All Hail the Underdogs (Breakaway, #3)

by E.L. Massey

the way Damien looks at him between kisses. Like he’s exceptional. Special. Worthy of awe.

Rome takes a slow breath. “February eleventh was the day I fought back.”

In a year or two, you’ll probably be one of the best up-and-coming players in the NHL. And you did it all yourself. Without the help you should have had. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

“But strong people need gentleness, too, sometimes.”

“Shit. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I mean, cry if you need to, but— Oh my fucking god. No. I can’t be responsible for making you cry, okay? So you need to stop.”

Romeeee

“No,” he interrupts, low and final. “I don’t want to break up with you even though you’re a colossal asshole. And I definitely don’t want to break up with you because you’re willing to take on the responsibility of showing the fuck up for your baby sister. And it would be a breakup because we are together and also fuck you.”

That's right, Damien

“Afternoon, sir. I know my boyfriend looks like a real suspicious character in his floral shirt and velvet scrunchie, but he’s got an Amex black card in his wallet and a Land Rover parked outside—a gift from his loving parents. I have six dollars and a borrowed bike. My parents are both in prison. So if you’re going to follow someone around your fine establishment, it should probably be me.”

but i am haunted by an anxious heart and i don’t know how to explain that you are easy to love but i have only just started the project of loving myself and i find it hard to believe that anyone else would be willing to undertake the labor

“Damien is—” “The light of your life?” Damien supplies, joining the hug. “The fire in your loins?”

Rome runs. Like some kind of dramatic asshole in a film-festival drama.

Your options aren’t right now or not at all.”

“Fuck you.” It comes out as more of a sob than an expletive. “I’m sorry. I think I may have misheard you. Was that a thank-you?” “No.” “I think it was. I think it was a thank you, Damien, you’re right. I should stop being a martyr and let the people in my life who love me help me.”

“I haven’t associated love with…good things. Historically. But I realize my perspective is fucked up. And I know good things are supposed to be associated with love. I’ve seen it with my aunts and uncles and the kids. So, I think I do. Love you. Because you’re…good things.”

“I’m good things?” Damien “The best,” Rome mutters. Damien tries to stifle a grin. “Shut the fuck up,” Rome says. “I’m trying.”

“You are,” he says, mouth under Rome’s ear. “The happiest accident.” He kisses Rome’s jaw. “A book left on the wrong shelf.” He runs his nose down the tendon of his neck. “Found by the right hands.” He exhales, damp breath on hot skin. “An accidental allurement I never want to stop reading.”

Maybe my happiness will not be counted in days. Maybe I deserve a soft epilogue. Maybe you are mine.

feel free to make me stop talking at any point here so I can stop saying the fucking phrase sex things—”

Damien uncaps the Expo marker velcroed to the wall and writes his name on Rome’s whiteboard “To Do” list. To Do, it reads. Damien Raphael Bordeaux. “I will choke you,” Rome says. “Not one of my kinks, but thanks for asking.”

Maybe there are people who are made of the same sort of dust. People who used to be part of the same star that’s trying to find its way back together again.

“Also,” Rome says. “Would you stop trying to marry me?” “No,” Damien says, kissing the shell of his ear. “No, I will not.”