Page 42 of For Pucking Ever

Instead, he props himself up on one elbow, studying my face in the dim light. "You're worried."

It's not a question. I consider deflecting but decide against it. "Yes."

"About tomorrow?"

I nod. Training camp, the official end to our summer bubble, the beginning of reality.

"About me," he adds, more perceptive than I give him credit for.

My silence is answer enough.

Derrick leans down, pressing his lips to mine, gentle at first, then with increasing intent. I respond instantly, hands finding their way to his hips as he shifts to straddle me. My body reacts to his weight, his warmth, his closeness. My dick twitches against the thin fabric of my boxers, blood rushing south with embarrassing eagerness.

"I'm fine," he whispers against my mouth, breath hot and sweet. "I'm ready."

I want to believe him. More than anything, I want to believe this won't end with him broken. He’s been fine before, but with his symptoms resurfacing, I want to be cautious.

He rolls his hips deliberately against mine, and rational thought begins to slip away. We're both hardening, the friction sending sparks of pleasure shooting up my spine. His hands find mine, pinning them above my head as he grinds down more insistently, the power in his thighs evident as he controls the pressure between us.

"Fuck," I breathe out, arching up to meet him, my wrists flexing under his grip.

Derrick's eyes are dark with desire, but there's something else there too. Determination. He's trying to prove something, to me or to himself, I'm not sure. I free one hand, reaching between us to push our boxers down just enough to allow skin-on-skin contact. We both groan as I wrap my hand around both our lengths. The first slide of his dick against mine pulls a moan from deep in my chest, relieved and unrestrained.

"Is this—" I start to ask, concerned about his body, his readiness, about unseen damage that might be accumulating behind those beautiful eyes.

"Don't," he cuts me off, increasing the pace of his movements, voice edged with frustration. "Don't treat me like I'm fragile."

So, I don't. I grip his hips hard enough to bruise, guiding his movements as we rut against each other. The bed creaks beneath us, the only sound besides our ragged breathing and occasional moans. Sweat forms where our bodies connect, making everything slick and hot. My thumb traces the crown of his dick, feeling the velvet-smooth skin sliding against my own hardness.

Derrick drops his head to my shoulder, his breath hot against my neck. "Bast," he gasps, the syllable breaking in the middle, voice pitched higher than normal. "I'm close."

"Me too," I manage, feeling the familiar tightening, the building pressure at the base of my spine. "Together."

He nods against my skin, his movements becoming erratic. I tighten my grip, stroking once, twice and then he's shuddering above me, hot pulses of cum spilling over my fist, his release triggering my own. The intensity of it washes over me in waves, pleasure mingling with something deeper, more terrifying. His face in ecstasy is almost painful to witness, completely unguarded, jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut.

As we come down, breathing slowly returning to normal, I hold him tightly against me, unwilling to let go. He presses a lazy kiss to my chest, right over my heart, his lips soft against my sweat-dampened skin.

"I can hear you thinking again," he murmurs, voice slurred with satisfaction.

I run my fingers through his hair, savoring these last moments before reality intrudes, memorizing the weight of him, the scent of our bodies mingled together. "It's my job to worry."

"No," he says quietly, finger tracing idle patterns on my ribs. "It's your job to stop pucks. It's my job to prove I can still do the same."

I kiss the top of his head, not trusting myself to respond. The truth is, I don't know if he can and the possibility that I've pushed him back onto the ice too soon terrifies me more than anything I've ever faced. More than playoff elimination games, more than career-ending injuries, more than coming out.

Derrick raises his head, meeting my eyes with surprising clarity. "Summer's over, Bast."

I nod slowly, sealing the moment with one last kiss.

It is time to play hockey.

The familiar smell hits me first. The sharp bite of freshly smoothed ice mingling with stale sweat and equipment that's never quite dry. Fluorescent lights bounce harshly off the white surfaces, creating that particular glare unique to hockey rinks. The sound of skates cutting into fresh ice echoes through the facility, punctuated by the distinct thwack of pucks hitting boards and the guttural shouts of players already warming up.

Home. For better or worse.

Beside me, Derrick stands motionless, taking it all in. He's dressed in Vipers gear, deep blue and green a stark contrast to Toronto's silver and white. Though he's trying to maintain a neutral expression, I catch the slight widening of his eyes, the barely perceptible quickening of his breath.

"You good?" I ask quietly, adjusting my gear bag on my shoulder.