Page 14 of Crease Collision

I am going to be so fucking sore.

It’s after three when he leaves. I make lavender tea and leave his coffee mug where it sits by the sink.

Then I go to the reset room. It’s tiny, with gray walls, an extra-thick charcoal rug, a loveseat, a table, and a few things on floating shelves. I keep the amber lights low, turn on the eucalyptus diffuser, and grab two fidget balls.

The ghost of the skyline lurks behind light-filtering shades as I sit down. Thinking won’t calm my mind. The only thing that works is letting the thoughts come and not chasing any of them. So I squeeze the balls in my hands and breathe in the eucalyptus until the rink in my head finally clears.

Only now do I let myself look at what happened.

I met a guy and brought him home. Great night, better morning, and then he left. Nothing new.

Except for the part where he stayed, and I asked him to come back.

I meant it. Because I liked it.

I can’t let that go. The whole time he was here, my mind was quiet, something that never happens. He was kissing me, holding me, fucking my brains out. Controlling what I did and when. It was hot as hell.

But standing in the kitchen, telling me to eat? That’s not hot. It’s dangerous.

Hot, I understand.

Dangerous is uncharted territory.

If I had any sense, I’d text him. Make up something about needing to go on a trip and end this neatly. I’m good at neat.

You don’t become a starting goalie in the HFNA by letting plays develop. You see them coming and shut them down before the puck makes it into the net.

A little late for that, huh?

I can’t even laugh at my own joke. And I don’t get up to message him.

Instead, I sit here with cold tea and dead resolve, squeezing the life out of two fidget balls. Jesus. Less than twenty-four hours, and he’s already slipped through every defense I’ve spent years building.

CHAPTER FIVE

OSKAR

Eight o’clock. Three games of Pro Hockey Sverige. Three losses.

Now I’m on number four. With twenty seconds left, a defenseman skates over, screens me, and helps Karlstad tie the game.

“Nej! Fuck off!”

Thirty-seven seconds into overtime, we lose. I throw the controller onto the couch.

“This is your fault,” I tell Kai, who is not here to hear it.

He has no idea I am blaming him for losing video games in a hotel room many blocks from wherever he is being difficult tonight.

And he is difficult. That is the first thing I have learned about him. His face gives away everything and then closes in an instant. The most interesting thing becomes whatever caused the transformation.

I liked that he didn’t ask about my work. I did not offer the information because for a few weeks I am only a man at a baseball game, a tall foreigner who blends in with the crowd. That’s something I’ve never been allowed to be. Back home, I was the goalie who was going to make it, then the one who had made it. People watched me, talked about me, and expected things.

Here, for a little while longer, I am nobody. I want to stay this way as long as I can, especially with Kai. One sentence, and he would understand too much. He would think hockey is all I am, and I am not ready to give him that yet.

We both held things back. Kai fought himself all night, wanting things and resenting the want. He loved having my hands and mouth on him, begged me to fuck him.

He loved that perhaps more than anyone I have ever been with. But afterward, his shoulders would go tight, as if hunger were something to apologize for. I would decide it was time to go, then look at him and stay.