chaste kiss he smacks on my cheek is going to turn into something more, it actually doesn’t. Hunter pulls me against him, so his leg and arm flop over me, and pulls me in tighter.

  “Mmm. I’m sleepy.”

  “Okay, drunk boy.”

  “I am drunk, thank you very much,” he murmurs. “And you’re just as comfortable as this bed.”

  And for the second time in as many nights, Hunter Maddox falls asleep beside me.

  If this keeps up, I’m going to need stronger locks to guard my heart, because he already has a large piece of it.

  Falling for someone is never the plan. One day, you just wake up and it’s there in full-freaking, high-definition color.

  How right my sister was.

  DEKKER

  I STARE AT MY RESPONSE and go to delete it four times.

  It’s unprofessional.

  It’s not like me to write something like this and send it.

  It’s rather crass.

  And while it might be true, they sure as hell don’t know it. But they deserve it for razzing me over him. Between the status sheets and the ridiculous comments and innuendos over the past few Monday morning meetings, followed up by texts for juicy details, it’s the least they deserve.

  Let them read my comment—no talks, just sex—and I bet they’ll either bombard me with questions . . . or leave me alone.

  My dad will think I’m playing them.

  My sisters? My bet’s on them leaving me alone.

  The question is whether they’ll leave me alone because they think it’s true or because they think I’m pissed.

  HUNTER

  “HEY JONAH. HOW ARE YOU, man?”

  There’s a quiet response on the other end—an R sound attempted—and even though the tears well in my eyes, a smile widens on my face.

  “Can you believe it? The playoffs are next week. Next week. It’s surreal and I don’t know, J, it’s crazy.” I run a hand through my hair and look out the window to where the snow is falling. It looks so peaceful, but I know it’s wreaking havoc for so many. “The Titans are a tough team, but I’ve been studying their films and have their defense and plays mapped in my head, so I think we can do this. You know if we make it to the finals you’ll be there. I don’t care what I have to do.”

  And I mean it. I don’t care how much it costs, if I have to bring a traveling medical team . . . he’ll be there.

  “There’s something else I want to tell you and I don’t know . . . it’s insane, but, I met this woman. I know. Don’t be too shocked.” I laugh, nervous over why I’m telling him. Torn over making him feel horrible and wanting him—needing him to know and be a part of my life more now than ever. “She’s everything you’d say I don’t deserve, but shit . . . I think she’s actually making me a better person. A better man. I’ve known her for years but not until lately have things really clicked. And God, yes, it’s scary as shit, but it’s also pretty damn awesome to finish a game and be able to shut all the outside noise off because her opinion is all that matters. Her name’s Dekker. Yes, that Dekker who I was having fun with a couple of years ago and who you met at the game, but, dude . . . this is a first for me. I’m at a total goddamn loss. She’s . . . she’s fucking everything and—”

  “Hunter?”

  “Mom?” I ask, startled and a little pissed at the interruption. “What—”

  “What is it you just told your brother?”

  “I—uh—why?” I fumble, not ready to tell this to anyone else yet. Shit, I haven’t even told Dekker how I feel about her.

  “Because he just got the biggest grin on his face, and I haven’t seen him smile like that in the longest time.” I can hear the elated relief in her voice, and my chest constricts at her words.

  “He did?”

  “Yes. What did you say?” she asks again.

  “Some things are best left between brothers,” I tell her, my own smile widening at the phrase I haven’t used in years.

  I hear her quick intake of a breath and know she heard it too.

  And maybe, even if only for a second, we can both forget the accident, and I can revel in the knowledge that Jonah grinned about Dekker.

  That’s something to me.

  When I hang up thirty minutes later and head to training, I couldn’t be in a better mood.

  DEKKER

  “WHY IN THE WORLD ARE we here?” I ask Hunter as he glances at me. He’s wiggling a key in what looks like an ancient door lock on a place that hasn’t seen any attention in years.

  The parking lot has weeds growing up through its cracks, the paint on the outside of the industrial-looking building is peeling in huge curls, while some spots are in hunks on the ground.

  “Come on.”

  It’s all Hunter says and curiosity gets the better of me—though I make him walk ahead of me in case the Boogey Man plans on popping out of its depths. But the minute I pass through the entrance, I know exactly what this place is—an old ice hockey rink.

  Despite the outside looking well-worn, the inside is in fair condition. The walls and stands are gray, the barrier between what used to be the ice and the stands a faded and yellowed white, but there are hints of what used to be here.

  “Well, it doesn’t look like you’ll be getting any practice in,” I say, walking onto where the ice should be as he flicks on the overhead lights to brighten what the skylights in the ceiling don’t.

  “Nope.”

  “I thought you were taking me on a date to teach me some of your mad hockey skills.”

  “Mad hockey skills?” he asks as he takes a step toward me.

  “Very mad, above-average, beanie-wearing Hunter.” Instinctively, my arms slide to the side of his waist as he leans down and presses a chaste kiss to my lips.

  It’s that easy, the simple rhythm we’ve found ourselves in. Him at my doorstep after a game when he’s in town. It’s never talked about, never discussed, and yet he hops on the subway from Jersey to Manhattan and is there. We never make plans, but we end up hanging out together or taking a drive or talking on the phone till odd hours of the morning despite my work schedule and his games and practice.

  It’s fun and exhilarating and scary and overwhelming all at once—going from thinking only of yourself to suddenly thinking in terms of we when we’ve never really discussed anything.

  As he walks around the vacant arena and moves toward the rink’s center, I know he’s changed in the few short weeks we’ve been doing whatever this is, and I like to think it’s for the better.

  “So is this your way of remembering where you came from before you start the first round of playoffs?”

  “If I were remembering where I came from, I’d take you to an outdoor rink where your fingers would be frozen before you were able to put your gloves on. The lights would flicker on and off, and there’d be a chair near the edge where my dad sat with his whistle as he ordered us to do suicide after suicide.” The soft smile on his lips tells me it’s a good memory. “So in a sense, yes . . . just not the cold.”