Save the Game (SCU Hockey #2)

by J.J. Mulder

“Hey,” he says, leaning in to kiss me but carefully keeping his hands down by his sides. Well, that simply won’t do. I hook my fingers in his belt loops and pull him toward me, smiling into the kiss when I feel his hands land on my shoulders.

Thoughts of one particular night when he laid flat on his back and let me explore him, the unspoken trust leaving me breathless and feeling defensive of him.

“I’m a photographer, Max, I appreciate beautiful things. I’m not going to delete a picture of you.”

It’s our first picture together, I realize. Such a simple thing, and yet my throat feels a little tight when I think about it.

I pull it out to see a text message from Max, which has the dual effect of making me smile like an idiot, while also making me feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. I don’t want to be here.

I want to go see Max. I want to lay down beside him and inhale his clean, fresh scent; put a hand on his chest and feel his heart beat. I want to verify—with my own two eyes—that he’s safe. The need behind this is so strong, I can’t think beyond it. Who the fuck even cares about a broken hand?

We’re not the kind of friends that say I love you, but I want to in this moment. I want to tell him what it means to me, knowing that he had my back even when it looked like we were both being arrested. Reaching across the dark car, I wrap my fingers around his wrist where his hand is resting on the seat between us. He looks over. “I love you, man,” I tell him, and he gives me a weak smile. “And thanks for having my back.” “I love you, too.”

“Try not to scare him,” he reminds me, voice barely above a whisper. I know what he’s asking—he’s asking me not to tell Max what happened until tomorrow. He’s asking for one more night where Max doesn’t know the details of the worst night of his life.

He’s curled on his side, nothing more than a lump beneath the covers. I stand there, just looking at him, for long enough that he stirs.

“It’s me,” I whisper, and the smile that blooms over his face is heartbreaking in its intensity.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, which is a question I absolutely cannot answer tonight. Leaning forward, I find his shoulder with my chin, wrapping an arm around him and trying to convey with a hug that nothing is wrong right now, because I’m here.

“Hey, baby,” he says in a sleepy drawl. I squeeze my eyes shut and tuck my face into the warmth of his neck. My hands, where they’re resting on his back above his shirt, are gentle enough that he hasn’t noticed the presence of bandages yet, and the room is far too dark for him to notice the bruising on my face. “Come lay down,” he says, rubbing my back.

I’d known he was home and safe, but now I know. I feel wrung dry and as though I could sleep for days.

I try to think happy thoughts about beach dates, about sunny baseball games, and the way Max’s hair looks when he takes off his helmet.

He sleeps soundly—barely moving an inch all night except for when he’d push himself backward into me, blindly seeking heat and safety.

Reaching a hand back over my shoulder, I touch the side of his head, brushing my fingers through his hair. “Luke?” He murmurs something that sounds like baby against my neck, nuzzling his face into my hair.

“I have to talk to you about something,” he says, voice still pitched low. The butterflies multiply. “Something bad?” “Yeah,” he breathes, “something bad.”

“But actually, Maxy, I really do need to talk to you. Don’t worry about this for a second; just come back up here and sit with me.”

Ridiculously, my first instinct is to correct him—they can’t prove a rape actually occurred. But then I look at him—really look at him—at the bruises and the banged-up hands. Hands that are a little too beat up for someone who got into a simple fight. And not just anyone, either, but Luke. My Luke, who flirts his way through life, spreading sunshine around with his teasing and his smiles. My Luke is a lover.

I can feel it, the first tendrils of panic. Can hear it in my voice. Luke notices, too, because he bends forward until our faces are inches apart, forcing me to look at him.

Closing my eyes, I lean forward until my forehead can rest on his shoulder. He bends his own head into my neck and we sit like that, unmoving and silent, for the length of time it takes me calm down.

I should tell him to leave a few changes of clothes here, for when he spends the night, I think, just as a fresh round of tears builds in my throat. Luke steps up to me, left hand gentle on the back of my neck, and pulls me into a hug.

Those are the last words I’m able to get out before I can’t breathe, let alone speak, around the sobs wracking my body. Burying my face into the crook of his neck, I wrap both arms around his middle and take what he’s offering. His skin is warm through the thin fabric of my shirt, soft where my hands and arms are touching him. I want to tell him that I’m sorry for always crying on him.

Luke doesn’t either, nor has he stopped brushing his palm up and down my spine. Every now and then he turns his head toward mine, nose brushing my scalp; I’m not sure if he’s smelling me or pressing soft kisses against my head. I don’t care. Whatever keeps him here, warm within the circle of my arms.

“Do you want to leave some of your clothes here?” I ask, voice thick with moisture from all the crying. “So that you have something to wear when you spend the night?” “Yeah, I do.”

“Me too. All last night I was, like, frantic to get over here. I needed to see you—refill my Max tank, and hold on to you for a minute or ten.” “Your Max tank?” I repeat, and the smile comes easier this time. “Yeah, you know, some people need food to function, I need Max.” He shrugs. “Science.”

All you do is make me happy.

Not the right mood, as in not the right mood to have a conversation about you topping me. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a bit now. Before this year, I’d been more flexible about roles in bed—open to try new things and explore. I like bottoming, and most of the time I prefer it. I trust Luke, and I want this part of me back. I want it with him.

My insides perform a chaotic shimmy at the sight of him, stomach clenching as his face breaks out into a wide smile. Might as well pitch a tent and call ‘love territory’ home.

I thought I’d be okay with keeping things as they are between us but I want you so bad, Luke. I want this with you. I want you,”

“Take this off?” he asks, just like he does every time we do things like this. “Yes,” I answer, just like I do every time we do things like this.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve had my shirt off around you,” I remind him. His eyes flick to mine, amusement dancing to life above the heat. “Can’t a man appreciate his boyfriend in peace?” he asks, exasperated. I smile.

Instead, his fingertips dance across my skin, tracing each line like an artist with a paintbrush.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “What?” “I am really fucking obsessed with you,” he says, palms now smoothing up and down my sides.

You’re fine—Luke will take care of you. You can say stop anytime.

Come up here, please. Come kiss me. I’d meant to say the words out loud, but can’t squeeze them past the tennis-ball-sized lump in my throat. He doesn’t need to hear them, anyway. Surging forward and planting his elbows on the bed by my ears, he kisses me. It’s a tender kiss, slow and loving.

Closing my eyes, I take this as the gift it is— he’s trying to help me relax.

He’s watching me, the sort of eye contact that might be too intense for some, but only makes me feel safer. My lovely Luke.

I kiss him deeply—trying to convey every emotion raging through my body right now. He kisses back, just as hard, because he understands.

A hand reaches up to cup the side of my face. “Maxy?” “Kiss me,” I gasp, “please.” Luke lifts his head, holding me in place with a thumb hooked under my jaw, and kisses me. Oh, thank god, I think, before I apply myself to the serious business of kissing Luke and trying not to cry.

Laughing, I tighten my arm and bring him closer to me. He presses his face back into the crook of my neck, half his body warm on mine. It’s not close enough—not nearly close enough—but it will do for now.