But I do know one thing. I want both.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
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.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
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.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
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.”