5. Rayne

Rayne

The next fewdays at the fire training center, Lieutenant Seavers was, Rayne felt, making a point of not looking at him. Rayne's mood sank. He'd enjoyed hanging out with Nick at the festival, and every second he'd spent with him he'd liked him that much more. And a handsome man with a sweet dog . . . How could he resist? But it was more than that. There was a vulnerability to Nick that Rayne had an overwhelming urge to protect, and the way the man blushed . . . It was quickly becoming one of Rayne's favorite things about Nick.

He'd only intended on dropping by to say hi and chat for a few minutes, but time had flown comfortably by, and he'd ended up spending the rest of the afternoon with Nick. He hadn't wanted the day to end. Just being close to Nick had eased something inside of him, a restless part of himself that he'd carried for as long as he could remember but could never fully settle. Only hockey had come close.

He'd been looking forward to getting back to class, or more accurately, seeing Nick, since the moment they'd parted ways.

Later in the week, Captain Poverly told them they'd done a great job with the basics and were moving to open house style training—the walk phase of training—which meant they could move around to all the drill stations on their own, while added distractions would be thrown at them.

"Fire training officers will be around and available for questions or any help you need, but it's up to you to run the drills," Captain Poverly said. His gaze sharpened as he scanned the crowd of trainees—already short a few. "I don't want to see anyone milling around waiting for a station. If one is busy, move to another. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Rayne and his fellow trainees said at the same time.

"Good." Captain Poverly nodded. "Fall out."

Everyone scattered into pairs or small groups, a few others—like Brownlow and his winning personality—were on their own.

"Where do you want to start?" Kelly asked as she adjusted her helmet.

Rayne shot a glance at Nick, who had already turned away and was walking toward the stations with Lieutenant Verlice. They stopped at the fire hydrants and Rayne pointed in their direction.

"Let's start pulling hose," he said.

He ignored Kelly's grin as they made their way over, thankful she didn't say anything.

"Good morning, Lieutenant Verlice," Rayne said as they approached, and to the man who was becoming a regular visitor in his dreams, his voice lower than intended, he said, "Lieutenant Seavers."

Nick looked at him then, his lips quirked, as if he might smile. His gaze heated, holding for a moment before he cleared his throat and the faintest of blushes dusted his cheeks.

"Hamilton." He nodded and turned to Kelly. "Wash."

Rayne grinned. He'd been worried at the start of the week that he'd somehow come on too strong at the festival and had blown it with Nick, but going by the look he'd just received he knew Nick wasn't as unaffected as he was making out to be—there was hunger in those hazel eyes. Hunger for him.

Buoyed by the knowledge that Nick was feeling the same things he was, the rest of the morning had flown by as they moved through the drill stations. Rayne lingered at the hose station longer than needed, asking Nick as many questions as he could think of, before being told he had it down and to move on—said with a hint of a smile from Nick that had lessened the seventy-plus-pound turnout gear Rayne was wearing.

When Captain Poverly blew his whistle to announce lunch break, Rayne was still riding his happy, gotta-a-new-crush-and-he-likes-me-too waves.

After removing his gloves, helmet, air tank, and bunker jacket, Rayne headed for the food truck with Kelly, Thatcher, and Garcia.

"We'll grab a table," Thatcher said, thumbing at Garcia. "Grab the usual for us, yeah?"

"You got it." Kelly saluted as the two walked away, and she and Rayne joined the line to order. The four of them had started taking turns buying lunch for each other ever since Thatcher showed up without his wallet the first week of training.

"Don't look now," Kelly whispered with a playful note in her voice, so of course, Rayne scanned up the line.

His stomach swooped, and his pulse quickened. Nick was at the truck, handing cash up to the window attendant before stepping aside to wait for his meal. Rayne knew Nick ordered lunch from the truck often, but he'd always been walking away with his order, to eat in the command center, as Rayne arrived.

Rayne leaned closer to Kelly. "Be right back."

He ignored her low chuckle as he walked over to Nick, who was now looking at his cell phone.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said in his best flirty but conspiratorial tone.

Nick startled. A beautiful blush colored his cheeks before he looked away and pocketed his phone.

"Strange, that," Nick replied with a hint of humor in his voice, but sadly, the pink in his cheeks faded.

Rayne took a deep breath and said, "Would you like to join me for lunch?"

Nick's eyes widened, the gold of his irises brighter than the green.

"With us I mean," Rayne amended quickly, and waved toward the picnic table where his regular lunch crew was sitting.

The number of trainees had thinned out, with a couple more dropping this week. No surprise that the big guy Morin had dropped out last week. Even Rayne could tell he hadn't been cut out for the job.

"Thank you, but no." Nick shook his head, but was that a note of regret in his voice? "That would be inappropriate. Us being instructor and trainee."

"Oh. Okay." Disappointment lanced through Rayne even as he understood. He could see how people like Brownlow would think he was being played the favorite if an instructor spent off-time with him. He fought to keep his voice upbeat. "Maybe we could get together after class sometime?"

Nick glanced around, pursing his lips before he tipped his head indicating Rayne follow him. A giggle of joy burbled in Rayne's stomach.

"You and I aren't a good idea," Nick said in a hushed voice when he stopped beside a tree a few feet away from the food truck, where they were blocked from view of the tables. "For one, I'm your instructor, making any fraternization highly inappropriate. I won't jeopardize either of our careers that way."

Right. Rayne got that. It would be the same for his coach on the Blitz and a teammate having a relationship. If not completely against policy, then for sure frowned upon. But their instructor/trainee dynamic was temporary and wouldn't be an obstacle in a couple of weeks, after he graduated. He could wait.

"And two?" Rayne prompted when it seemed Nick was done.

Nick's dark brows furrowed for a second before he said, "I don't date."

"You don't date?" Rayne repeated. Confused how that could be. That Nick was even single at all was a surprise to Rayne. "Like, ever?"

"I'm not—I just . . ." Nick snapped his mouth shut and looked away.

"Would it help if I said I don't date either?" Rayne waggled his eyebrows.

Nick shook his head. The edges of his mouth threatened to lift into a smile, but Rayne still heard it in his voice. "I definitely don't do that either."

Rayne leaned closer, smiling at himself when Nick's Adam's apple bobbed, and heat flashed in his eyes. "What do you do then?"

"Nothing with a trainee," Nick breathed.

"Good thing I won' be a trainee much longer," Rayne said, his voice intentionally low, before straightening up. Nick was right. He could behave until training was over. "But I had fun hanging out with you at the festival, so what would be wrong with two friends hanging out?"

Nick studied him for a second and looked like he was about to say something when the food truck attendant called his name. A mix of emotions played over Nick's face and that hint of sadness in his eyes returned.

Rayne had a sudden urge to pull him close and just hold him in his arms, as though he could chase away whatever was holding Nick back. A soft sigh escaped Nick's mouth as he headed for the truck, his shoulder brushing Rayne's as he passed, leaving a tingling sensation on Rayne's skin from that brief contact.

Rayne stood there and watched as Nick walked away, grabbed his lunch order, and headed toward the command center. He didn't look back even once.

Disappointment was only tempered by the knowledge that he knew Nick was attracted to him too—he saw it in his eyes and the not-so-covert glances and heard it in the tone of his voice—and if he was holding back because of their current situation, then Rayne could wait until said situation was behind them.

"So?" Kelly asked when he returned to the line. "What happened?"

He shrugged. "Nothing. Just asking about when we get to go into the burn box."

"Pfft. You're not as smart as I thought you were, if you think I'm going to buy that." Kelly stared at him expectantly.

He wasn't going to tell her that he basically got shot down. For now, anyway, so long as he was a trainee and Lieutenant Nick Seavers was his instructor.

He liked the lieutenant. He wanted to spend more time with him, get to know him better, learn what turned him on and how he tasted and which side of the bed he preferred. But Rayne wouldn't jeopardize their positions either. So, he'd bide his time until that barrier was gone.

Even though Nick had said anything between them would be inappropriate while at the training center, Rayne still caught him glancing his way the rest of the week. Each time Nick would look away quickly, and each time Rayne fought to not smile at him for it.

When Rayne had questions about the drills, or needed checks on how he was doing, or a refresh on what do to, he sought Nick out. Even when there was another instructor closer. And every time Nick's cheeks pinked, Rayne went out of his way to find reasons to make him blush again and again.

Friday afternoon, when classes wrapped up, Rayne walked over to where Nick was locking up the apparatus truck.

"Thank you for everything this week, Lieutenant," he said.

"Sure, of course." Nick replied with a flash of a smile.

Rayne stepped closer and lowered his voice. "See you next week."

Rayne winked at him, taking the image of those blushing cheeks home with him to replay over and over all weekend long.

Rayne wasup before dawn Saturday morning and headed over to the rink at the UC-Boulder campus to practice drills. It had only been two weeks since he'd been on his blades, but he'd been missing that free feeling of flying across fresh ice.

The rink didn't officially open until 8:30am, but a guy who worked there used to play for the Blitz and would let Rayne come in early, so he had the whole arena to himself for an hour.

He stepped out onto pristine ice and warmed up with some stick handling drills up and down the rink, kicking the puck off his skate and chipping it against the wall. Then he did some end-to-end sprints before resting his legs as he set up a pile of pucks to practice shooting from the faceoff circles, the slot, and the blue line—aiming for all four corners of the net. After a quick break to chug some water, he did edge drills, quick crossovers and cross behinds, power turns, and quick starts. The ripping sound of his sharp blades cutting grooves into the smooth surface echoed throughout the empty building. He loved that sound almost more than he loved the sound of the horn going off when his team scored a goal.

He was doing speed drills when movement caught his attention. Two men wearing matching jackets stopped on the other side of the dasher boards, and one of them waved at him.

He skated over, digging his edges in and shaving surface ice off in a fan as he came to a stop.

"I'm just finishing up," he said by way of greeting, puffing from exertion.

"Don't rush," the older of the two men said. "We're early. The kids won't be here for another half hour."

"Okay, good." Rayne nodded as he pulled off a glove and wiped sweat from his forehead. "Sorry I cut up the ice already. I don't know the Zamboni schedule here."

The guy Rayne guessed was the head coach since he was doing all the talking and had that "boss" air about him, glanced at his watch.

"Not until after we're done, but it'll be fine," he said with a smile.

"Hey," said the younger man, who'd been quietly watching Rayne. "You're Rayne Hamilton, from the Bolder Blitz."

"In the flesh," Rayne grinned, leaning on his stick.

"I'm Mark." The guy held his hand out for Rayne to shake. "Assistant coach with the Flatirons Youth Hockey Club."

"And I'm Brock Silcox." The other man stretched over the boards to shake hands. "Head coach."

"Nice to meet you both." Rayne put his glove back on. "I'll just gather up my pucks and the ice is all yours."

"Actually." Brock glanced at Mark, who was grinning at him with an expectant look on his face. He turned back to Rayne. "Would you be interested in sticking around? I'm sure the kids would have a blast with a pro hockey player to practice with them."

"I would love to." A thrill of excitement zinged through Rayne. He'd already been practicing for an hour, but time dragged doing drills alone. Since the off season started and his teammates all left town, Rayne's life had been sadly hockey-free—even though his new crush had been filling most of his thoughts. Hanging out with the hockey club could be fun. "But you know I'm only a minor league player, right?"

"You're still a pro." Brock's smile widened. "And any day now you'll get called up to the Denver Mustangs."

"Sure," Rayne said, forcing more confidence into his voice than he felt.

After eight years in the minors, and a veteran now, he'd never once had the call up. Not even for dress practice on game day. His chances were getting slimmer by the day, and not only that, but he was a free agent currently without a contract, he could get an offer anywhere—and there were rumblings that the Blitz might not sign him again come next season. For the first time since he turned pro, he hoped those rumors didn't amount to anything. He was beginning to dread not knowing where he'd be in a few months.

Rayne shoved thoughts of his hockey career aside and skated around the rink to gather up his pucks. Once he'd put those away, he helped Brock and Mark set up for the kids' practice.

Commotion echoed down the hall and into the small arena—high-pitched laughter, the slam of locker doors, and the unmistakable thud of skates on rubber flooring. The young hockey players filed into the rink one by one, the soft ripping sound of blade edges on ice soothing to Rayne's ears, as they started warming up. They were younger than Rayne had been when he'd started playing hockey, maybe eight or nine years old, and their infectious exuberance had Rayne forgetting all about the state of his career and the sexy firefighter he pined for.

The kids skated around in wide circles on awkward legs before coming to a stop in front of the coaches. Rayne stood off to the side as they welcomed the boys and a couple of girls, who kept throwing covert glances at Rayne. One of the boys gasped.

"No way!" He pointed at Rayne.

Both coaches chuckled, and Brock tipped his head toward Rayne.

"Do you know who that is, Brian?"

"Yeah," Brian replied, his brown eyes wide and awe in his voice. "That's Rayne ‘the pain' Hamilton from the Blitz."

A murmur of excitement rippled through the kids.

"Can I get your autograph?" another boy asked, and a collection of "me too" followed.

Coach Brock held up a hand, and when that didn't work, he blew his whistle, drawing instant silence.

"Let's save the autographs and selfies for after practice, okay?" he said when he had their full attention. "Rayne is going to skate with us today, and if we're lucky, he might show us a few tricks."

The kids shouted out hoots and hollers of joy that Rayne felt right down to his toes.

He spent the next hour and a half skating with a bunch of enthusiastic baby players who barely reached his waist, and he had the most fun on the ice that he could remember in a long time. He loved hockey, but here with these youngsters, there was no pressure to be the best twenty-four-seven. No anxiety about trades or contracts. No second-guessing, wondering if he had done enough to be noticed. No disappointment at not getting called up. This was hockey for the sheer joy of the sport. A sport he loved, he realized, whether it was for the big leagues or just knocking pucks around a frozen pond. But more than that, he'd had a surprisingly good time sharing a little of his knowledge with the next generation of players. Who knew, one of those kids could be the next Wayne Gretzky.

When practice was over, Rayne spent another half hour autographing helmets and sticks and pucks and taking selfies as the kids made their way back to the locker room one by one.

Mark followed the last youngster out, but Brock held back, smiling when it was just the two of them.

"Tell me how much fun you just had?"

"So much." Rayne laughed as he gathered the gear he'd taken off after practice. "I loved every second of it."

"Thank you for sticking around. You were good out there with those kids," Brock said. He tilted his head in thought. "Actually. Have you ever thought about coaching after pro hockey?"

"Not even once," Rayne replied honestly. He didn't see himself in that role. Too much responsibility on the coach's shoulders when teams weren't performing to potential.

"Think about it," Brock said. "There's not a lot of money in it. Most of us do it for a case of beer and love of the game, but it's a great way to give back and still enjoy the sport."

"I'll give it some thought," Rayne said. Way down the road.

"Good enough." Brock clapped him on the shoulder and added, "And you're always welcome to join our practices."

Rayne nodded, hanging back as Brock stepped off the ice and headed for the locker rooms. There were more possibilities for life after hockey, and the first person he wanted to call and hash them out with was Lieutenant Nick Seavers.

Except he didn't have his phone number . . .