11. Anthony

“Aussie. Cars.” Coach gestured sharply at Simon and me. “A moment?”

We exchanged uneasy glances. Then we clomped after Coach, Simon still fastening his chest protector as he walked. Coach took us into the hallway that led to some offices and conference rooms. No reporters or staff lingering out here, which only made my uneasiness intensify. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have around any potential eavesdroppers. And the fact that he wanted to talk to the two of us in private wasn’t a good sign either.

Alone in the relatively quiet hallway, Coach faced us, arms folded across his gray suit jacket. “I need you boys to level with me.” He glanced back and forth between us. “Is there something going on here that I need to know about?”

“No,” Simon replied.

“Everything’s fine,” I said.

Coach’s lips tightened. “Is that right? Because it doesn’t seem fine.” He zeroed in on me, and even though I towered over him in my skates, I had the distinct feeling of someone peering down at me. “You haven’t been yourself since training camp. So is the problem”—he gestured at Simon, then me—“or should I be dropping you down to the third D pair until you show me you’re worth the minutes you’ve been playing? Maybe park your ass on the bench for a while?” He lifted his chin a little and narrowed his eyes. “Armstrong has been getting antsy up there in the owner’s box, so I’m sure he’d be happy to step in while you sit for a few games.”

I gulped. “No, Coach. I don’t have any excuses. I’ve got it, though. I do.”

The skepticism in his lined face made my stomach churn with both shame and anger. I hated that I was letting my team down enough that Coach had to start threatening to drop me to the third pair or healthy scratch me. I hated that Simon and I couldn’t just be honest and say, “Coach, we’re in a bad spot, and we need some space to work it out,” because one of us—most likely me—would be on a plane to somewhere else so fast my head would spin.

My gut clenched. I couldn’t say that, but what did Simon have to lose? He was firmly on the second offensive line. He might get chewed out and have to keep his future relationships off the team’s radar for a while, but otherwise, he’d be fine. Wouldn’t he?

Coach turned his frustrated glare on Simon. “What about you? Is it just a coincidence that you’re both off your game at the same time?”

“Just a coincidence,” Simon confirmed. He shifted his weight on his skates, a wince flickering across his expression. “I might need to do a little more rehab on my knee, too.”

He probably wasn’t lying about that; he’d lost half a season to a torn ACL, and it still gave him grief sometimes. Like a lot of hockey players, he’d play right through the pain even when he knew he shouldn’t. Sometimes it would fuck up his game before it fucked up his skating, simply because it would be sore enough to interfere with his concentration. He’d mostly been playing well this season, but there’d definitely been some games where he’d been mentally someplace else. How much of that was his knee and how much was our bullshit, I honestly couldn’t say.

Coach exhaled. “Fine. Talk to Nick and see about getting it checked out again. You think you’re still good to play tonight?”

Simon nodded, then admitted, “Maybe not my usual minutes.”

“All right.” Coach sighed. “We’ll see how it goes. But I want confirmation from Nick that you’re good to go for tonight, or else I’m scratching you. You understand me?”

“Yeah, Coach.”

Coach gave another sharp nod. “Keep me posted. And both of you—I want your heads in the game tonight, or we’re going to have another conversation.”

Again, we both replied, “Yeah, Coach.”

Then he stomped back into the locker room.

I turned a cautious look on Simon. “I didn’t know your knee was acting up again.”

“It’s always acting up,” he gritted out, not meeting my gaze.

“But is it—”

“You know it’s not,” he hissed, and finally looked at me. “Don’t act like you’re not distracted, too.”

“I know I am,” I whispered. “Which is why we need to fix it before—”

“We’re not doing this now,” he snapped. “We’ve got warmups in twenty minutes, and I still need to talk to Nick.” He started to clomp away.

“Simon.”

He turned around, head tilted and expression full of impatience.

I swallowed. “Thanks for not saying anything.”

“I’m not going to.” He didn’t sound thrilled about it. “If we fuck this up, then we’re going to fuck it up for any couples who come after us.”

Without waiting for a response, he stomped back into the locker room, leaving me alone in the hallway. He was right, wasn’t he? Like it or not, we had to make this work, because we were the ones paving the way for anyone else. The first openly gay player had been under a ton of pressure to be a superstar on the ice and morally pristine off it in order to set the precedent that people like us had a place in this League. Now Simon and I were in the same position, potentially either opening the door for other teammates to be together, or being the reason every team in the League forbade their players to get involved with each other.

No pressure or anything.

Simonand I stepped off the elevator along with a half dozen of our teammates, all of us pulling suitcases behind us and carrying garment bags over our shoulders. It was late—almost three in the morning—so there wasn’t a whole lot of conversation. We just shuffled down the hall, peeling off one or two at a time to go into our respective rooms. D’Angelo and Taylor were longtime veterans, so they didn’t have to have roommates anymore. Strictly speaking, Simon probably didn’t need a roommate anymore either, but our situation was… unique.

At our door, Simon rested a hand on the small of my back as I fished my keycard out of my jacket pocket. D’Angelo was in the next room. Beaus and Young were across the hall.

I kept a tired smile in place as we exchanged goodnights with our teammates, and then Simon and I stepped into our room.

As soon as the door was closed, we both dropped the pleasant fa?ade. Neither of us said anything, but Simon’s hand vanished from my back and I almost breathed a sigh of relief that I didn’t have to smile anymore. In absolute silence, we started our usual routines of settling into our room. It was as automatic as our pregame rituals—something we could do in our sleep, which we were very nearly doing right now, given how wiped out we were. I had a feeling that even if we’d still been in a good place, we wouldn’t have been chatty or pleasant right now.

We weren’t in a good place. We were in a fucking miserable one, and now, on top of that, we were stuck in the same room and exhausted.

We’d been rooming together ever since we’d come out as a couple, and there’d been no way to ask for some space without letting on that something was wrong. A few times, I’d wondered if maybe that was what we needed to get back on the rails—a few nights apart while we were on the road. A little bit of breathing room.

But living apart wasn’t helping, so why would separate rooms? And anyway, we couldn’t let the cracks show. We couldn’t let anyone on the team catch on that we weren’t blissfully happy together, which meant we couldn’t ask for separate rooms even if that would help.

That was hard as hell on a good night lately, and tonight was not a good night. We’d played in Seattle a few hours ago. The game had been a tough one, the 5-3 loss a kick in the balls, and the flight had been a long one. I was tired, I was sore, and the last thing in the world I needed was to share a room—and a bed—with Simon.

That hurt, too. The first season we’d been out as a couple, rooming together had been bliss. Even the nights we didn’t have sex were amazing because it was just the two of us, taking our domestic life on the road, cuddling together, waking up together…

Why did all that feel like a fever dream now? Like something I’d conjured up during those hazy few seconds after a concussion?

I watched Simon hanging up his suit. Just gazing at his back made my chest tighten with frustration. I wanted nothing more than to be as far away as possible from this man who, at one time, I was pretty sure I couldn’t get enough of. I’d wondered a lot if he still loved me. These days, I asked myself often if he even still liked me.

When did we stop being friends?

God, that was the core of it, wasn’t it? I could cope with a relationship hitting a rough patch or needing work. Everyone had their ups and downs. No problem.

But Simon and me—every interaction was abrasive and adversarial. We couldn’t talk to each other or even look at each other without this unbearable tension. It was like we were so exhausted from the charade around our friends, teammates, and cameras, that when we were alone and didn’t have to pretend anymore, there was nothing left but resentment.

I didn’t want to dwell on it right now. We were stuck together tonight, and there was nothing I could do about it. Might as well settle in, get my ass into bed, and get some sleep before tomorrow morning’s practice.

At least this was a short road trip. We’d be here tonight and tomorrow night, then we’d play a game, and we’d fly home right after.

Two nights with Simon. I could do this.

It would be good practice for January when we headed east for a five-game road trip.

Ugh. Fuck my life.

I got up and went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. I brushed my teeth, then paused to inspect a fading bruise. That one was from blocking a shot the other night. My entire forearm and hand had been numb for a few minutes after that. Fucking sucked, but it kept the puck out of our net, so I couldn’t complain too much. A few more days and the bruise would be gone. Not a moment too soon, either, since the edge of my chest protector rubbed against it and—

“Are you going to preen all night?” Simon demanded from the doorway. “Or can I get ready for bed?”

I met his gaze in the mirror, and then stepped out of the way with nothing more than a murmured apology. Without meeting his eyes for real, I squeezed past him and slipped out of the bathroom.

Alone in the bedroom, I stripped down to a pair of gym shorts, plugged in my phone, and climbed into bed. At least this was a king-sized bed. Most of the high-end hotels the League put us up in had huge beds, and I was grateful for that. Early on, I’d joked with Simon that they could probably stick us in a room with a queen bed or smaller and we’d be fine. These days, I wished someone would make a mistake and give us two beds. Or better yet, put us in one of those suites with separate bedrooms. God, that would be nice.

Simon emerged from the bathroom and also changed into a pair of shorts. As he got into the bed, I couldn’t help but notice he hugged the edge, same as I did. We’d sometimes fantasized together about having a threesome, though neither of us had ever seriously tried to initiate it. Tonight, a third person could’ve fit comfortably between us. Hell, a third person dressed in goalie gear could’ve fit.

I must’ve been wearing my melancholy thoughts on my face, because Simon looked at me and sharply asked, “What?”

I shook myself. “Hmm?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’ve got that look like you want to talk.” He threw up his hands, then let them fall into his lap. “What do you want to talk about, Anthony?”

“I…” The truth was that I didn’t want to talk about anything. We were both way too exhausted, and hotel walls could be surprisingly thin. The last thing we needed was our captain, assuming he was still awake, overhearing us having a fight. Because judging by the angry glint in Simon’s eyes, this would turn into a fight. I shook my head. “I just want to go to sleep.”

Simon huffed. “Uh-huh. So do I, but you’ve clearly got something on your mind, so just spit it out now instead of waiting until you’re sleep-deprived in the morning.”

I blinked. Did he want to fight? Because for all we’d fought over the last year or so he wasn’t usually one to just pick a fight for no reason. He usually came to me with something—or a laundry list of somethings—that had pissed him off, or he’d fly off the handle after I’d said or done something wrong. And yes, I’d started some of those fights, too. I was no angel in this. But neither of us had ever been just raring to go over nothing.

“I don’t want to fight,” I whispered. “I’m just tired, and I’m—”

“You’re obviously unhappy,” he said through his teeth.

“Of course I’m unhappy!” Even as I said it, I was furious with myself for taking his bait. “Look at us! We can’t even fix us because we’re too busy convincing everyone else we’re happily—”

“Do you think this is fun for me?” Simon glared at me. “Do you think I enjoy having my balls in a vise over us?”

“It isn’t fun for me either!” I snapped. “I don’t like the pressure from the team, but the alternative was staying in the closet.” I threw up my hands. “What choice did we have?”

“I don’t fucking know,” he fired back. “But what’s going on now—it’s fucking bullshit, and I hate it.”

“So do I,” I admitted more softly. I was acutely aware of the wall behind us and the man who was hopefully sound asleep on the other side. I did not need our captain confronting me or us in the morning. Carefully keeping my voice down and hoping Simon followed suit, I said, “I don’t know what to do, okay? Nothing we’ve done so far has worked. The only thing I can think of is—”

“We’re not getting a fucking shrink,” he growled, but at least he wasn’t too loud.

I sighed. “Simon. There’s nothing wrong with a counselor. There’s—”

“No. We’re not hiring someone who sees the League insurance as their own personal jackpot and will just drag this out forever, probably blaming me for every damned—”

“Then what else can we do?” I hissed.

“You could stop moving strange men into our bedroom.”

I groaned. “For fuck’s sake. He’s not in our bedroom.”

“No, but he’s in our house,” Simon growled. “And you insist you’re not screwing him, but—”

“Because I’m not.” I put up my hands. “I’m not going to argue about this. Okay? Wyatt is staying in a guest room. I haven’t touched him.”

“Do you want to?”

“No! I’m with you!” I let my shoulders sag. “I want to be with you, Simon. Not him. Not anyone else. But everything I do to fix us—” I exhaled. “Look, I’m out of ideas, and the team needs both of us. Whatever we do, we owe it to our fucking team not to let them down because we can’t get our shit together.”

“Oh, really? My God, I had no idea.” He rolled his eyes. “Here I thought we were just doing this for fun until—”

“Jesus Christ, Simon. Stop. I’m pointing it out because we need to come to a solution that lets us coexist on the team and lets us stay on the team. Because if anyone catches wind we’re on the rocks, one of us is gone, and I’m not doing that to the team.”

“Neither am I,” he growled. “But we’re getting nowhere fixing this, so whatever suggestion you have”—he spread his arms and raised his eyebrows—“I’m all ears.”

My throat tightened. I didn’t want to accept it, but I could feel the direction we were going. It was like losing control on the ice, knowing damn well I was about to slam into the boards and there was fuck all I could do about it except hope I didn’t break anything. There was also that instinctive impulse to try to stop or at least course correct even though I knew I couldn’t. The nearly irresistible urge to fight against physics and maybe prevent the inevitable.

It was the same feeling I had every time Simon and I fought. And so far, every time, I’d managed to keep us from hitting the metaphorical wall. I’d somehow stopped anything from snapping apart.

Tonight…

Tonight, I was tired, and it had nothing to do with the game or the flight. I was just fucking done. For the first time, ramming into the boards sounded more appealing than the gymnastics I’d have to do to avoid it.

So I let the momentum carry me, and I let the crash happen.

I met my boyfriend’s eyes, and resignation filled my voice as I asked the question I already knew the answer to: “What do you think we should do?”

He blinked as if he hadn’t expected it. “I…” After a couple of seconds, he recovered, and he pushed his shoulders back. “I think we should keep the united front around the team and in front of cameras. But behind closed doors…” He shook his head.

Even though I’d known it was coming, it still hurt.

I swallowed hard. “So you want to split up.”

“Yeah. I do.” He shrugged as if we were just discussing on-ice strategy and not the end of the life we’d been building together. “We’re miserable. Why keep trying to force something that’s obviously dead?”

Ouch. Jesus.

“So. That’s it? We’re just done?”

“I think we’ll both be a lot happier.”

Speak for yourself, buddy.

I cleared my throat. “We won’t be able to hide it forever.”

“No. We just have to be amicable for the rest of the season.” He picked at the covers over his legs. “When we tell the powers that be that we’ve been broken up for months, they’ll know we can coexist as exes, and we’ll be fine.”

I nodded numbly. “So we just have to make it through the season.”

“Yeah. I think we can do that. Don’t you?” He sounded almost… excited at the idea? Not like he was relieved that we were no longer beating this dead horse, but that we were done. That it was over.

That he was a newly single man.

My heart sank. He’d been waiting to pull this trigger, hadn’t he? Did he already have someone else? Was that why he kept accusing me of sleeping with Wyatt? Or was he just itching to get out there and screw someone who wasn’t me?

He nudged me. “We can do it, can’t we?” His tone wasn’t that of a man genuinely concerned with whether we could pull this off. It was a push toward agreeing to what he’d already decided.

And what could I do? I wasn’t going to try to hold on to someone who didn’t want me. If he’d checked out of the relationship, then there was nothing I could do except let him go, move on with my life, and keep our breakup on the downlow until the season was over.

“Yeah,” I said. “We can do that.”

He actually smiled at me. Smiled. For the first time in months. “Great.” He gestured at the light. “Guess we should call it a night before our alarms go off.”

“Yeah. G’night, Simon.”

“Night.”

And… that was that. The lights were off. We both rolled in opposite directions. In no time at all, Simon was out.

I fully expected to toss and turn all night while I tried to make sense of everything.

But exhaustion—along with some relief I didn’t have time to pick apart—carried me off to sleep in minutes.