36. MILES

THIRTY-SIX

MILES

So Bilson’s total freak-out wasn’t solved by a kiss—who knew? The thing is, with the weight of coming out to my family off my shoulders, I have all the time and energy for whatever he has to throw at me.

Worried about him questioning where I’ve been and who with? Joke’s on him, because wherever I’ve been, he’s likely to be there too.

Worried about him smothering me with love? My man’s forgetting I’m needy as fuck. We’re barely apart, and I know he’s worried about that making me sick of him or whatever, but it’s not going to happen.

He’s my best friend because I love spending time with him.

He’s my boyfriend because I love everything else.

It’s freeing being able to sleep over at his place or in his room at away games, to show up for training and games together, and even go on dates, all without looking over my shoulder and worrying about who sees. We’re teammates in a bromance, so people expect to see us together, which means when we are, no one pays us attention.

That was Bilson’s whole theory, but it seems he’s forgotten.

He has baggage. I get it. I’ll love him anyway and keep reminding him what a dumbass he’s being.

“You invited us here for a game night and didn’t get nachos? What is wrong with you?” Stoll grumbles, taking a slice of pizza.

Bilson tips his beer Stoll’s way. “I don’t get paid enough to feed all you animals anything but this.”

“Animals?” Finch drops his mouth in shock, showing off the half-chewed food inside. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“There are potato chips crushed into the carpet,” I point out, perching on the arm of Bilson’s chair. He stiffens, just like I knew he would, but sometimes I push how close I can get us before there’s a Bilson-shaped hole in the wall.

He knows exactly what I’m doing too. He calls me on it when we’re fucking, and he won’t let me come. Like that’s some kind of punishment for making sure he knows I’m his. I won’t scare easily.

It’s gotten to the point I don’t even think he knows what he’s freaking out about anymore, but for all his talk of not wanting people to know about us, sometimes I think it’d be better for him if he ripped the Band-Aid off.

No hiding. No secrets. No anxiety over the future.

“It’s about to start,” Jorgensen says. “Who are we going for?”

“Not the Kiki brothers.” Am I still bitter about how easily they score on me? You betcha. Those assholes are the only ones I can never get a read on, even when I know the exact play they’re setting up for.

“Don’t make me go for Buffalo,” Stoll protests. “Little Dalton’s attitude stinks.”

“He had a killer rookie year though,” I point out. “How many people in this room have a Stanley Cup ring?”

There are a few exchanged glances and some glares thrown my way.

Bilson picks up my hand. “Nothing here either. Does that mean he’s a better rookie than you?”

I shrug, playing up my ego. “It’s so hard to soar like an eagle when you’re surrounded by turkeys.”

There’s boos and sneers right before a couch cushion belts me in the face.

“For that, I’m going for Colorado.”

“Wow. I thought teams were supposed to back each other. But no. All it takes is a reminder that I’m better than everyone else⁠—”

A second cushion hits me, harder this time.

“Hey,” Bilson snaps. “Stop throwing shit at Rook.”

“Thanks, CB.”

“You almost hit me.”

I sigh because it’s so hard to get love these days.

“Are we watching or what?” Jorgensen calls over the top of everyone.

“Who wants to play a drinking game?” I ask. “We drink every time Connor plays the pass to Easton for the sniper shot. So predictable.”

“Works on you every game though, doesn’t it?” Finch says through more pizza.

I grumble, “Shut up,” under my breath.

While we wait for the game to start, there’s footage of the teams during warm-ups, and one of the first things I notice is the pride tape covering both of the Kiki brothers’ sticks. My heart gives a kick, and Bilson shifts beside me. It’s a pretty common thing for players to show their support, but I think this is the first time I’ve seen it since acknowledging who I am.

As much as I try to fight it, I soften toward those two—only a little. And only because we’re not the ones up against them tonight.

The footage goes back to the commentators, who talk briefly about the pride tape before the screen switches again to the ice, where they’re waiting for the puck drop.

It’s an intense first period. Somehow, Buffalo keeps them from scoring, even with the Kiki brothers on the top of their game—I try not to feel bitter about that. I know the crowd always hates low-scoring games, but it’s thrilling for me. Seeing the saves from both goalies, watching how they move and position themselves in the crease. It’s like hockey porn.

Though I can’t help but notice neither of them makes sure Annette is hydrated.

The team leave the ice, and the cable reporter pulls up Easton Kikishkin to interview. Connor immediately stops too, looming behind him like they aren’t the same height.

“The pride tape in warm-ups was a nice surprise,” the reporter says. “But with no points on the board, what would you say to the people who claim theme nights and symbolic gestures are more of a distraction than anything?”

Easton doesn’t hold back. “I’d tell them that if a bit of tape was all that stood between me and the game of my life, maybe I don’t deserve to be playing in the NHL.”

“It’s a mental game as well as physical though, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is. Which is why, mentally, representing who I am only gives me more fire.”

“Who … wait.” The reporter is clearly trying to piece together what Easton’s said, the same way my teammates are. Quiet falls over the room.

Finch’s head swivels between us all. “Did he just come out?”

“Think so.”

“Are you a member of the LGBTQ community?” the reporter asks, stumbling over the question.

Connor slings his arm around Easton’s shoulders. “My brother’s sexuality isn’t important here. Who he loves has zero impact on him being one of the best snipers in the game and one of the best people I know.”

The interview ends, cutting to ads, and while the room is still quiet, I start laughing.

“Well, that was one way to do it.”

“In the middle of a game too,” Stoll points out. “Won’t that psych him out?”

“Maybe it’s a play,” Finch suggests. “To get into Buffalo’s head. Coming out is a big thing, isn’t it? Does he think Ayri Quinn and Asher Dalton will take it easier on him because they’re … you know?”

“Queer,” Jorgensen fills in. “You can say it.”

“Sorry.” Finch goes red. “I don’t know any queer people. Don’t want to say something wrong.”

They start debating labels and locker room etiquette, and it occurs to me that Bilson hasn’t said anything. He’s got his phone out, scrolling down the screen.

“What’s wrong?”

He glances up, and he doesn’t look happy. “People are already talking about it.”

“Little Kiki coming out?”

“Yeah, and … there’s a lot of good, but …”

“Assholes can’t help being assholes.”

He glances around to make sure no one is listening before dropping his voice. “That could be us.”

“Probably will be one day. But a stranger’s opinion doesn’t mean anything to me. You and my family have my back. That’s all I need.”

His teeth sink into his lip as he looks down at his phone again.

I reach down and cover the screen. “Stop looking.”

Then he huffs a laugh. “Ezra just posted, ‘Welcome, you queer-do.’”

“Sounds like him.”

“Oh, wow.”

“What?”

“The other Collective guys are posting too.”

That makes me smile. “See? Little Kiki isn’t alone. And we won’t be either.”

He glances up at me suddenly. “I want to do it.”

“Support them? Go for it. Plenty of straight dudes are.”

“No … not just support. It’s getting too much. I know we said down-low was better and it would be fun and freeing, but I don’t feel free. I hate that I’m always worried about fucking up. About taking it too far and giving us away.”

“Ah … guys?”

We glance over at Finch. “Giving, umm, what away?”

By his tone, we clearly weren’t as quiet as we thought we were. The game is back on, but none of us are paying attention.

I turn back to Bilson. “I’m down for anything, CB.”

He exhales, looking like he’s letting out every worry he’s ever had. When he talks, it’s so fast I think he’s lost control of his mouth. “There’s no bromance. We’re dating. Me and Rook. All homo, butts and dicks and⁠—”

I quickly cover his mouth to stop whatever that was. “What he means to say is our bromance is more of a romance with lots of love and hearts and stuff.”

He shakes me off. “Yeah. That.”

“Wait.” Finch almost climbs over his seat. “Now you guys are coming out? Both of you?”

“Sure are.”

“Holy shit. Can I say holy shit?”

“Say whatever you want, just don’t be a homophobic dick.”

Stoll laughs. “But apparently, you guys like dicks.”

Jorgensen rubs his jaw. “You’re sending mixed signals, Olsen.”

Olsen. Not rookie.

Best. Day. Ever.

Bilson pulls me from the arm of the couch into his lap. “Let us clear it up, then: the only dicks we’re interested in are each other’s.”

“I dunno, we haven’t tried gay porn yet.”

“Fine. The only dicks we’re interested in are each other’s and maybe the ones in pornos.”

“We’re all interested in the ones in pornos,” Stoll says. “Doesn’t make you special, dude.”

“Maybe we’re all a little homo, then.”

“And little Kiki scored,” Jorgensen says, pulling our attention back to the screen. Easton and Connor are hugging, like every goal, and the rest of the team are back or ass slapping like usual.

Bilson nudges me. “I’m going to post.”

“Me too, then.”

“You sure? It can just be about me. You don’t have to.”

“Are you okay with everyone knowing about us?”

His big arm tightens around me. “Definitely.”

“Then post.”

He sucks in a breath, and I watch as he shares the Easton quote the NHL page has shared, then types one-handed, Welcome to the team. Then he adds a rainbow emoji.

I kiss his cheek as he hits Post, then immediately click on it to share and add, But keep your hands off Bilson, he’s mine.

Almost immediately, I have a comment from Stoll: Maybe you should keep your hands off each other and just watch the damn game, already?

I glance over at him as he sends me a wink. “We got you.”

“Yeah, but seriously,” Jorgensen says after commenting, We love you guys, but come out quieter. I almost missed little Kiki’s goal. “If anyone messes with you, they’ll have us to deal with.”

“Thanks.” I might not have been with the team for long, but they already have my back.

“We’re a team. Watch our net and not your boyfriend, and everything will be okay with us.”

“Deal.”

Bilson takes both our phones and sets them on the floor beside us. “Nothing on there is going to make this day any better. Now I can stop worrying about blowing our cover and focus on worrying about screwing this up.”

“And I’ll focus on reminding you that’s impossible.”

He gives me a soft kiss. “You know, you basically gave me a promise ring the day we met.”

“I did?”

He points to the friendship bracelet he’s still wearing. My guy, CB. “It’s how I knew. Almost immediately. You were kinda special. And …” He shifts to pull something out of his pocket. “This is me, not proposing but wanting you to know you’re kinda special too.”

Bilson opens his fist to show off the friendship bracelet there. CB heart bead Rook.

“Aww … baby …” I hold out my arm.

He can’t hold back his smugness as he ties it around my wrist. “Full disclosure, your mom stole these out of your room for me.”

“Lucky I don’t keep them in the drawer with my sex toys.”

“In what world would you keep them there?”

I shrug. “I’m a goalie.”

He glances over at where Stone and Seddy are sitting in their glass of beer. “At least I know our lives will be interesting.”

“Always.” I take his face in my hands. “Through all the smothering and the weirdness, you’ve promised yourself to me. No take backsies.”

“No take backsies.”

A cushion hits us both this time. “You’re both very cute and whatever, but dear God, shut up.”

I laugh and melt back against Bilson, surprisingly not sad when Colorado beat Buffalo 2 to 1. Because Dex was right, the little genius. All the other stuff doesn’t matter.

I have Bilson, and he’s my everything.