A rough night and a lot of alcohol, judging from the fumes I can smell on him as I walk down the hall toward him.
He’s crouched, greeting Otis, who is stretched on his back with a big smile on his face. He looks up, a little bleary-eyed, his smile crooked. “Hey. You’re awake.”
“Yeah.” I lean against the wall. “I couldn’t sleep.” I pause. “Are you okay?”
“I’m wasted.” He straightens, wobbling a bit, and tosses his coat into the closet without hanging it up.
I repress my eye roll. “I see that.” I move toward him. “What do you need? Food? Water? Advil?”
He reaches for me and pulls me against him. “Fucking.”
While I am down for that pretty much anytime with Easton, right now I’m not so sure. “You smell like a distillery.”
“Ugh.” He wipes his mouth. “Sorry, babe.”
“Rough night?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“Come to bed.”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
I pause in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, then Easton stumbles after me down the hall. I head into the bathroom and shake a couple of tablets into my palm. He’s nearly undressed by the time I return, his clothes on the floor.
“Here. Take these.” I hand him the painkillers, and he steps out of his boxer briefs, grimaces, then washes them down.
He drops the bottle onto the nightstand and grabs me again. “C’mere.”
I let him pull me into bed and I settle in against him. But it’s not happening.
“Goddamn whiskey dick,” he mutters, his mouth on the side of my neck.
I can’t help but smile. “Damn.” I stroke his back. “It’s okay. Go to sleep, Easton.”
“Mkay.”
My heart is hurting for him, but also full of emotion. I love him, and I hate that he’s suffering. I slowly run my hand up and down his back as he dozes off. It takes me a while longer, but eventually I sleep too.
* * *
—
“Ugh.” Easton rolls over in bed to face away from me. “Pretty sure I stink.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, you kinda do.”
“Gonna shower. What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty.”
He rolls out of bed and stretches, which is magnificent. His back is to me, but I get an excellent view of his firm ass, rippled back muscles, and powerful shoulders. I sigh.
He spends a few minutes in the bathroom but Otis is whining, so I throw back the covers and drag my own ass out of the comfortable bed to take him outside. When I return, Easton is under the covers again, his hair damp, a forearm over his eyes.
“Thanks for taking him out.”
“No problem. How do you feel?”
“Eh. Not bad, actually. I took more Advil.”
“Good. What time is practice?”
“Eleven. I don’t think I’ll go.”
Even I know that’s not possible, so I ignore that. I sit on the side of the bed. “What happened last night?”
He heaves a sigh. “Fuck. I’m sure you know I didn’t play.”
“Yeah. They said you were a healthy scratch. Everyone on TV was confused. So was I.”
“So was I.” He grimaces. “Okay, no, I wasn’t. Coach is an asshole and I knew he was going to do something like this. I’ve been waiting for it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. What can I do?”
I tip my head back, eyes closed. “Easton. You can’t go on like this.”
“I have no choice.”
“You always have choices.”
He moves his arm and meets my eyes. “No,” he clips. “I don’t.”
I swallow a sigh and reach out for his hand. I twine my fingers around his. “I hate seeing you miserable. It shouldn’t be like this. And I’m sure you’re not the only one.”
“I’m not,” he acknowledges. “But it’s not going to be me. I can’t be the one who deals with this. I can’t…”
I wait. “What?”
“I can’t take that risk.”
I study him. I look away. I look back. “I understand.”
“No. You don’t.” He pushes up to sitting. The covers fall onto his lap and he’s beautiful, his broad, muscled chest, his rounded deltoids, his handsome face scruffy and fierce.
“I do—”
“You don’t,” he grits out. “You don’t know what I’ve lost.”
I blink, my mouth falling open. Is he talking about the bus crash?
“I know,” I say softly, squeezing his hand again. “But—”
He jerks out of my grasp. His jaw is granite, his eyes flint. “You don’t. I lost everything. Everything. My dad. My brother. My team. My best friends.”
I nod slowly, my throat aching. I lift the hand he just liberated and press it, shaking, to the base of my throat.
“I even lost my mom,” he continues, his voice gritty like sand. “Because she didn’t care enough about me to try to keep going.”
My eyes widen and I flinch. Oh my God. Is that what he thinks?
“I can’t lose hockey,” he grates out.
I stare. My heart thumps.
“They traded me from Vancouver because I was a pain in the ass. I can’t be that here again. I can’t.” He meets my eyes, his blazing. “I can’t lose hockey. It’s all I have.”
I’m frozen, an ice sculpture. I can’t move. Shards of ice splinter in my chest. I swallow thickly. I’m not sure if my voice will come out if I try to speak. I swallow again, feeling it all the way in my chest. My voice emerges as a whisper. “You have me.”
Chapter 19
Easton