Like You’ve Nothing Left to Prove (Breakaway #2)

by E.L. Massey

“I loved him against reason,” Eli shouts after Alex, “against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.”

There are pillow creases on his cheek and his lips are chapped and his morning breath is rank. Alex loves him.

“You deserve good things. To be treated like—like you’re the best thing. Because you are.

He stands and retrieves his hoodie from the foot of the bed. Eli stole it the day before, and it smells like him. It also has a significant amount of both dog and cat hair on it. Alex loves it.

“I want to marry you,” Alex says, and that is…not what he meant to say. Shit. “And I know I’m not supposed to tell you. Because it’s way too soon, and I’m still pretty fucked up, and you’re eighteen and barely know who you are yet much less what you want from someone else but— I want to be what you want. So this is— There are no second thoughts with us. Okay?”

“I want the whole everything with you. Joint Christmas cards and buying a house together and stupid inside jokes. And kids. Maybe. Someday. Mite hockey. Or figure skating. Or nothing on the ice at all. Maybe, like, chess. Just… Whatever they want. To be happy. I think we’d be really happy. You make me happy.”

“He’s my boyfriend,” Alex says. “Please, he’s my boyfriend. You have to let me see him.”

“Hey, Jeff,” Alex says. “Did you know that somewhere in the world, there’s a really rude goat named after you?” “Oh, no,” Eli says. “There’s a what?” Jeff says.

“Okay. Peverly says bad things, beginning of period against the boards when I’m fight him for puck. He says Alex bad captain—blah blah. And I’m say yes, Alex very bad captain. I ask, every day, for threesome with Alex and Eli, and Alex say no. Because he’s jealous. If we threesome, Eli knows I’m best at sex, and then Eli like me most, and then Alex is sad and alone and only cat loves him—” “Oh my god,” Alex says. “Seriously?” Kuzy looks pleased with himself, shrugging. “It worked! He’s shut up, now.”

“Fucking cocksucker,” Booker hisses. And. Well. Alex glances at the ref who is still pointedly pretending he can’t hear them. “Uh, yeah?” Alex says, tightening his grip on his stick. “I’d be a pretty shitty boyfriend if I wasn’t.” Booker’s face goes blank. “What?” “It’s not like it’s a hardship, though, let me tell you. Eli’s dick? Very nice, as far as dicks go. A little bigger than you’d expect for someone his size but not too big, you know?” “The fuck?” “And he’s definitely a grower, not a shower, which threw me off at first because I’m not a size queen or anything, but I have to admit—” “Jesus,” Booker says viciously. “Shut the fuck up.” “Hey man, you brought it up. Anyway. Back to Eli’s dick.”

“Hey,” Jeff says, catching Alex in a headlock so he can yell in his ear. “Looks like your boy is here.” “My what?” Jeff points, and some of the other guys start howling and— Yes. Eli is on the Jumbotron sitting next to Jo in one of the private boxes, wearing sunglasses and hearing protection and smiling so wide it looks like it hurts. Alex knows the feeling. Alex points to him with his stick, and Eli stands, a little slow, a little shaky. Alex doesn’t understand what he’s doing at first until Eli has turned to show his back to the camera. He’s wearing Alex’s jersey. Price 23. Eli grins over his shoulder, and the stadium maybe gets even louder. And oh. Alex didn’t know it was possible to love someone this much.

Eli is the personification of a sigh of relief.

“Alex,” Eli says, and from his tone, it’s probably not the first time he’s said Alex’s name. “Hey. I’m trying to kiss you; why are you frowning?” “I love you.” “And that makes you angry?” “No. I just…need a better word than ‘love.’ But there isn’t one.” Eli folds his arms on top of Alex’s chest and rests his head on them. “I’m not following.” “I more than love you.”

“Love you,” he says, not even attempting to be quiet about it. “More than love you,” Eli answers.

“Liam! Mr. Martel!” a man in the front row calls. Alex recognizes him. He’s the Washington Post reporter who usually manages to come across as not completely incompetent. Martel leans forward, expectant. “You’ve been very quiet up until this point,” Washington Post guy says. “Is there a reason you’ve joined your teammates and coach at the table? Is there anything you’d like to say?” “Oh, me?” Martel throws his thumb, cavalier, toward Okezie. “I’m just here as moral support for my boyfriend.”

He knows it’s stupid, but if Eli were to die today, he thinks he would die tomorrow. Because Eli is…Eli. Because there is only one of him.

“On purpose. You’ve chosen to love me on purpose.”

“Alex is being homophobic,” Eli mutters. “Oh?” Jeff says. “I won’t kiss him until he’s done with this paper,” Alex explains. “Ah,” Jeff says. “You should call HR, Eli. The NHL is very serious about homophobia now; I’m not sure if you’ve heard.”

“Are you trying to take advantage of me because I’m exhausted and ugly and my defenses are down?” “Yes,” Eli says. “Okay,” Alex agrees magnanimously. “Come take advantage of me, then.”

For now, at least for the next few minutes, it’s just them. And just them is his favorite thing.