15. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

Brody felt different.

This whole time he’d expected that one day, he’d wake up, tie up his skates, and take his first smooth slide onto the ice or he’d even look over at Ramsey and know .

But there hadn’t been one moment when he’d known more than any other. It had been a slow, gradual slide into acceptance.

A hundred tiny things had decided him.

How much he loved bending over the microscope in labs with Gina.

Writing lab reports, which everyone else hated, and he found he actually kind of enjoyed.

His parents’ acceptance. His dad sending him a list of good medical schools he might want to apply to.

Watching Dean on his field of play, the relish and joy he took in tackling every single down as a new challenge.

Brody wanting his own new challenge.

The funny thing was with his decision solidifying in his mind, slowly taking shape and form with each game of his own, he actually found himself getting his groove back.

The ice felt cleaner, his blades sharper, his senses more attuned to the action on the ice.

Ever since he’d taken that penalty and he and Ramsey had argued about it, Brody had realized that his attitude was morphing, shifting.

And today, during this game? Brody realized midway through the third period that it had never felt better to play hockey.

He’d never enjoyed each and every second more.

The love he had for it had never been an issue—but now, it was sharper and deeper, more well defined, and it didn’t make him want to keep playing hockey. He just wanted to play it now, to enjoy every moment.

Ramsey looked his way and then tilted his head in the direction of the ice. Zach barked at them from behind, and Brody vaulted over the boards, joining Ramsey as they skated where the Napa Buccaneers’ center was heading—Finn and the goal he protected.

The Evergreens were up two goals to nothing, and there wasn’t much they needed to do except to remain vigilant, of which Coach B and Zach had both reminded them during the last TV timeout.

With that lead, Coach B had also been letting some of the younger, less experienced defensive pairs take the bulk of the second and third period ice time.

But they’d all seen the Bucs pushing to score, notching a number of shots on goal during the third period, and Coach B had obviously decided that it was time for their defense to stiffen up again for the final five minutes of the game.

“Come on, come on,” Ramsey crowed as they circled around the back of the net. He went on the attack, shoving the center against the boards, and they nearly went down with the force of it as they battled for the puck, sticks clashing.

Brody took advantage of the slowing of the action, skating into a slightly better angle in front of the right winger, who’d been a fucking pest the whole game. On the off chance that Ramsey lost this, he wasn’t going to let the guy grab the puck.

Ivan joined in, apparently deciding he’d had enough of this bullshit, and of course it was his interference that made the center go down.

Brody was already moving fast towards the knot of players when the ref blew the whistle, calling roughing on Ivan, who made a face.

“Wrong-ass call,” Ramsey called out, popping up with an assist from Brody as the ref led Ivan to the penalty box.

“You good for penalty kill?” Brody asked.

Ramsey shot him a dirty look. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t ask me that.”

Brody rolled his eyes. “I’m allowed .”

“You’re skating really fucking well,” Ramsey said, as they circled up for the faceoff. “By the way.” Like it was nothing. Like this was something they should be discussing right now, down a player for the next two minutes.

“Thanks,” Brody said dryly. He could feel it though. Not just a little, but literally surging through him. His growing certainty allowing him to finally enjoy playing in a way he hadn’t all season long.

He wasn’t going to stupidly make this decision quickly, but the more he leaned into the shining kernel of truth inside him, the better he felt.

The more like Brody he felt.

Mal took the faceoff, but he lost the puck and that smug fucking center from Napa took it, circling around the back of the goal before passing the puck to one of his wingers, Ramsey skating in front of him to try to take it away.

This year Ramsey had become easily the best defensive man on the team, and so he usually let him take the lead on penalty kill. It had been working for them. They had one of the best penalty kill rates in the conference. But today, Brody met Ramsey’s eyes across the ice, and when the winger passed to the one by Brody, he went after it. Nicked the puck right out from underneath him, and he realized out of the corner of his eye that there was a big, wide-open sheet behind him.

It was risky, but they were up two goals, and another quick glance told him they had only four minutes left in the game.

Maybe in an earlier game, he’d have let the opportunity go, his confidence and his joy diminished. But today, he took it and grabbed it and made a quick cut, gaining the speed that was why he’d been drafted in the third round, crossing across the midpoint, Ramsey shouting his encouragement.

Brody could feel the rest of the players breathing down his neck as he sized up the goalie and the shot he wanted to make.

He’d only get one chance, but he was gonna make it a good one.

The Bucs’ goalie had not been prepared for an aggressive push like this, and Brody made another split-second decision and went low instead of high, slipping to the right suddenly and sliding the puck in between the goalie’s lower pad and the goal post.

He watched it go in, no disbelief because he’d taken his shot and he’d known it was going to go in.

The horn sounded and he was overtaken by Ramsey and the rest of the team, shouting in his ear and smacking him on the back.

“Shit,” Ramsey said when they collapsed back on the bench a few moments later. “You fucking lunatic.”

“Hey, can’t let you have all the fun,” Brody said lightly, but he already knew this wouldn’t just be probably the best game of his career, but the game he remembered. The one where he gotten his groove back.

“Didn’t know you were worried about that.” Ramsey grinned, fully aware because he’d only mentioned it offhandedly a million times that he was the leading defensive scorer in the conference this season.

“I’m not.” I’m not now.

“Great play, Faulkner,” Coach B said, leaning down by his helmet. “Fucking great vision.”

Brody already knew Ramsey was gonna ask after the game.

And inevitably, after he’d showered and was sitting on the bench in front of his locker, Ramsey dropped down next to him, wearing only a towel around his waist.

“You wanna tell me what that was about?” he asked.

Brody raised an eyebrow. “I took a reasoned chance and scored. Don’t you do it all the time?”

“No, you’re playing like . . .like you used to. No.” Ramsey stood and began to pace. Clearly he wasn’t worried about giving the whole locker room an eyeful because his towel was flapping, barely hanging on for dear life. Brody rolled his eyes. “ No , you’re not playing like the old Brody, you’re playing like a new Brody. You weren’t this good even last year, before you got hurt.”

“From the way you’re looking at me, I’d think you were pissed about it.”

“I’m not pissed. I’m fucking confused.” Ramsey stopped in front of him, a frown creasing his face. “What the hell is going on, Bro? You decide to stick with it?”

Brody knew what he was asking. He hesitated. He should tell Ramsey the truth, but Ramsey was weird about this, weirder than he’d ever expected he’d be, and he suddenly didn’t know how to say it.

“Not sure yet,” Brody said, even though he was pretty fucking sure, at this point.

But the right time to tell Ramsey wasn’t now, when they were flush with the win and Brody hadn’t ever been prouder of how he’d played.

He was on top of the world right now. And telling everyone—telling Ramsey— was going to be understandably really fucking hard.

He decided he was allowed to want to wait so he could savor this moment just a little longer.

“Alright, well, just know . . .that was a fucking sick move out there. You keep skating that well, you’re gonna give Elliott a run for his money.”

“No, I’m not,” Brody said, laughing. “But I appreciate the thought, anyway.”

Ramsey smacked him on the shoulder. “Proud of you, Bro.”

For a split second, Brody wondered if his reaction would’ve been the same if he’d told Ramsey the whole truth, but he shoved that thought away before he could consider it.

It wasn’t fair to Ramsey. And it definitely wasn’t fair to Brody, who was on top of the world right now.

“Thanks,” Brody said.

“Let’s go grab a celebratory drink at Darcelle’s,” Ramsey said, and Brody shrugged in agreement.

Then he grabbed his phone from his locker, scrolling through the messages he’d gotten. His parents had both sent congrats, a bunch of friends had, too—even Gina had.

But the text that stopped Brody, fingers frozen over his screen, was Dean’s.

What a fucking goal , Dean had written. We need to celebrate it.

Brody’s heart beat a little faster.

He wouldn’t say that either of them had gotten better about being honest and laying out when they wanted each other—though that was beginning to seem like all the fucking time, anyway—but Brody knew this was an invitation because he’d been learning Dean.

“Hey, I’m gonna take a rain check on that drink,” Brody said.

Ramsey shot him a knowing look. “Dean booty call you? Oh wait .” Ramsey slapped himself on the thigh. “It can’t be a booty call cause you two are head over heels crazy about each other. It’s never just a booty call.”

“Ramsey,” Brody chided.

“I mean it. You two are nuts about each other and just won’t talk about it. I don’t know what makes me more insane, that you fell for a football player, that you fell in love at all, or that you won’t actually do anything about it.”

“Trust me, I’m doing something about it.” He was gonna fucking pin Dean to the bed and demand he fuck him, finally. That was what he was gonna do about it.

“Not sex.” This time Ramsey smacked him .

Unfair.

“What’s wrong with sex?”

“Absolutely fucking nothing, I’m so glad you’re finally doing it, but Jesus , read that boy’s mind. It’s not very hard. He went to dinner with your parents .”

“Because I asked,” Brody objected.

“Exactly. You asked. ” Ramsey paused. “Maybe you can deny he’s caught feelings, but you can’t deny you’re there. I saw your face when I said the big L word. You’re super there and loving every moment of it.”

“I don’t know about that,” Brody said. But he was loving every moment of it, wasn’t he? And if he couldn’t get enough just of Dean’s body and his touch, but his very presence , wasn’t that . . .

Well.

“You think about it,” Ramsey said, patting him on the back with a sly smile blooming across his handsome face. “Maybe after you get him into bed.”

Brody didn’t want to think about it, but he was, inevitably, as he walked home to the apartment he and Dean shared.

“Ramsey’s wrong,” he said out loud.

But he didn’t feel very wrong.

“It’s just sex . . .it’s just . . .” But it wasn’t. It hadn’t been for awhile. Brody was beginning to wonder if it had ever been “just sex.”

Maybe for Dean.

But not for Brody.

He paused in front of the door, keys in hand.

Damn Ramsey. He’d just wanted to take Dean up on his thinly veiled offer, enjoy this night, without worrying about anything for once.

Without wondering for five fucking seconds if he knew his own goddamned mind.

But it’s not your mind in question now. It’s your heart.

Brody swallowed hard, keys still in his hand as he couldn’t make himself move.

Then his phone dinged again.

He pulled it out of his pocket, and this time Dean hadn’t just sent a message. There was a picture, too. A selfie, of him, shirtless, abs rippling, the trail of dark hair Brody was becoming so intimately familiar with exposed. Brody recognized his blue comforter underneath him, but he wasn’t looking at that. He was looking at the hard ridge of his cock, trapped in the dark fabric of Dean’s boxer briefs.

Brody’s mouth watered.

Okay, I was probably too subtle before. Come home. I’ve got all the celebration you need, right here.

Brody’s uncertainty and all those fucking questions washed away with the wave of heat that crashed over him.

Shoving his phone back into his pocket, he nearly fumbled and dropped the keys in his eagerness to get the door unlocked.

He found Dean in exactly the same position as the picture he’d sent. Lying on his bed, cock hard, dark hair spread across the pillow.

“You weren’t subtle, not even close,” Brody said, shoving his shoes off and pulling his sweatshirt and then his T-shirt off.

Dean smiled. “No?”

“No, I knew exactly what you wanted. And what I wanted.”

“Yeah?” Dean was so hot like this, everything Brody craved, it was hard to keep his hands to himself as he shoved his sweatpants down his legs. Socks last, and finally, he was naked enough to approach the gorgeous fucking man in his bed.

Our bed . The thought wove its way through Brody’s mind before he could chase it away.

Before Dean reached for him, hand cupping his hip, and the electricity of his touch chased it away for good.

“I know exactly what I want.” Brody licked his lips and then bent down, giving Dean’s mouth a brief kiss. His fingers dug into his hip. “You gonna give it to me?”

“I want what you want,” Dean murmured.

“What about you?”

Dean shot him a look full of disbelief. “You think I’m not getting what I want? You’re here, in my bed. That’s everything—”

Brody didn’t let him finish. His heart was swelling too much, the words Ramsey had said earlier echoing through him with every breath he took. But he wasn’t ready to even think the words, nevermind say them, so instead he took Dean’s mouth with his own, kissing him fiercely.

Dean tugged him over onto his body and Brody came easily, stretching out on top of him. It was amazing; he wasn’t exactly small, but Dean made him feel small.

Not vulnerable. Not helpless or weak.

But treasured.

They’d done their share of making out, but they’d never kissed like this before, over and over again, like they couldn’t get enough of just their lips colliding together, hot and wet, tongues slipping into each other’s mouths.

Dean’s hands were rough and sweet along his back, stroking and touching him everywhere. Then he dug his fingertips into the meat of Brody’s ass, and Brody groaned.

But it was loud enough—Brody’s mind stuttered over the realization that actually , that wasn’t just him groaning. It was Dean, too.

He pulled back, panting, barely resisting the urge to thrust his hard cock against Dean’s big meaty thigh.

It would feel so good and he’d lose himself in it.

But he stopped himself, with the last remnants of his self-control.

“God, you ,” Dean murmured roughly.

Brody curled his fingers into Dean’s biceps. Loving the way they flexed and tightened. Dean liked to call him pretty boy, but Dean was a hot as fuck man, with a body that just didn’t quit. It was a weapon and a tool. Maybe he normally used it for sheer destruction on the football field, but it was just as effective here, in bed.

“You want me?” Brody teased, fluttering his eyelashes.

Dean thrust up, and yeah, he was just as hard as Brody was. “Yeah, I sure do, pretty boy,” he said, voice gravelly.

Brody pinned him with the most earnest, bossiest look in his arsenal. “Then fuck me, okay? I want it. I know you’ll take good care of me—”

But he didn’t get the rest out. Because Dean was covering his mouth with his own again, kissing him hard and relentless, but sweet, too.

He was such a bundle of those contradictions. Intense and determined, maybe the most stubborn man Brody had ever met, with the hardest will, entirely unrelenting. But he was sweet and soft, too, thoughtful in ways Brody never would’ve imagined could be possible if he hadn’t witnessed them for himself over and over again.

Dean flipped them, in a move so effortless Brody’s cock grew impossibly harder. His hand was still cupping his ass and he squeezed. “God.” Dean’s voice had gone from gruff to guttural.

Reaching up, Brody dug his fingers into Dean’s hair, tugging him down. “Yeah, you gonna get on with it? I’m dying here.”

“Like I’m not? You ask me for that, and I’m weak.”

His confession wasn’t wrenched out of him, like he’d never wanted to admit it. It was confided, instead, soft and so intimate, like Dean believed that weakness made him strong.

Stronger than he’d ever been before.

Is it any wonder you’re in love with him?

Brody pushed that thought away, the voice that sounded just like Ramsey’s.

“I want you,” Brody repeated, pleaded . If he said it enough times like that, maybe he’d stop mentally substituting another word for want .

“I’ve got you,” Dean said, and then he was rising to his knees, rummaging in the drawer, pulling out the lube bottle that now seemingly shifted from bedroom to bedroom to living room once they’d figured out how much Brody enjoyed being fingered.

Then he was kneeling between Brody’s knees, and Brody cried out as Dean leaned down, mouth burning hot as it brushed across his aching cock. His fingertips, wet with lube, slid lower.

It wasn’t the first time Dean had sucked his cock, but it didn’t matter how many times it had happened, Brody didn’t think he’d ever get used to it. This big strong man, brought to his knees, more powerful on them than he was standing up.

He definitely hadn’t expected the hot suction of his mouth along with the inevitable push of his fingers. Brody clenched around the first one and moaned when the second joined the first.

He shouldn’t have been surprised at how slow Dean was, how sweet him dragging it out was.

Pleasure kept cresting through him in one hypnotizing wave after another. Just when he thought he’d taken as much as he could, Dean would pull back and then he’d lean in and give him a little more.

More than Brody thought he could take and then more still.

“Come on,” Brody groaned.

“You can take it, pretty boy. You’re so fucking tight,” Dean said, his voice equally tight. Was he nervous? Wasn’t Brody the one who should be? But he wasn’t at all. Instead, he was a bundle of exposed nerves, desperate and panting.

“You gotta,” Brody slurred, trying to fuck himself back on Dean’s tongue, on his fingers, on anything that would send him over the edge.

But Dean wouldn’t give him enough, even as he gave him everything.

He could tell though, when a third finger joined his other two, carefully stretching him, Dean’s movements slowing to practically a crawl.

“Gah,” he groaned. “I need you.”

“Just a little more.” Dean was panting now, too, and Brody knew if he looked down—well, he’d probably come, just from the sight of his man like this—he’d see just how hard Dean was.

But before he could argue more, Dean pulled his fingers free and scrambled for the condom packet, lost in the covers that Brody had mussed with his clenching hands.

Brody squeezed his eyes shut, sure that Dean rolling the condom on would be enough to make him lose it entirely.

“Brody, baby, you gotta turn over,” Dean murmured, leaning down, kissing him between each word. “It’ll be easier.”

Brody choked out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You an expert now?”

“Did my research,” Dean insisted. “Wanted this to be good for you.”

“It’s so good already,” Brody argued, but he was weak enough that he didn’t fight Dean as he moved him. Turning him over, pulling him up, and oh God , there was his cock, hot and heavy, pushing right up to his hole, and he thought he was going to die if Dean put it in him and he was going to die if Dean didn’t.

Maybe Dean felt the same, because his hands were shaking, digging into his hips, and Brody could hear, loud and clear, every single one of his huffed breaths.

“You gotta be still, just let me,” Dean begged.

It was funny, because Brody had always imagined being in this position would feel powerless, but he’d never felt more the opposite, like he was bringing Dean to his knees, instead of the other way around.

“Then do it,” Brody insisted.

The first slide hurt, burned a little, but Brody forced himself to relax into it. To embrace it.

“Tell me you’re okay,” Dean demanded. He must’ve felt him tense.

“I’m . . .okay.” Brody realized he was. And then he realized there was more, still. “More, just give me more.” Reaching down, he stroked his cock, flagging now, surprisingly, but it didn’t take much for him to be hard again. Especially when Dean’s hips hit his own.

They both exhaled at the same time.

“Fuck,” Dean groaned. “That’s so fucking good.”

Brody tested out squeezing around his cock. But before he’d entirely finished, Dean was pulling out and sliding in again, thrusting gently this time.

And shit , yes it was. So good, so much better than just Dean’s fingers—as insanely fucking good as those were.

Brody’s hand dropped from his cock, because if he touched himself, he’d come. Especially now, especially now that Dean was thrusting over and over, angling his hips so he was sliding over that spot inside him each time.

Giving Brody so much pleasure he didn’t think he could take it.

He must’ve been mumbling or groaning or begging, because Dean laughed, a deep guttural sound, wrenched from inside him, and then he thrust harder.

Brody dug into the mattress and wailed. “More,” he cried, and he couldn’t just take any longer, he had to move too, and he gingerly thrust backward.

Muttering under his breath, Dean’s fingers were leaving bruises on his hips, and Brody didn’t even give a fuck anymore. He wanted more. Needed more.

And then they were suddenly moving hard and fierce, chasing after the feeling with every bit of their strength.

Brody’s cock bobbed in front him, and every few thrusts it brushed against the mattress, and he knew that was all it was going to take. He was going to come, inevitably, and he wanted nothing more than to drag Dean over the edge with him.

Brand him with this moment, until he couldn’t even look at Brody without remembering how good it had been.

Dean muttered, and Brody heard something crack, and he shifted downward, suddenly. That was all it took, because his face and his cock pushed firmly against the comforter that smelled just like Dean and he shuddered his orgasm, wailing with every additional thrust Dean gave, and then Dean’s hips were stuttering too, and it was over.

It was over, Brody realized blurrily as he collapsed onto the bed, but nothing would ever be the same again.

Dean’s hand was reverent on his back as he stroked him.

After finding this, how was he supposed to live without it now?

“I think we might’ve broken the bed,” Dean said, carefully sliding out of him. He settled next to Brody, neither of them apparently giving a shit about the wet spot this time.

“Oh?” Brody chuckled, gasping as the last little bit of pleasure escaped him. He realized then that they were lying together, but tilted.

“It was worth it,” Dean said. He was touching Brody everywhere, again, hands coasting across his skin like he needed to know for sure that he was okay. That he was still in one piece.

Well, Brody had to tell him his head had just blown clean off, and that was entirely his fault.

Maybe both of their faults, if Brody was being generous.

“Yeah,” Brody said, and then he started to laugh and couldn’t stop.

Dean joined him. “We definitely did that.”

“Next year, we’re gonna have to get a metal bed frame,” Brody said. “Especially if I ride you the way I want to.”

Dean’s hand froze on his back. Didn’t move. Brody steeled himself and rolled over so he could see his face.

He hadn’t really meant to say it, hadn’t meant to assume that they’d be doing this next year, that they’d be sharing both an apartment and a bed next year.

But he knew he’d want to.

Emotion flickered in Dean’s eyes. “You want that?”

“The riding? Hell yes. Have you seen that porn where—”

Dean chuckled again and shook his head, kissing Brody to shut him up. Then he pulled back. “You’d want to be with me next year?”

“I don’t know about the year after that”—though he was beginning to have an idea—“but yeah, I do.” As much time as you’ll give me. Might not be enough, but it would be better than nothing.

Dean smiled. “Guess we’re pretty shitty at friends with benefits.”

Something tangled unwound in Brody’s chest, but before he could say anything, Dean kept going. “Not sure how this looks. Or works. Or anything. But I don’t want to give it up, either.”

It wasn’t a confession of eternal love— and, that voice added in Brody’s mind , you’re not ready to make those either , by the way— but it was enough, for now.

It meant that Brody could stop worrying that the next time this happened would be the last time.

That they meant something to each other, whatever that something was.

It’s love , you two fucking morons , that Ramsey voice added.

But Brody shook his head to clear it. “I’m not giving it up. Giving you up,” he said.

A long moment of quiet silence later, Dean said, “I gotta get up. Clean up. Figure out how fucked the bed is.”

“Does it matter?” Brody paused. “We can just share mine.”

Dean gazed at him. “You’d want that?”

“I want you,” Brody said, and that had to be enough, for now.

Even if the alternate version was echoing through his head, unspoken.