21. BILSON

TWENTY-ONE

BILSON

Something’s … happening. I can’t pinpoint what it is, but I think it starts with D. And it’s not my dick. Or Miles’s. Or maybe it is.

But my gut is telling me I’m in serious denial. I think Miles has been there a lot longer than me, but that’s not my place to point out to him that he might be less straight than he thought he was.

Sure, he’s all sex is sex, and he can detach sex from emotions unlike I can, and I’m under no delusion that he feels more for me than our bromance or whatever, but … I think we both have to face facts that what we’re doing isn’t detaching.

After Miles gave me one of the best blowjobs of my life and we recovered, he got up and left, going back to his own hotel room, and that’s when it all clicked for me.

Sure, it’s taken a whole night of tossing and turning, my brain searching for that answer. The label that makes sense. All the while, my denial keeps trying to push it away, but now, in the bright light of morning, it’s clear.

I’m not straight.

Either that, or I’m so desperate to be loved that my clinginess has no gender preference. Hoo boy, my therapist will probably want to analyze that for multiple sessions.

Because while I can acknowledge that I’m sexually attracted to females and now males, there’s one big difference when it comes to Miles.

When I look at him, I don’t have grand ideas of marriage, babies, and that happily ever after I’ve been chasing in all the wrong places. I’m not getting ahead of myself.

Is it because I really do only see him as a friend, even though I want to fuck all of his holes any which way he’ll let me? Or is it because I’m sexually attracted to him but romantically not? Is it because I know that he would never want to disappoint his parents by acknowledging he’s bi or pan or however he wants to identify, so I know there is no future?

With all my past wives, girlfriends, anyone I’ve had remote interest in, my imagination has always gotten away from me. I think they’re the one, so I lean into it, make mistakes, and then realize I’m stuck in a sucky situation where I chose the wrong person.

I don’t have that with Miles because he’s not available to choose.

Ugh, this is messing with my head, but I can’t say it’s in a bad way. It’s frustrating that I can’t put my feelings into something coherent or find a label that makes me go yes! That’s me! But at the same time, admitting to myself that sleeping with my teammate repeatedly isn’t straight behavior, a weight has lifted.

I don’t have the need to come out or even tell anyone. Not even Aleks or any of the other Collective guys who adopted me as an honorary member. Ooh, I could join for real now if I wanted to. But just letting it out internally makes me feel better about what we’re doing.

Like it wouldn’t be a big deal if it did get out. For me, anyway.

I know for Miles, it’s different.

I saw how disappointed he was in his parents. The way they interacted around asking them to babysit Killer while we’re away, it was obvious that they’re extremely close. And maybe that’s why he’s never been with another guy before me. Maybe growing up in the type of household where he’s taught it’s wrong has repressed all his attraction to men.

Either way, I could overanalyze both of us for an eternity, but I have to get up and pack to get back out on the road. Next stop is Dallas.

There’s a knock at my door, and I know it’s Miles. Even his knock has that weird, upbeat energy he has about him.

Though it is weird, he’s not using his key.

I open up and cock my head. “Lost the key?”

He steps inside with two coffees and hands one over to me. “Left it in here last night.”

“Rookie move. How can you stalk me if you forget important things like that?”

“Eh, you let me in anyway. I think you like it when I stalk you.”

“What can I say? You’re like Killer. I can’t say no to the big puppy eyes.” I pinch his cheek, and he swats my hand away.

“Are you not even packed yet? Ooh, Barry is going to hate you.”

“Nah. Everyone loves me. Even equipment managers. I have charm.”

He looks me over. “Unfortunately, I can’t refute that. You have four ex-victims—I mean wives—to prove it.”

For some reason, acknowledging that I’m … queer? Not straight? Bi? Doesn’t matter what I am. By acknowledging that I don’t have to pretend that Miles is a woman or that we’re not fucking, I have a newfound confidence.

I put my finger through the belt loop in his pants and pull him toward me. His big body presses against mine, and he grunts.

We’re still holding our coffees, and I wish I’d made us put them down before I did this.

“Are you saying my charm doesn’t affect you?” I rumble.

My gaze is locked on his lips. The whole time we’ve been fooling around, we’ve never once kissed.

I want to see if the stubble I felt around my cock last night feels the same on my mouth.

Miles swallows hard but steps back and takes a sip of his coffee. I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I get it.

His lips quirk. “My ass and mouth might have fallen for your charm, but my brain hasn’t caught up.”

Fair enough. And maybe I am wrong about him. Maybe he’s still able to keep what we’re doing in bed separate from everything else. I have to respect that and let him come to the same conclusion I have in his own time.

So, I go the only route I can. Snark. “It figures your body is smarter than your brain.”

He mock gasps. “Just for that, I’m not going to help you pack.” He throws himself in the chair next to the really small table and sips his coffee again.

“Like you were going to in the first place.”

He smiles behind his cup. “True, but now I can pretend I was going to.”

And this is probably my favorite thing about Miles Olsen. We can have these intense moments, these split seconds in time where we have something real, that threatens the very friendship these moments are built on, but in the next second, he shakes away the awkwardness, says something stupid and/or insulting, and everything goes back to the way it was beforehand.

I no longer fear ruining our friendship with physical stuff because I’m confident that Miles has my back.

Just like I have his.

Dallas isa fight where we scrape in a win 5-4. It was a great game because it was high scoring for both sides, so the crowd loved it. You know, until Finch put one in the net with only seconds left on the clock, taking the win away from the home team.

The sex Miles and I had after that high was amazing. Still impersonal but mind-blowing. Apparently, we’ve let go of all pretenses that we’re only doing it when we’re desperately horny and have no other options. Now we do it when we’re celebrating. Or commiserating, it seems. Because after that, we flew to LA, lost spectacularly, had more amazing sex, and now tonight, we’re playing against Anaheim.

It’s our first back-to-back of the season, and we’re still tired from last night’s loss, but after tonight, we get to go home in the morning, and I can’t wait to see my Killer.

But first, I have to decide if I’m going to meet Oskar Voyjik after the game or not. The guys in the Collective have been welcoming of me—think it’s funny I wanted to join them so I could stay away from women—but now that I’m learning these new things about myself, I’m not so sure I’ll be able to keep my mouth shut. Not around someone who would understand and maybe offer an ear.

At least I’m not close with Oskar, and the whole Collective rules bullshit doesn’t actually apply to me, so I do have the choice on whether or not to ask him if we can catch up.

I could ask Miles if he wanted to go with me, but even I know that’s unlikely.

I push it to the back of my mind and try to focus on hockey.

Anaheim is having a similar season to us. We have really high highs but really embarrassing lows, so tonight’s game will be interesting.

Every time we hit the ice, we’re told to visualize the win and ignore all the things going against us. Like that we’re the visiting team, and statistically, away games are lost more than they are won. Or that we played a brutal game last night against LA, so we’re coming off a loss and the exhaustion from a game.

Hockey is terrorizing on our bodies. Some players have been known to drop eight pounds per game because of the way we push ourselves out there—goalies even more than that.

I fucking love it, but at the same time, it can become too much sometimes.

Sometimes, you go into a game expecting the loss.

And tonight is one of those nights for me.

The game starts off rocky. We’re all moving slow, we’re missing simple passes, and Anaheim is refreshed and looking like spring chickens out there.

Oskar is a great defenseman, but his hits are terrifying.

He seems to know when is the perfect time to bodycheck me into the boards, right before I’m about to pass so he can get away with it legally.

He’s frustratingly talented.

In between plays, he skates up to me. “You coming for a drink after this?”

I glance at Miles. “Maybe. I’ll see what the rest of my team is doing.”

“Ooh, are you no longer avoiding women? Are you getting married again? Who is she this time?”

I’d shove him if the refs wouldn’t think I’m trying to fight him.

I don’t answer him, and the face-off is about to happen, so we get into position.

But it’s almost as if I can feel Oskar’s stare on me for the rest of the game, and not just in a hockey way. In a “you have a secret, and I want to find it out” way.

Or now that I’ve accepted my sexuality, I get all the fun side effects. Like paranoia of being found out. Of someone knowing.

I’m completely useless on the ice because I’m distracted, but the good thing is, I’m not the only one who’s sluggish.

As suspected at the beginning of the game, we walk away with the loss.

I would care if I didn’t have bigger things on my mind. Like whether or not I invite Miles to drinks with Oskar.