50. Hunter

Iwanted to call Tyler out on his shit, I really did. But between the picking and nail-biting, my man was a nervous wreck. He hated letting anyone down, and on top of being removed from the starting line for the first round, he was punishing himself by chewing out his own ass.

We went straight to the rink from the airport for our allotted practice time. I could tell that Tyler was still in his head, but how he gritted his teeth proved his determination. Stone-faced, he called those plays like a pro. But I was worried he was pushing himself too hard. I stayed behind him as we walked to our hotel room after practice but kept enough distance. None of the team heckled him or bothered him about partying—they knew he meant business.

I followed him into our room, where I watched him hang his suit in the bathroom to steam with his shower. I knew his routine better than anything now; being each other's roommates, I had learned the exact order of what he would do during his unpacking. His pajamas and toiletries would come next. Then, he'd have a steaming hot shower where he would scrub every inch of his body before simply soaking up the heat.

If he had any sore muscles, he'd ice them after his shower while watching game tapes—the same ones he watched every night. Tyler studied each player, memorizing their every move. Then, if he had any energy to spare, we'd fall into bed together—but not before he checked his alarm multiple times.

Tyler was methodically undressing and folding his clothes neatly on the bathroom counter while he waited for the shower to heat. He no longer closed the door; a small, intimate thing that made my stupid little heart flutter. Even now with his underlying anger, he let me see glances of his bare ass in the mirror. Our eyes met, and where I expected to see that cute little frown line, I loved to tease him about—I only saw sadness. It only hung around for a moment before he looked away and stepped into the shower. Tyler's usual confident shoulders slumped, the fight seeming to have left him.

We couldn't have that.

I stripped, dumping my clothes on the floor and knowing I'd pay for it later. I got in the shower with him, moving in close and resting my chin on his shoulder as my hands found his waist. He relaxed into my touch, seeming to hold the weight of the world on his shoulders. I held him tighter when his breathing picked up and his hands began to shake.

"Baby, talk to me," I whispered in his ear. He shook his head against my collarbone, his longer hair moving with him. It fell in waves past his ears now; not long enough to tie back yet, but just enough to wrap around my fingers. I picked my hand up to tap at his temple. "What's going through here?"

I felt as he held his breath before he spoke.

"If we lose tomorrow, that is our last game together."

I flinched as if I'd been physically hit. I was certain we'd nail it, so the thought hadn't even crossed my mind. I was confident we'd at least make it to the final. After only three months on the ice together, we were killing it. All of the articles painted the two of us as some kind of dream team. Tyler might not buy into it, but I'd stashed away every one of those articles like secret entries in a diary, evidence of what we represent together in the game we both adore.

"We won't lose," I said, certain of the fact. He let out a choked sound, a half-sob half-laugh. But I didn't turn him to face me—not yet.

"Ever the optimist."

"I've got a good feeling, Aussie. We've had a killer season and we've taken out Minnesota every time."

"Yeah, I know." He resigned, but there was still no lightness in his tone. I held him tighter, hoping he would offload his thoughts.

"Boston, even if we snag this win, it's just another game, you know? I mean, I've been counting down the days, but I don't like the thought of not playing on a team with you."

For some reason, I felt like the last bit meant something more. As if the game were a metaphor for his life. Because after The Frozen Four, I was off to Vancouver. My bags were packed and sitting in his room. An annoying little reminder that we'd been trying our best to ignore.

"I know," was all I could say. I'd had four perfect months of knowing what it felt like to be this man's partner. We were a team, damn it. I wasn't ready to say goodbye.

I wasn't ready to give up these stolen moments.

My life once was a mixture of flinching to avoid the brutality of my father's hits and using sex and booze as some sad version of therapy. Then the man in my arms made it all go away. He showed me love and affection I didn't know I deserved; he showed me the true meaning of family. That man was my hero.

I finally turned him to face me, kissing away the wet paths down his cheeks; kissing away his sadness. Those three little words sat on the tip of my tongue, and I bit back the urge to set them free. We hadn't said them yet, and it was sort of an unspoken understanding that we hadn't. The closer I got to leaving, the more painful it became to admit it.

At least, that's what I was banking on. The way he reacted at that moment suggested he felt the same. Tyler's lips met mine, hot and heavy as our wet bodies writhed against each other. I wanted nothing more than to be fucked by my man tonight—even if it was just one more time.

We stumbled out of the shower, hardly any cleaner than we were before. I dragged him by the hand I had in his hair, the wet strands dripping over his body. He followed as I crashed onto the bed, mumbling the word "lube" against his lips. Tyler smiled against my mouth, leaping off the bed. He was only gone for a second, but my wet body felt cold without him. With the bottle in hand, he blanketed himself over me once more, attacking my mouth like he owned me. And in truth, he did.

"I need you this time, baby," I said, not missing the way those gorgeous eyes flared with heat. He needed the control, and I just needed him.

The room got hot; the air got heavy. Before we knew it, I cried out his name as we hurtled over the edge together. Quick and dirty—just how we needed it. We collapsed together, lips grazing over well-earned scars from prior games. Once we got cold and sticky, I brushed his hair away from his face, suggesting we hit the shower again.

We did things properly this time—only together. I washed his hair, then gave those tense shoulders a much-needed massage. Tyler, being the sweetheart he was, returned the favor.

After folding our laundry and setting multiple alarms to ensure no chance of being late, we snuggled up in the same double bed by the window—like always. That's where my man put on his tapes and curled up next to me. We watched, and I listened to his breakdown of plays. I always thought if playing hockey didn't work out for him, he'd make a great coach. He had a natural talent for reading the players, picking up on things that most couldn't without years of training.

Eventually, my baby fell asleep in my arms; lips slightly parted as always and those long, dark lashes fluttering against his freckled cheekbones. I fell asleep later than I should have, my mind wanting to savor every part of Tyler Riley.

I wasn't surprised when Tyler wiggled out of bed before either of our alarms. He was engrossed in studying plays, simultaneously maneuvering his hockey stick over the bathroom tiles. As I lay there, I observed the effortless dance of tendons and ligaments beneath his skin, akin to a seasoned pianist effortlessly playing Beethoven on a quiet Sunday morning. His gaze met mine, and an embarrassed smile played on his lips, yet it didn't quite reach those sad eyes.

To break the subtle tension, I got out of bed and noticed Tyler mimic me as I got dressed. We left the room together, heading for the ice in a routine that spoke more than words could ever convey.

I never imagined I'd feel more like a spectator than I did as we made our way to the hotel's foyer. Tyler's infectious smiles were directed at teammates, accompanied by heartfelt bro hugs for Jarman, Mouse, Amon, and Preston—those closest to him. The camaraderie extended to the entire team, but I found myself lingering at the periphery—and the others noticed. It was my final year at BU and in the past, it would have marked the end of my hockey career. I never thought things would turn out the way they had.

I was genuinely thrilled for the opportunity to join a pro team. Though my last altercation with my father and subsequent recovery worried me, Connor assured me that the Vancouver team was still more than satisfied with my performance. As I absorbed the atmosphere of my last year, I realized it wasn't just my farewell. Jarman and Mouse were also bidding adieu to their collegiate hockey careers. Mouse chattered away, detailing the arrival of his girlfriend to the competition. Jarman stood quietly to his side, and I found myself drawn to the friend I'd overlooked for far too long.

I stepped closer, placing a comforting hand on Jarman's shoulder. We watched together as Tyler gave Mouse every ounce of his focus—an unexpected moment where even the guy known for his witty banter received genuine attention.

"To think your guy is only going to have Amon next year," Jarman muttered. A wave of sadness washed over me at the realization. Cal was graduating as well, and my chest ached at the realization: that his dorm would be void of our presence. No me, no Cal—and no Jamie.

Jarman placed his hand over mine and squeezed, seeming to read my mind. "Have you told him yet?" I'd always wonder how Jarman got to be so perceptive.

I sighed and shook my head, just enough so Tyler didn't notice the movement. "Why not?"

Jarman kept his voice low as Tyler made his rounds through the team. For Mr. Serious, he had a way of connecting with each player, putting them at ease before every game. The curse of an empath, I suppose- feeding everyone from an empty plate.

"Because I leave after this, and who knows what we will be after…"

When I was met with silence, I pulled my gaze from Tyler to meet Jarman's sad eyes. "Sometimes, we just can't have what we love," he said matter-of-factly. I followed his attention to Mouse.

I returned the squeeze of a shoulder. "What are you going to do about that?"

Jarman didn't even flinch, not needing me to indicate what I meant by "that." He simply stared at his best friend with a sense of longing that made my heart ache even more. "He's going to work for his father, and his girlfriend is moving in with him. I don't know what I'll do yet—either a farm team or coaching. Either way, I'll be saying goodbye to Mouse. If I'm on a farm team, I'll keep my sexuality on the down low. If I wind up coaching, maybe I'll try to see if I can meet someone."

Sadness filled me on behalf of my friend, "Regardless, I hope that you get to experience being with someone you're attracted to, Jarman."

"Who said I haven't?" he snorted. "I just don't parade it around like you do."

I huffed a laugh, "And does Mouse know?"

Jarman didn't even look at me. "No, there's no point."

I nodded, a twinge of regret settling in that my friend had weathered this storm alone. "I've got your back, Jar. Wherever life takes you, just a call away, man."

Jarman responded with a playful pat on my ass, saying, "Same here. Glad we're wrapping it up this way."

Yet again, I found myself merely observing. My feet mechanically carried me towards the rink, but my mind seemed to linger behind, watching the scene unfold. It played out like a film—the love of my life caught up in conversation with Amon, my team hitting the ice together. The mental reel continued to capture those moments as we geared up, preparing for what could very well be the last game we'd ever play together.

That wasn't our last game.

It was evident from the first period. Every damn player had a surge of energy, making us quicker and sharper on the ice. An invisible thread seemed to connect us, flawlessly guiding us through our plays. Backward passes clicked and sliced through Minnesota's traffic. Minnesota was playing a hard game. Tyler was their primary target—but he was unfazed. He dodged their attempts, hitting back with hard hits—regulated, of course. If you didn't know any better, you'd think our Aussie hotshot had practiced as a lineman with the way he took down opponents.

Sure, we had our faults. I took a penalty for high sticking—a total accident I might add… he ran into the stick. Tyler got a penalty for tripping when a defenseman's legs got caught up in his stick. I watched as Tyler, true to form, unleashed a torrent of curses during his two minutes in the penalty box.

In those moments when we were off the ice, their star forward managed to score and put them on the board with a two-to-one lead. But they didn't know what they'd asked for by putting Tyler Riley in the penalty box—he emerged with a vengeance. His determination for perfection led him to seize a breakaway opportunity, showcasing his speed. He shot the puck right past the goalie, securing a two-goal lead before the buzzer sounded. Things looked good, but in hockey time, minutes felt like hours.

I was on Tyler's right-wing, observing as he charged toward the net with a Minnesota defenseman hot on his heels. I checked him, letting Tyler slide the puck to Colton. Cheers erupted as Colton scored, but no one got a chance to celebrate before a defenseman pinned Tyler against the boards. He barely flinched as his head hit the plexiglass. Instead, he spun and threw a punch.

Tyler was swearing bloody murder as I came in behind and cross-checked the defenseman's back. Like any hockey game, the sound of the final buzzer sent both teams erupting into a brawl. Hands grabbed at my shirt, bodies collided against my helmet, but my focus remained on Tyler, who was still stuck against the glass. That oversized defenseman rained down punches on him until his helmet flew off. Eventually, the refs intervened, and I reached Tyler, his eyes ablaze with fury, pointing towards number 25. The only injury to be seen was a small cut just above his eyebrow—that matched my own scar.

The feeling of my glove-free hand against his cheek brought him back down to earth.

"Let's get you cleaned up, Aus. We did it!" Unlike the exuberant celebration around us, Tyler's face remained emotionless as he let the team revel in victory.