Page 63 of Shattered On Ice

“Wes!” he cries, hands flying to my shoulders as he steadies himself in my arms.

“I’m done,” I tell him, breathless with euphoria and completely at peace with what comes next as I stare into the gorgeous green eyes of the man who saved my life. “You're fired, Dr. Stephens. I’m cured.”

A beautiful and bright, unrestrained laugh bursts from him. He doesn't ask me to put him down or look around at who may be watching us. He just tangles his fingers in my sweat-damp hair and holds on.

I pull back enough to put a little distance between us, and without a drop of hesitation, I crash my lips onto his. It feels like coming home. It’s not a polite, tentative kiss. It’s a desperate, messy kiss that’s ten years in the making, a collision of everything I’ve hidden finally being let out. Knight doesn't shy away from the sweat or the heavy, rigid plastic of my chest protector. His hands slide down from my hair, curling into the collar of my jersey, his touch holding me tethered to the earth. Every ounce of my relief, joy, and unending devotion is poured into it, kissing him like a dying man in the desert who just found water. He tastes like mint and true salvation, and for the first time in a decade, the suffocating cold of the ice finally melts out of my bones.

A sharp wolf whistle cuts through the noise of the arena, followed by the heavy, thundering clomp of skates hitting the rubber mats of the tunnel.

“Rawrrr, Dumont!” Chad’s purring voice booms through the din as he clatters off the ice. “Didn't know the Hydras’ medical plan covered full-contact tonsil checks! Where do I sign up and can I pick my provider?”

I don't drop Knight, just pull back from the kiss, resting my forehead against his as an unstoppable grin splits my face. Knight’s cheeks are flushed a beautiful, brilliant shade of red, but he’s laughing and buries his face against the crook of my neck to hide it.

“Leave them alone,” Davy says, bringing his stick up between Chad’s legs and tapping his nuts quickly as he squeezes past in the narrow tunnel. “They’re cuter than you,” the stoic Russian adds as he pats my shoulder and Chad lets out a howl of indignation.

“Fucking Davy! I thought I was gonna get out of this half of the season without you attacking my nuts.” He hobbles after Davy, pulling on his jersey as the Russian defender chuckles.

“Doc’s just performing a post-game physical,” Nico adds as he hops off the ice, smiling at me. “Looks thorough as fuck to me.” He laughs as I just shake my head.

“Finally scored off the ice, eh, Westy?” Campbell chirps as he shuffles past, tossing his glove in the air and catching it. “It’s about damn time you smiled like that this season.”

The wisecracks keep coming, a chorus of chirps, stick taps, and cheering. No one recoils. No looks of disgust are sent my way. It’s just the Hydras at their loudest and most obnoxious, folding my truth into the everyday chaos of the team without missing a beat. The ten-year nightmare I built in my head is dismantled under the glare of the harsh fluorescent lights in the tunnel, chased away by the sheer, unwavering acceptance of my brothers.

Ryder clomps off the ice next, his massive goalie gear taking up half the tunnel. He pauses, pushing up his mask, and shoots me a wide, knowing grin. He taps my shoulder with the butt of his stick. “Welcome to the club, man.”

I nod back, my throat suddenly tight with gratitude. “Thanks, bro.”

“Could have said something when I was going through it and staying with you last season, but whatever,” he adds, slapping my back with his glove before he turns away.

I watch him trundle off, a bittersweet pang hitting my chest. I spent so many years and so much energy building the walls of my closet that I didn't even realize how many of my brothers were already standing inside of it with me.

Then Monty slides to a stop at the boards. My captain steps onto the mats, removing his helmet with one hand. He doesn't chirp or joke. He stops beside us, dark eyes incredibly warm and proud. He places a solid hand on my back, right over the large sixty-nine stitched to the jersey.

“Good for you, Westy,” he says quietly, his voice cutting through the team’s banter. It’s an acknowledgment from a man who knows exactly how heavy this closet has been, and how terrifying it’s been to break down the door. “Proud of you.”

“Thanks, Cap,” I manage, my voice thick.

Monty gives my shoulder a final squeeze and heads down the hall.

The tunnel clears just enough for the final defenseman to stomp off the ice. Rook takes one look at me holding his brother two feet in the air, stops dead in his tracks, and lets out a theatrically loud groan.

“Literally anywhere else,” Rook barks, gesturing wildly around the tunnel with his stick. “Not here. Not in my tunnel, right in my face, Westy. Put my brother down before my eyeballs melt out of my skull.”

Knight snorts with laughter against my neck. I finally let his feet slide back down to the mats, but I refuse to let go of his waist. I tuck him into my side, leaning most of my weight on him as he loops an arm around me.

“Jealous, Rookie?” I fire back, grinning wildly.

“Disgusted, Dumont,” Rook corrects, with enough golden retriever warmth shining in his green eyes to cut the sting. He bumps his glove against my chest protector. “Hell of a game. Welcome back, bestie. Now, I hope you fired your therapist so you can both get out of my sight and I can go undress in peace.”

“Already handled,” I laugh.

Rook turns and heads down the hall, complaining loudly to Nico about the psychological damage he’s sustaining and his own need for therapy.

I look down at Knight. His glasses are slightly askew, hair a mess, but he looks happier than I’ve ever seen him.

“You ready to go home?” I ask, the word home finally meaning what it’s supposed to.

Knight reaches up, adjusting his glasses with a soft, breathtaking smile. “Take me home, Westin.”