Blurred Lines (Darby U Hockey Boys, #2)

by Andi Jaxon

Being in love with one of your best friends fucking sucks. I tried to avoid it. Most of the time I can ignore the fact that I’m a sap for him. At this point, I’m faking it through every day of my life. Even I don’t know who I am anymore.

When I cross my arms and give him an unamused look, he drops the smart-ass act, and a softer side of him comes out. Fuck, I love the way he melts for me. He’s such a big personality normally, loud and joking around, while I’m in the background, but here, like this, he’s quiet and reserved. Does he like it as much as I do?

I’m still figuring out where I fall on the spectrum of LGBTQIA+, but I also don’t really care to label myself.

He reaches for my hand and places it on his stomach. I lift an eyebrow and look up at him. “Am I waiting to feel the baby kick?” “Rub it. It hurts.” I sigh but readjust on the bed so I can rub his stomach, the big baby. Secretly, I love it. I like taking care of him. I like that I can touch him sometimes, and I like that he only lets me do this for him.

We make it halfway through an episode before he falls asleep and rolls over, dragging me in behind him to spoon. He mumbles something in his sleep, and I smile into his shoulder when he settles and snores softly. For a little while, I can almost pretend like he’s mine and fall asleep with him in my bed.

Paul is the one that keeps me out of trouble. Usually. He has some type-A personality quirks that keep my ass on time unless I can manage to distract him with what I lovingly call a side quest. Aka food. He runs his hand over my hair and walks away. After all the years of playing, there’s still anxiety before a game. You never know how it’s going to go, who will get hurt, which team will be hungrier for the win. Paul knows physical touch helps calm me, so he always makes sure to do something before we start warmups.

My skates hit the ice for warmups, and the rush of cold air on my cheeks has me smiling. This feeling right here is my addiction. It’s the calm before the storm. That adrenaline rush and butterflies in your stomach. It’s almost time. It’s the last few moments before we have to battle another twenty men for the win. When my skates hit the ice, my heart soars. There’s nothing out here but teamwork, blood, and victory.

I love the rush of the game. The way a well-gelled team moves, anticipating their teammates thoughts, and being ready—it’s beautiful.

His eyes drop to my mouth, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. I want him to. Take control of me so I get out of my own head. Make the inner monologue stop for just a minute. Please.

“Isn’t there a rule about feeding the Gremlins after midnight?” Preston says. “It’s not midnight!” I pull out my phone to check the time just in case because time has zero meaning to me.

He sighs but keeps walking. He never tells me to stop or tells me that I’m being too much. Sometimes I wonder when it’ll start, though. I know I’m a lot. I’m over the top, change topics quickly, have big emotions and a smart mouth. But after a lifetime of being told to lower my voice, sit still, relax because it’s not that big of a deal, I struggle to know where to draw the line.

“You all right, man?” I ask him as he drops into the seat next to me and grabs my beer out of my hand to take a swig. I sigh but don’t fight him. It’s just how he is. Secretly, I love it. That possessive side of me likes that he reaches for me when he needs or wants something. There’s an easy intimacy that I don’t have with anyone else, and after being alone last year, I crave him being near me.

Brendon puts his arm around the back of my chair like he usually does. He’s a toucher, and over the last few months of living together, I’ve gotten so used to it that I miss it when I don’t have it. It’s also why I can’t fucking get over him. He’s in my space all the time, so fucking close, touching me, but I can’t have him. Not really. Not the way I crave.

As I lift my beer to my lips, I see the woman slide a hand on his thigh, and I want to rip it off. I have no claim to him, but tomorrow when he feels like shit with a hangover, he’ll climb into my bed and lay his head on my shoulder. He’ll let me take care of him, get his food, water, and meds, then demand I lie in bed all day with him. But he won’t kiss me. The man who has come to mean more to me than anyone else wants intimacy, but not sex. I can care for him, about him, but I can’t be in love with him.

A warm body presses against me, making me jump, but a quick look over my shoulder and getting an eyeful of red hair has me relaxing. Brendon’s arms come around my waist, and his face presses to the back of my shoulder. He’s my comfort, and he doesn’t even know it.

Brendon follows behind me a few steps, then grabs my hand and holds it. Butterflies tickle my stomach, and I give his hand a light squeeze. I don’t think he’s ever held my hand before. Is it the booze? “I’m sorry, Pauly boy,” he sighs, lifting the back of my hand to rub his prickly cheek against. “Sorry for what?” My voice is a little shaky, but I doubt he notices. “That I can’t love you the way you deserve.” He pulls me along with him across campus to our building. Uh. Excuse me? Fucking what?! My feet stop moving as I stare at the beautiful man rubbing his face along my skin. “What does that mean?” He continues to nuzzle my hand until the skin gets sensitive, but I don’t pull it from his grip. There’s something bouncing around his busy brain, and I want to know what it is. I need answers.

There’s a vibe surrounding him that I can’t quite figure out, sadness or hopelessness, maybe. It makes a sharp pain appear in my chest. Before he can drop down onto my bed, I reach for his arm and pull him into me. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, our bodies pressed together, and his face is in my neck. There’s nothing sexual about the contact, it’s just comfort and friendship. Brendon hesitates but slides his arms around me and squeezes me back, releasing a sigh, and relaxing into my hold. I close my eyes and just exist in the moment with him. I know he’s struggling with something, but I’m not sure what it is. His brain is so busy usually that it’s hard to tell when he’s just exhausted from it or if there’s something really bothering him.

In the next breath, our lips meet in a soft brush, and I don’t know who moved first. It doesn’t matter. I have limited experience kissing guys, and this is so much different than any of the others that I want to remember it for the rest of my life. It’s Brendon. My Brendon.

It’s not a deep kiss, a barely-there contact, but it steals my breath. I hold his head in my hands and slant my mouth over his, needing more from him. Nothing has ever felt as right as this moment, with this man, in this room. He’s my everything. And that terrifies me. I’m so gone for this boy.

Part of his body is on mine, and I hate how much I like it. Somewhere along the way, I fell hard for him, but I can’t keep him. Having the pressure of him against me is calming, reassuring. Brendon is a toucher, it’s just how he is. He needs it, but it’s killing me.

I’m a cuddler. I need human touch, the more the better, and because society is homophobic as shit, I usually have to fuck to get that need met.

Fuck, I like laying with him like this more than I probably should. He’s my safe space. He never wants anything from me, just lets me touch him when I need it—which is always—and doesn’t complain or make it weird. It’s not sexual, just comforting.

A cold shiver of guilt runs down my spine, and my breathing hitches for a minute. Paul’s arm wraps around me until his palm is on my chest. “You okay?” I clear my throat and force a smile. “Yeah, all good. Just got the chills.” He sits up a little and looks at my face. Fuck, I hope I’m masking my emotions hard enough. I want to bury my face in his neck and have him wrap his arms around me again, tell me I’m enough.

He lays back and pulls me more solidly against him. I’m not sure he notices that he does it, but it makes my soul a little brighter when he does.

His voice soothes the edges of my consciousness, lulling me toward sleep. I lift his hand off my chest and put it on my head for him to run his fingers through my hair. I love having someone play with my hair. Without direction, Paul does it, dragging his nails lightly over my scalp until goose bumps make me shudder and finally, I fall asleep.

I can’t lose him as my best friend over a fucking kiss. That would crush me. If he wants to pretend it didn’t happen, I would deal with it, but if he stops touching me altogether, I would die.

I want him. Full stop. But I will take any part of him he’s willing to give me. If that means I’m relegated to just cuddles, so be it. I’m not sure how a future love interest will like that, but that is a bridge we will have to cross when we get to it. Will he stop cuddling with me when he finds a partner? I don’t think I’ll survive.

Anticipation and rightness blossom in my chest. This is what I’ve been missing. The connection and intimacy and acceptance that I’ve never had with anyone before, that I’ve craved my entire life.

The connection I have with Brendon is different. It was there before anything sexual happened. It makes

I can feel Paul’s eyes on me as I dump my tray and leave, but I don’t turn around. Nothing makes sense right now, and I know if I look at him, all I’ll want to do is crawl into his lap and have him play with my hair. I can’t be needy.

Wrapping my blanket around myself tightly, I face the wall. I wish I wasn’t so fucking weak. That I didn’t crave the comfort of physical touch. I hate that I need reassurance from the people around me that they don’t hate me. Tears burn my eyes, and I don’t try to hold them in. There’s no soul-altering sobs racking my body, just the sting of anxiety-fueled desperation pricking at my heart to drip down my face and dampen my pillow. Pain leaving a mark on the fabric that will be washed away like it never existed. If only the internal scars could be washed away as easily.

“You’re crazy.” A big smile splits his face. “You mispronounced awesome.”

Under the anger in his eyes, there’s something else. His normally sparkling light is dimmed by pain or insecurity, but I don’t know how to fix it. I hate seeing that look on his face, knowing there’s nothing I can do about it.

I link our hands together, my palm against the back of his hand and my fingers in between his. I lift his arm to press against my heart. He’s my safe place, and I just hope he knows I am for him too.

I’m already so fucking attached to him that I don’t think I can do casual hookups too. Relationships aren’t really my thing, I’ve never had the time or energy for one outside of hockey, but I would try for him.

“Hey,” Paul whispers with his lips still against my skin. “I brought you food.” My stomach lets out a loud grumble, and Paul chuckles. I drop my head back to my pillow with a smile on my face. “I knew you loved me. You feed me.” The words fall from my mouth so easily, like they always have, but do they mean something more serious now? Can I not say that anymore?

I’ve been living and breathing your touch lately. If I don’t come up for air, I’ll drown in you. The thought has my heart lurching, but it’s true.

“What stopped you before?” Because we did a lot more than kiss, and you had no hesitation. Paul’s shoulders drop a little, and he shoves his hands under his legs, then shrugs. “I don’t know. Just didn’t feel right, I guess.” I try really hard not to smile but fail miserably. His words have happiness fluttering in my chest and heating my face. “But it was okay with . . . me?” I hate how vulnerable my tone is, how much I’m hoping he wants to do it again. Paul sits up and moves to face me with his feet on the floor. “Yeah, it was . . . it was perfect.” The last word is a whisper, but I heard it. Hope blossoms in my chest, and all I want is for him to kiss me. Tell me that I am perfect for him.

“For real?” Paul is watching me so closely it’s uncomfortable. “Yeah.” I shrug. “You’re comfortable with me, I’m a cuddle whore, and orgasms are awesome. It’s a win-win.” Please don’t break my heart.

Brendon slides his arms around my neck and presses our bodies together. I knew I missed his touch, but I didn’t know I needed it this badly. Some part of me that I didn’t know was tense relaxes. The tightness in my chest is gone, and the worry hanging heavy around my shoulders lightens. “Lay with me for a while.” I don’t ask, and he doesn’t argue, just nods, and we settle onto the bed.

I run my hand through his hair, and he quickly falls asleep. My soul breathes a sigh of relief having him against me, his weight on me.

Using my foot, I drag the blanket up from the bottom of the bed and cover us, then shut off the TV, and fall asleep holding my favorite person.

“I like you messy and wrecked.” I kiss his lips softly, and he groans into my mouth.

For five a.m., I am way too happy, and the guys notice. “What the fuck is wrong with your face?” Riggs, one of our young freshmen, snarls at me. “Sorry, little man, it’s grown-up shit.”

but she’s not Paul. I want Paul. I crave the way he gives me orders and uses me to feel good. He makes the constant buzzing in my head stop. He deserves better than me. I’m a mess, annoying, need reassurance all the damn time, moody, and loud. He’s not even here, and I miss him. How lame is that? I live with him but having him gone for an hour is too much?

The sun is down, but the night isn’t dark like back home. We’re too close to the city to see the stars, and that makes my chest ache. I miss the stars.

Sometimes we even saw the aurora borealis. It was rare but beautiful. Something about it made me feel tiny, like when people stand at the edge of the ocean.

I’m so damn tired. Tired of fighting myself. Tired of not being enough. Tired of wanting things I can’t have.

I shrug and reach for a hoodie hanging on the back of my desk chair. Not only am I cold but I feel vulnerable, like I need a shield to protect me from my best friend. I hate that feeling. All I want is to be wrapped around him, safe. Why can’t he just hug me? I don’t think he’s ever looked at me like he is now, in this moment. Like he hates me. He’s been frustrated with me, sure, we’ve argued, but he’s never been this angry at me. It’s soul-crushing.

“Spoiler alert, I basically am your boyfriend.”