Page 72 of Full Body Hit, Part 1

“But—”

“We were sleeping,” Chase insisted.

“That was so fucking inappropriate,” Auston kept saying. “God, fuck.”

“Auston. It was both of us. Stop.”

Auston raked a hand through his already dishevelled hair. “It’s not the same. I’m the veteran here, okay? The power dynamic is fucked. Just…that was not fucking cool. I’m sorry.”

Chase was still struggling to get a breath in. “It’s seriously fine. Honest mistake. Let’s…do you wanna…?” He gestured to the bathroom.

Auston was bright red, eyes wild, black hair hanging over his forehead. “Yeah. Fuck. Okay.”

He turned around and left, not even taking a change of clothes with him.

Chase covered his eyes.

Holy shit. What the fuck was that?

He unstuck himself, scrambling to change, cleaning up with his underwear and then stuffing the soiled clothes away. It was eight in the morning—team breakfast was in two hours—but hell if he was going to wait it out in the hotel room.

He grabbed his phone, his keycard, and hoofed it out of there.

He hid in the hotel restaurant until teammates started appearing and sat with him, Sammy making space for himself beside Chase when he arrived.

“Morning,” Sammy greeted. “Who’d you end up sharing with?”

“Auston,” Chase mumbled, trying not to blush and failing.

Sammy made a face. “Oh.” He eyed Chase. “Did something happen?”

“No,” Chase blurted way too quickly and loudly. “No. Just. Awkward,” he said, managing to modulate his voice.

“Right…okay. You sure?”

“Yep. Hundred percent.”

Sammy hummed doubtfully but let it drop as Noah made it to the table.

Nothing had happened. It was an honest mistake.

He was just going to scrub it from his memory and never think about it again.

***

When Chase was little, he would dream about his first goal in the NHL. He always went ridiculously big—how cool would it be if he scored shorthanded? Or on his very first shift? Or maybe in a big divisional game, potting in the game-winning goal? Or maybe in overtime, right at the last instant, a beautiful move between the legs.

Those imaginings disappeared soon after getting to the NHL. Even if he ever got that first goal—which seemed doubtful, it’d been weeks, it’d be something lame, like an accidental tap against an opposition’s skate, or a tip-in that was mostly someone else’s work.

Reality landed somewhere in between those two extremes.

Chase didn’t even realise what had happened for a few beats. He was posted to the left of the goal, a few feet away from the blue paint underneath the goalie’s skates. The Salem Cats had left him alone, probably because he had somehow landed on a line with Auston, and he was drawing the opposition in like piranhas to a piece of meat.

Noah was behind the net like he liked to be, big body capable of corralling the puck against the boards, blocking space out in tight quarters. Auston sent it over, and Noah scrambled for it, wrestling it out, and it was on Auston’s tape again.

The Cats coalesced towards him, the goalie hugging the pipe on his side, but Auston didn’t shoot. He passed it instead, a clean, beautiful sauce right to Chase’s tape.

Chase didn’t hesitate. The goalie lunged to the side, but Chase saw it coming, roofing it in a beautiful bar-down goal, the ping of the puck hitting metal sounding out a few seconds before the goal horn.