Page 29 of Shattered On Ice

Well, that just made me tear up a little bit. I dash a finger under my eyes and finish getting the room ready, which takes longer than I expected because I can't find the fresh sheets. Rook doesn't have a specific place he puts them, so I finally find them at the top of the closet instead of in the nightstand drawer where he put them last time.

When I enter the living room, Westin isn't on the couch. Eyebrows drawn together, I glance around and notice the under-cabinet lights are on in the kitchen, giving off a warm, low glow that beckons me. I follow, feeling like a moth to a flame. Westin is a magnet for my thoughts and my feet, drawing me to him without trying. He’s standing in front of the fridge, head pressed against the stainless-steel door. The low lighting casts shadows across the expansive space, with the smallest relief gilding his edges. The hum of the refrigerator is the loudest sound, with the distant sound of water running upstairs letting me know Rook is occupied.

“You okay?” I whisper, stepping further into the kitchen. He rolls his head my direction without opening his eyes.

“That was exhausting,” he says, voice a coarse rasp that feels like he’s raking his nails down my skin.

I shiver and swallow. He looks wrecked. The All-Star swagger he wore for his friends all night has evaporated, leaving behind the husk of a man. He’s hollowed out under the soft amber glow of the lights, all angles and shadows. My clinical brain immediately clocks his slumping shoulders and tight jaw as classic signs of emotional masking fatigue. I know the textbook questions to unpack it.

But I look at his heavy, rounded shoulders, and I ruthlessly shut the therapist down. He doesn't need an analysis of his closeted trauma; he needs a lifeline.

I step into his space, the chill of the fridge door cooling my overheated skin as I slide a hand up his chest, wrapping my fingers around the side of his neck. I brush my thumb against the stubble that pebbles along his throat.

“You survived,” I say, voice pitched low so it doesn't carry up the stairs to Rook.

Westin drops his head to my shoulder with a shuddering exhale. His arms come around my waist, holding me tightly.

“I hated every second of it,” he confesses, the words muffled against my neck. “Playing it off like I was just here for Rook while pretending I didn't want to have you in my arms the entire night felt wrong. It was electric every time we touched, and I couldn't even enjoy it. I was fighting for my life, trying not to show how good it feels to just stand beside you, knowing someone like you wants me.”

I close my eyes and swallow that admission, taking it into my soul and holding it tight while pushing down the therapist answer that immediately springs to mind. “It looked like it was killing you out there.” I trace the tense line of his jaw. “I hate watching you tear yourself in half for them, Westin.”

He shifts, head lifting, eyes boring into me with a bleary intensity that tells me he’s still inebriated, but he’s listening. He grips me like I’m his only hope in whatever storm he’s enduring on his own.

“You don't understand,” he rasps. “I haven't come out because it’s not safe. I’ve seen how the hockey world treats people like me, and I know how it affects anyone I’m close to.”

I look into his tortured face and analyze what he’s not saying. “You’ve been through something horrible, haven't you?”

He looks away. “It doesn't matter.”

I gently cup his face with both hands and turn him back to me. “Yes, it does. You matter, and what’s happened to you to make you feel like you can't be your true self is important.” I stop there, knowing I’m treading too close to the line of therapist and wanting to stay firmly on the supportive lover side of things.

A floorboard creaks upstairs. The sound cracks like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen. We both freeze. Westin’s fingers dig into my hips, his body going completely rigid against mine. I stop breathing, trying to hear over the loud, frantic thud of my own heartbeat. Another creak sounds, further away. Rook is moving in his room. It’s a false alarm, but the terror of those three seconds is enough.

Westin drops his hands and takes a faltering step back from me, his breathing ragged. The space between us feels infinite after being entwined. This was a close call and has me reeling that I would let my guard down so easily in a house where my brother could turn up at any moment.

“We should go to bed. I made up the guestroom for you,” I tell him, expelling a quiet breath.

He reaches for me, pulling me close again. His nose skims the side of my face as he breathes me in. “I want to kiss you so fucking bad right now. But one kiss won't be enough. It would just open the floodgates. I wouldn't stop until I had every part of you. So I can't even do that.” His voice is flat, emotionless despite how tenderly he holds me and strokes his hand up my back, his face next to mine.

Disappointment crashes over me, heavy and cold despite burning alive in his arms. I swallow it down, knowing he’s right. We wouldn't stop, and we’ve already risked too much standing this close in the dark while under the same roof as my brother.

“I know,” I say. “Get some sleep, Wes. The guestroom is made up for you.”

I don't wait for his reply. I gently remove myself from his arms, not risking another touch to ruin the last shred of my resolve. I turn and walk out of the dim kitchen, every step away from him like walking through thick mud. There’s a magnetic pull in my chest, a physical tether demanding I turn around and go back to him, but I keep moving until I reach my room. I step inside and close the door behind me, shutting out the man I want and the brother I’m deceiving.

Nine

Westin

Parking is a nightmare in Midtown, but Rook insisted I meet him at a pub near his house for lunch, so here I am. Thankfully, I took the bike out, and finding space for the Hayabusa is far easier than parking my SUV would be. Tucking my helmet under my arm, I make my way inside the pub that feels like something I’d find in Québec City or a European town, not Atlanta. It has dark wood accents, high booths with green leather upholstery, a dark gleaming bar with a mirrored wall behind it, lined with shelves of liquor bottles, and a sound system playing Irish music.

I see Rook in one of the back booths and make my way over. “Feeling like shepherd’s pie and bangers, or what?” I ask.

He holds up his pint glass filled with a dark stout. “I felt like a Guinness and didn't want to buy it, so I figured I’d find a pub that served it.”

I laugh as I slide in across from him. “Isn't it too hot for a stout? You should be drinking a summer shandy or a pale ale. That’s some cognitive dissonance-inducing shit right there. I don't trust my own mind now.”

Rook pauses with his beer halfway to his mouth and gawks at me. “Since when do you talk like my brother? Cognitive dissonance? Who the fuck are you and what have you done with my bestie?”