23. Micah

23

MICAH

" O ut of my way, Miller," I bit out, shoving past him into the hockey house. I didn't have time for his shit, not when there was something wrong with Grayson. I wondered when I'd started to care about his feelings.

Tonight's game…there had been something wrong. I hadn't noticed anything at the beginning, but after a while, it had become clear that Grayson wasn't playing his best. He'd been distracted, making rookie mistakes, and I'd had to make myself come up with some creative shots of the game so I didn't spend my entire time spying on him through my zoom lens.

Neither Ava nor Cruz had been at the game, which was probably a good thing, because thinking about either of them at the moment made my head spin. Ava…okay, she'd been making my head spin for a while. We'd been growing closer as friends ever since we'd all been forced together, and it was so hard because while I appreciated her friendship, I couldn't help wanting so much more from her. I always had, if I was honest with myself. And the fact she only saw me as a friend…it was a form of torture. Then there was Cruz…and that out-of-the-blue kiss that I definitely wasn't thinking about, not to mention that brief tease of his hand on my crotch that I absolutely hadn't jerked off over…

I was beginning to think that maybe I wasn't so straight, after all.

Bi-panic aside, the fact was, something had happened tonight with Grayson. My compartmentalizing skills came in handy, but little tendrils of dread were beginning to seep through the barriers I'd created, and it made me pick up the pace, racing up the stairs to Grayson's bedroom and pounding on the door.

"Fuck off," came the growl from inside, but I ignored his hostility, knocking even harder, not stopping until I heard the creak of his footsteps on the floorboards, followed by the sound of the lock opening.

"Stop—" The angry fire disappeared from his gaze, his eyes widening as he took me in. Lowering his raised fist, he took a step back, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled for words. I took advantage of his shock to enter his room, closing and locking the door behind me and sealing us both inside.

Now I was here, I found my confidence faltering as our gazes connected. Why had I come? What was I supposed to do or say? How could I help? Me? Micah Pierce, the guy Grayson hated at worst and was indifferent to at best?

"I-I'm sorry," I whispered, reaching behind me for the door handle. This had been a mistake.

"No." Suddenly, his big body was on mine, pinning me in place. He stared down at me, his expression unreadable. "What are you doing here, Micah?"

The way he said my name. A way he'd never said it before. Soft. Almost fragile, if you could call anything about a six-foot wall of muscled hockey god "soft".

"I came to see if you were okay," I admitted. "What happened tonight? I could tell something was wrong."

The pressure on my chest disappeared as he stepped backward, shaking his head. "It's nothing. It doesn't matter."

"Gray."

He turned his back to me, his broad shoulders hunched over, and it was so out of character that alarm bells started ringing. Acting on instinct, I placed my hand on his arm, expecting him to shake it off, but instead, he slumped forward even farther.

"What's happening to me?" His voice was a cracked whisper. I had no answer for him. Whatever he was dealing with—whether it was the threat of our situation, the loss tonight, or something else I wasn't aware of—I found myself wanting to be there to support him. Needing to be there. And that was something I never imagined happening.

"Gray," I said again, gripping his bicep more firmly. His hard muscle flexed beneath my palm, but he let me maneuver him toward his bed. When his knees hit the edge of the mattress, I gently shoved him around until he had his back to the mattress. One more push, and he dropped down, seated on the edge of his bed with his legs splayed, staring down at the floor.

"Tell me what happened," I said, stepping between his legs and placing my hands on his shoulders. This was something I'd never normally do, but my worry was overriding all my usual instincts. Something was seriously wrong.

"Tell you what?" He continued to stare at the floor.

"Grayson."

"Fuck. Okay. I think there—there was someone at the game," he began, and those tendrils of dread I'd been feeling instantly mutated, suffocating me. I found my grip on his shoulders tightening as he told me what he'd seen, and although I had the feeling that he wasn't sharing everything he'd been feeling, the sheer horror he was broadcasting from his body was enough to make us both curl into each other. Somehow, his arms ended up around me, his face buried in my chest while I breathed rapidly against him, my fingers stroking over his warm skin and into his hair in soothing, repetitive movements.

The scariest thing was that being like this with him didn't feel scary at all.