22. Wes

Wes

Jamie isn’t doing well.

It’s been three days since he was released from the hospital. Physically, I can see him getting stronger. He’s not sleeping as much during the day. He cooked breakfast this morning without keeling over in exhaustion. He’s left the condo to go for short walks. But when I dragged him out to our favorite diner—the one we found the first morning after Jamie moved in with me—it was a total disaster. Right after we placed our order, some college kids hustled over for our autographs—plural. Then a couple of other people took photos. Jamie got all pissed off and started coughing.

We left without eating. And when I suggested a trip to this Chinese place we like, he said, “Let’s just order in.”

His body is healing, that I know for sure. But I have no clue where his head is at or what he’s feeling. He’s shut down on me. He alternates between snapping at me and apologizing to me for snapping at me.

I can’t remember the last time we kissed. Really kissed, and not just the quick pecks we’ve been giving each other this week. I think it might have been during his first hospital stay. Yes…in the shower. That had been a damn good shower.

The one I’m in right now? Not as good. I’m in a stall with saloon-style walls, which means that I’ve got two teammates on either side of me. Staring at me. Not in a pornographic, check-out-his-dick way, though honestly, I’d prefer leering to their looks of deep concern.

“You don’t talk to us anymore.” The rushing water all around us doesn’t muffle the note of accusation in Eriksson’s tone.

“Sure I do,” I answer as I soap up my chest.

On the other side of me, Hewitt is quick to contradict my statement. “Naah, you’re being antisocial.”

They want me to be social? When my boyfriend is at home moping and snapping at me every chance he gets? They’re lucky I’m even showing up to our games. My mind has been so focused on Jamie it’s a miracle I still remember how to play hockey.

“Blake says your man’s doing better,” Eriksson prompts.

I wash the soap off my body and reach for some shampoo. “Yeah. He is.”

“So then what’s with the glum face?”

My reluctance to confide in them has me taking an extra-long time lathering up my hair and rinsing it out. I hope it’s long enough for them to forget the question Eriksson had tossed out, but they’re still watching me when my eyes finally snap open.

“Come on, Wesley, spill. What’s going on at home?” Eriksson gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Can’t be any worse than what I’m dealing with right now.”

The reminder of his marital problems chips away at my hesitation. Fuck it. My teammates have gone out of their way to support me since the “news” of my sexual orientation broke out. They’ve constantly asked me how Jamie is doing. They’ve had to deal with my sour face at every away game. They’ve been nothing but kind, and I feel like an ass for continuing to keep my distance from them.

“Jamie’s depressed,” I confess.

Those two words seem to suspend in the steamy air. I haven’t said it out loud. Hell, I haven’t even thought too hard about it, but now I realize how true it is. Jamie isn’t just moping. He isn’t just bummed out. He’s depressed.

More words stream out of my mouth before I can stop them. “He still can’t go back to work, and last night his team won another game without him. He doesn’t have his full strength back. He can’t work out—it’s against the doctor’s orders. He can’t leave the building without getting harassed by a reporter or two.” My throat closes up. “I think he blames me for everything.”

Fuck, that’s the first time I’ve said that out loud, too. It makes me sick that it might be true, that Jamie might blame me for the media storm that refuses to die off.

Frank still calls me several times a day. The franchise has released numerous statements to make up for my refusal to talk to the press. My face and Jamie’s are on every sports blog. During our last home game, there were protesters outside the arena, wielding signs with Bible passages and nasty slogans.

Life…sucks. It really fucking sucks right now.

“I don’t know how to make it better,” I mutter. I shut off the water and grab a towel, wrapping it around my waist. “And it’s not like I have any reinforcements to call who can cheer him up. We don’t know anyone in the city—other than you guys,” I hastily add when I see their hurt faces. “But most of Jamie’s friends are on the West Coast, where he went to college. His family’s in Cali, too, and they can’t exactly drop everything and fly to Canada to be with him. His mom and sister already did that when he was in the hospital.”

Eriksson and Hewitt follow me into the locker room. Their faces are sympathetic. “That’s rough, man,” Hewitt says.

“Yup.” I turn toward my locker so they can’t see my desperation. Rough is an understatement. Rough, I can handle. But this? Seeing Jamie upset and being unable to help him?

It’s not rough.

It’s torture.

When I gethome from practice, Jamie is in our bedroom, his nose buried in a book. A science book about endangered species, if I’m reading the title correctly.

I find myself tensing instinctively, because these days I don’t know what I’m going to see on Jamie’s face. That shuttered expression? The don’t-talk-to-me scowl? The guilty cloud? The sad frown?

Today I get none of the above. I greet him with a strained smile before pulling off my hoodie. And I’m startled to see a flash of desire in his brown eyes.

My dick instantly thickens behind my zipper. It—and I—can’t remember the last time we had sex. Not since the first hospital stint, at least.

“How was practice?” he asks, setting the hardcover on the night table.

“Good. How’s the book?”

“Interesting. Did you know that some captive male pandas can’t figure out what to do when the female is in heat?” He grins, and damned if my heart doesn’t soar to my throat. It’s so rare to see him smile lately.

“Bummer.”

“It is, though. Because they need to breed them in captivity. So there’s this zoologist who made a panda sex tape and played the video for the males who couldn’t get it done. Who knew that panda porn was a thing?”

Laughing, I undo my jeans and toss them on the nearby armchair. Jamie stares at my black boxer-briefs, then my bare chest, then says, “Come to think of it, you look especially fuckable today.”

I’m so happy I almost cry. I’m not stupid—I know that sex isn’t an easy fix. I know it won’t miraculously cheer him up and erase the awfulness of these past few weeks. But it’s a start.

I lunge toward the bed, and he laughs at my eagerness. The husky sound goes right to my dick. I miss his laughter. I miss my easygoing, always-ready-with-a-smile Jamie, and his familiar smile has me mauling his mouth with mine.

My kiss is desperate with excitement and longing and oh God I missed you all rolled into one hot, breathless package. His tongue enters my mouth and steals my sanity. His hands caress my chest, thumbs sweeping over my pecs, my nipples, before sliding down my abs toward my waistband.

“Off,” he mutters, tugging on my boxers.

I release his mouth long enough to wiggle out of the underwear and throw them across the room. Jamie’s flannel pants and T-shirt follow suit. I’m a tad worried that he might get cold, might get sick again, but he presses his warm, naked body to mine before I can cover us with the blanket.

His lips find my neck, kissing and sucking on my skin like it’s covered in sugar. The deep, growled noises he makes tickle my ear, tingle in my balls.

“Missed this,” he whispers.

“Me too.” The words come out choked, thick with emotion. Christ, he doesn’t even know how much I’ve missed it.

He pushes me onto my back, and I’m a hot, shivering mess as he kisses his way down south. When his mouth engulfs the tip of my cock, my hips buck, seeking more. Seeking him.

Jamie slowly takes me in deeper and deeper and deeper until he swallows up my entire length. The only sensations I can register are wet and warm and fucking awesome. But then I remember the way he’d coughed so violently last week, and I touch his soft hair, stilling him.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?”

His strong jaw tightens.

Crap, wrong thing to say.

For some reason, Jamie’s become sensitive about looking “weak.” I don’t think he’s weak, though. I never have. He was just sick, end of story. But no matter how many times I’ve told him that, it’s still a sore issue for him.

“The cough,” I clarify hastily. “’Cause if your throat’s still sore, there’re other ways you can make me come…”

He relaxes, his tongue coming out to circle my cockhead.

My lips curve wickedly. “Actually, the more I think about it, the more I like the alternative.” I allow him one more lick before tugging him up by the shoulders and pushing him onto his back.

“What’s the alternative?” he says thickly.

I’m already reaching for the nightstand drawer for some lube. “Having that big cock pounding my ass until I shoot.”

A lust-filled groan escapes his throat. “Mmmm. Yeah. That sounds really hot.”

I probably don’t take as much time as necessary to prepare myself, but I’m too damn impatient. It’s been so long. Too long. I want him so much my mouth is dry and my palms are damp. My fingers shake as I slip two of them inside me, rubbing and twisting while I hurriedly climb onto Jamie’s lap.

His chest is flushed red with arousal, his eyes burning as he focuses on the movement of my arm, then on the erection jutting from my groin. His dick is just as hard, and I moan when he wraps his hand around it and gives it a slow stroke. The engorged head peeks out from his fist, leaking pre-come. My mouth goes even drier. So I moisten it by bending over to suck the pearly liquid from his tip. Then I lift my head and lick my lips.

Jamie jerks. “Damn it, Wes, I need you.”

My heart does a funny little flip. He needs me. I know he’s talking about sex right now, but a part of me hopes he means something else, too. He’s refused to accept my help this week. Anyone’s help, really. He’s refused to admit he needed help. Maybe this is his way of admitting it now.

Either way, I give him what he wants. I give him me, raising myself up and then lowering my ass onto his hard cock. The sting of pain confirms that I wasn’t entirely ready for this, but I don’t care. I welcome the burn. I welcome every inch of the man I love, leaning forward to kiss him as he gives an upward thrust that steals my breath.

“Ride me,” he orders. “Ride me hard.”

This time I don’t obey. I go slow instead. Painfully, deliciously slow, dragging out each rise and fall of my hips until his features are creased with impatience and need, until he’s moaning and squirming and begging for more.

Jamie clutches my hips with damn near desperation. He tries lifting his own hips, but I continue to tease him, planting kisses along his neck and collarbone, sucking on his earlobe, nibbling on his lip. I want to savor every second of this. I want to lose myself in the feeling of being stretched by him, filled by him.

But then he touches my cock.

The evil gleam in his eyes makes me curse. The moment he starts jacking me off, my body takes on a life of its own. Suddenly I’m riding him with fervor, unable to maintain the lazy tempo.

“Want you to come all over me,” he mumbles. His hand speeds up, thumb pressing against the underside of my cockhead with each hurried stroke.

Jesus Christ. He’s trying to make me explode. He does make me explode. With his hand on me and his dick in me, it’s impossible to stop the release that barrels toward me like a jet on the runway. I come with a harsh cry, and he jacks his hips up while his strong fist milks me dry.

He squeezes his eyes shut and shudders from his own release, letting go of my dick and wrapping both arms around me. My chest is glued to his thanks to our sweat and my come. His heartbeat hammers wildly against my pecs. It feels...too fast. Should his heart be beating that fast?

I quickly sit up, worried that he might have overexerted himself, that my selfish need to be with him might cause him to relapse.

Jamie must read my mind, because the pleasure in his expression fades and a slight frown touches his lips. “Don’t say it,” he warns.

I swallow. “Say what?”

“Whatever you were going to say.” He yanks me down on him again, wrapping one arm around my shoulders. “I’m so sick of that look.”

“What look?” Do I even want to know?

“The worried look. It replaced your sex look less than a minute after you blew your load.”

It’s not like I can deny it, because that would be a lie. “I have a sex look?” I ask instead.

“Yeah. Your eyes go a little out of focus, and your tongue hangs out a little.”

I snort into his armpit. “Sounds sexy.”

“It is when I’m the object of it. But I wouldn’t make that face for Sports Illustrated when you do your big interview.”

When he talks about the press, Jamie sounds...bitter, I think. I’ve never used that word to describe him before. Ever. Now my spine prickles with unease, because I don’t know what to do about it. And yesterday I’d told him that the reporter wants to do it as a broadcast now—not just a print interview. “Baby, do you want me to cancel on them?”

He shrugs. “You can’t.”

“Uh…” Can’t I? This is all uncharted territory. Dennis Haymaker is going to ask about my relationship with Jamie. And it’s just occurred to me that whatever I say, I need to clear with Jamie first. “I have to talk to him about hockey, ’cause it’s in my contract. But I’d like your thoughts on what else I should say, or not.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re partners.” I lift my head. “Right? We’re together. And it’s our relationship. You should have a say in what we tell everyone about it.”

He turns his head away, toward the windows. “Say whatever you want.”

My gut tightens. I’ve just been “whatevered” by the love of my life. “Jamie,” I whisper.

He doesn’t look at me.

“I think the pneumonia isn’t the only thing that’s wrong. And I want you to talk to me about it.”

“I’m fine.”

You’re not. You’re depressed. The words are on the tip of my tongue. But I have him in my arms for the first time in weeks. And I can’t bring myself to mess it up with a Big Serious Talk.

I clear my throat and try another tactic. “What would be fun for you right now?”

“Right now?” he asks.

“No, um…” I choose my words carefully. “Just generally. What are you looking forward to?”

He stares at the ceiling. “Sunshine would be nice. I want to go to California.”

My heart shimmies. Jamie wants to leave. I heard him say “sunshine,” but I can’t help but hear it a different way. I take a half second to think through my travel schedule. We’re headed to Minnesota and Dallas. Nowhere near a beach. “Okay, uh, there’s eight weeks left in the season. Why don’t you look at some tickets for the summer? We could take a nice long trip out there to see your folks? You could teach me to surf.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’ll do that.”

I bury my face in his neck. Maybe planning a vacation will perk Jamie up. Maybe the sex will help get his endorphins going again. Maybe the fact that he wanted me today means he’ll start feeling better. I hope it will.

Hope is all I’ve got.