by Eden Finley
“This conversation’s not over.” Harley finally stalks away to let me get back to the job, when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Finally, Soren’s replied, but his words don’t bring me any comfort:
Do you want me to?
Wait, I ask him if he’s fucking anyone else, and he asks if I want him to? Why in the hell would I want him to be with someone else? Unless he wants to be with someone else.
Do you want me to want you to? I reply.
“Jay,” Luce says. “Phone away.”
I do as I’m told. “Fifteen more minutes, and then I’m gone.”
I knew staying away from these things was a good idea.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Soren
I read over Jet’s text for about the billionth time, while I ice my knee and my side.
First preseason game? A fucking bloodbath. If I wasn’t killing myself trying to keep up with the new kid, I was trying to keep Tommy Novak—still a legend in the league and pushing thirty-seven—and his impressive line from scoring.
News flash: it didn’t go well.
We lost, and even though preseason doesn’t count for standings, superstition and the fact we got our asses kicked 4–0 doesn’t bode well for what’s to come.
I’m achy and exhausted, feeling old as I stare at my phone again.
Do you want me to want you to?
What does that even mean?
Is he seriously asking if I’m fucking anyone, or is this some roundabout way to ask if he can fuck someone?
The first text was confusing enough. Now I have no idea what’s going on.
I had a feeling when I was leaving that we should’ve talked about rules and stuff—that maybe it’s unfair of me to demand exclusivity when we’re going to be apart for long stretches—but I figured it’s only three and a half weeks this time, and the thought of letting Jet be with someone else makes me want to both vomit and hurl things across the room. Maybe beat the shit out of my pillow with a hockey stick.
Not being a caveman or anything.
I don’t understand where this is coming from, and the last two weeks have been grueling and hard without seeing him, but we’ve been texting daily when we can, sending pics … Well, he’s been sending photos of each city he’s in. I’ve replied with photos of the gross food our coaches have us eating as our preseason diet. But we’ve been cool.
At least, I think we have.
I’m kicking myself for not forcing a conversation face to face, but I also thought we didn’t need it.
We were both on the same page—he didn’t want me to go, and I didn’t want to leave.
Sitting here right now in pain, I’m wishing I hadn’t left.
What I don’t know is why he’s suddenly asking a random question about having sex with other people.
Cautiously, I ask: Do you want to fuck someone else?
I have to switch ice packs, so I get up and amble toward the freezer. It’s times like these I’m glad none of the gay brigade are here to see this.
I’m sure if they could, my joints would creak like an unoiled door. I’m the tinman from The Wizard of Oz right now.
Jet hasn’t replied by the time I hobble my way back to the couch, but he should be at his hotel by now.
My phone pings, but it’s not a message from Jet. It’s a daily Google alert email I set up about Radioactive and their lead singer.
Bryce said it was obsessive, but I’ve loved watching Jet evolve over the last three years. From his early performances and interviews where he’d say the wrong thing to the rock god he is now where he still says the wrong things in interviews.
The Google alert is for numerous news articles and social media posts from tonight’s concert. And right on the first page of Google images is a fan photo of Jet posing next to Harley with their arms around each other.
What the fuck?
They’ve got a backdrop behind them and the room is busy with people, so I assume they’re at the after-party, but he told me he was still avoiding the VIP meet and greets.
So, why tonight? Why, after sending me that text, did he go out instead of going back to his hotel?
It’s not that he can’t go out—I’m not trying to dictate his life—but ever since I read that text this afternoon, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that something’s off.
He still hasn’t answered my question, so I’d like to blame my next move on impatience and the pain I’m in from being back on the ice.
I forward the photo of him and Harley and say: Do what you want.
A groan falls from my mouth as I drop my phone on the couch and lie back with the new ice packs in place.
I love my job, but this is the downside.
I close my eyes and imagine myself not in pain. I think of being back on tour with Jet, watching him from the side of the stage and just admiring the fuck out of him.
I must fall asleep, because, even though it only feels like a few minutes, I wake up wet from the melted ice packs and cold. But that’s not what startles me to consciousness.
It’s the banging on my front door that rouses me.
My achy body stumbles toward the door.
I have no idea what time it is or who it could be. The entire gay brigade is on the list with my concierge at the front desk, along with a few of my teammates, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’ll be Ollie to rub it in that his bestie, Tommy, kicked my ass tonight.
Only, when I open the door, I’m proved wrong.
So fucking wrong.
“Baby?”
Jet stands there, his hair loose and curly, his cheeks flushed, and a look of pure anger on his face. He’s wearing a leather jacket that makes my sweet man look like the rock star he is to everyone else. “What the fuck, Caleb?”
Caleb. Ooh, yeah. He’s mad.
I’m still trying to get my bearings and make sure I’m not actually still asleep on the couch and dreaming this.
I blink.
Jet’s still there. He thrusts his phone at me, hitting me in the chest. “What. The. Fuck?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in DC? Wait …” I look around my apartment. “How long was I asleep? How did you get into the building?”
“The dude at the front desk recognized me, but that’s not the point. The text is why I’m here. Really? Do what you want? What the hell is up with that?”
I squint and rub my eyes. “You might need to bitch slap me awake or something because I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t tempt me with the bitch slappin’ because I’m tellin’ ya I’m two seconds away from losing my shit.” With his thicker than usual accent, I can’t help thinking we’re already past that.
“Umm, I think you were there five seconds ago.”
He thrusts his phone at me again, only this time I take it.
Our texts are open, and the last one was sent by me, telling him to do what he wants under the picture of Harley and him.
“Okay, I can kinda see how this is passive-aggressive now,” I say.
“Passive-aggressive? How about stupid and out of line? I ask if you’re fucking anyone, and you turn around and accuse me of … what? Wanting to sleep with Harley? Not only that, but you tell me to go for it? What the fucking fuck?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow your roll for a second. I didn’t know what you meant. I didn’t know why you were asking me if I was fucking anyone when I thought it’d be obvious that I’m not interested in anyone but you. You’re the one with the ex still sniffing around you, and it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that you two have dynamite chemistry. Your duet went viral, for fuck’s sake. You were in love with him only a few months ago.”
“Yeah, well, anyone with eyes would be able to tell that I’m in love with you now, you … you … I’ll use language your Canadian ass will understand, you big, dumb hoser!”
I blink at him again. “I think … But … Huh. The team doctor said I didn’t have a concussion, but now, I
’m not so sure …”
Jet’s angry vibration stops suddenly. “Concussion?” Concern etches its way onto Jet’s beautiful features.
“Still haven’t seen a game of mine, then?”
“Luce made me go to the stupid after-party, which is where that photo was taken, by the way, and then as soon as I saw your message, I knew I had to see you, so no, I didn’t see your fucking game. I was going to stream it when I got back to my hotel, but I went straight to the airport. What’s this about a concussion?”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. You … you flew here? From DC?”
“Had the band’s plane take me. What happened at the game?”
“I’m old. That’s what happened in the game.” I step forward and pull Jet against me, cupping his jaw and lowering my forehead to his. “You said you love me.”
“I also called you a hoser.”
“I am a hoser. I read into that text and thought … I dunno, I thought you were fishing for something.”
“I was. I wanted to know if you were fucking anyone. Luce even said it was blunt.”
I step aside to let him in. “Come in. We should talk about some stuff. About what we want.”
Jet grips my shirt. “I just want you.”
He kisses me hard and pulls me close, but his arms put pressure around my middle where I’m still sore.
I wince.
“Seriously, what happened at the game?” he asks.
“I took a nasty hit at the end of second period. Hit my head and bruised my side, but they checked me out and said I was fine. I still played the third. I’m just a little tender.”
Jet runs his hands over my shoulders and down my chest. “Let me take care of you.”
Hmm, sex or talking about what we should’ve talked about two weeks ago? Tough call.
“Fine, but afterward, we’re talking.”
“Mmhmm, sure.” Jet kisses me again. “Talking.” Lips land on my neck.
Okay, I know where this is leading, and I’m not making the same mistake we did the last night I was on tour. “Fuck it, we’ll talk right now and get it over with. Jet, I want you to be my boyfriend. Like, my proper, not just dating, not putting on a show for the media, boyfriend. I want that to be our truth. I don’t want anyone else touching you. Ever. Because this”—I grab his ass and pull him against me—“is mine.”
“There.” He slaps my chest. “Was that so hard to put in a text? Would’ve saved me a flight. You had me thinking you wouldn’t care if I hooked up with someone else.”
“I didn’t know what to say because I was sure ‘If Harley touches you, I know about ten different ways to kill a guy with my hockey gear’ would’ve scared you off.”
“Not at all.” Jet’s voice gets all raspy.
“You like it when I’m jealous?”
He nods.
I go to kiss him, but he stops me.
“Really though? Ten different ways?”
“Clubbing. Obviously.” I lift my finger and start rattling off ways while counting. “Using the stick to choke him is another. Snapping it in half and stabbing him. Do you want me to get started on my skates? Those fuckers are sharp.”
Jet laughs. “I don’t know if I should be terrified right now or not.”
“I did warn you.”
“I still love it.”
I grin. “You love me.”
Jet’s cheeks turn pink. “Maybe.”
“Nu-uh, you said it. You can’t take it back.”
“Wasn’t going to take it back, but I am wondering why I love you right now.”
“Because I’m handsome.”
“That’s my line.” Jet pouts.
“And I’m awesome. We can’t forget awesome.”
“Also, my line. Considering we’ve spent the last two weeks apart, you sound an awful lot like me.”
I take Jet’s hand. “Come on, I have something to show you.”
“If it’s your dick, I’m all for it.”
My arm on my good side goes around his shoulders. “You might want to hold off on the jokes because it might ruin the moment we’re about to have.”
Jet follows me as I hobble toward my spare bedroom to search for something I’ve had all this time but didn’t want to tell him about because I feared he’d think I was creepy.
“Umm, did your legs get injured too?”
“No. My knees just think they’re fifty instead of thirty-three.”
Jet laughs again, but it dies when I push open the closet door.
I point at him. “Make a Narnia joke right now, and I swear I won’t show you what’s in here.”
He puts his arms up like a busted perp.
I pull out a guitar case and wait for some sort of reaction from him. All he does is eye it suspiciously.
“Do you remember after ‘Hat Trick Heartbreak’ hit number one, you donated your guitar to charity, and it was auctioned off online?”
Jet’s eyes widen. “Y-yes … I … fuck, I tried to find out who bought it because I regretted it as soon as I donated it. With my first royalty check, I bought the most expensive acoustic guitar I could find and gave away my old secondhand Yamaha because I’m a dickhead.” His gaze goes to the case. “Please tell me—”
“I wanted to remain anonymous.” I lift the case and put it on the bed. “You wrote that song—our song—on this guitar. And even though our night in Tampa ended disastrously, a part of me always held on.”
Jet stares at it as if trying to convince himself that what he’s seeing is real. “From memory, the winning bid for this guitar was over twenty grand.”
“Twenty-four.”
“My Firebird cost a quarter of that. You got ripped off.”
“No, I didn’t. Because if I couldn’t have you, I could at least have something to remember you by.”
“Can I?” He points to the case.
“Of course.”
Jet unzips the case and pulls out the black guitar, laying it on the bed as softly as he would a baby. His fingers run along the strings in a slow caress.
“You need me to give you a minute alone with your old lover?”
Jet ignores my joke, and his eyes lock with mine. “Why? I mean … I don’t understand why, when you wanted nothing to do with me back then.”
“That’s not true. I thought I could never have you and that we wouldn’t work out, but never, not once, did I stop wanting you. I knew that was wrong because I had Bryce, but I’ve always, always had this pull toward you that I can’t fight. It’s been there ever since the first time I saw you on stage. I don’t know why I bought the guitar. I can only tell you why I’m showing it to you now.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve always held a piece of my heart, but I’m giving all of it to you right now. I love you, Jet.”
Something happens to Jet in front of my eyes. Not a transformation but a shift. His rigid shoulders relax, and he lets out a loud whoosh of air as if he’s breathing without pain for the first time ever. His eyes are glassy as he looks up at me.
“Say it again,” he whispers.
I smile. “I thought I loved you before I left the tour, but these last two weeks without you have only made me realize how deep I am in love with you. I want to make you mine.”
“I want to be yours.” Jet pulls me toward the bed, and I shove my twenty-four-thousand-dollar guitar out of the way. He gasps. “Hey, careful. She’s precious.”
I laugh and move it across the room and lean it against my desk. “Better?”
“Much.” Jet moves toward me with a predatory look in his eye. “Now, I think I remember saying something about taking care of you because you’re old and broken.”
My mouth opens to protest the old remark, even if my body whole-heartedly agrees, but Jet lands on his knees in front of me, his mouth teasing me through my sweats, and I groan instead.
“Bed,” I rasp.
“Because of your grandpa knees?”
“Fuck you.”<
br />
“I wish, but I’ve got to take care of my man, and my man is in pain.” Jet stands back to full height and leads me to the bed.
My back hits the mattress, and then his lithe body is on top of me.
We kiss, all tongues and devouring, while Jet’s hand makes its way between us to undo his jeans.
“I’ll go easy on you,” he says.
We manage to get naked, and then Jet straddles my thighs.
“Lube?”
“We’re in the spare bedroom, one I never—wait—” A thought occurs to me. “How did you know this was my apartment?” He’s never been here before.
“How do you think?” Jet smirks.
“Ollie?”
He nods. “I wish I could ride you and then go back to Washington with your cum in my ass, but seeing as there’s no lube and you’re broken, I won’t do that.”
I want that too even if it’ll hurt.
The way he’s with me right now is similar to the night before I left the tour. He has longing in his eyes and shows love in the tender way he’s taking care of me.
“Love you,” I say because now that I’ve said it once, I don’t want to stop saying it.
I’ll remind him every single day if I have to.
“Love you too.”
I close my eyes and let his words wash over me.
Falling in love wasn’t the exact plan when we up and left Fiji, but I’d hoped for it. I wanted him to give me a real chance, but I guess I’ve still had alternatives running through my head.
Until now.
What we have is real, and it’s so us.
Impulsively getting on a plane to yell at me is totally something Jet would do, and I wouldn’t have him any other way.
Because he’s fighting for us, just like I have been since he reappeared in my life.
Jet licks his hand and shifts so his hard cock is against mine, and his callused grip wraps around both of us.
He grinds on me until we’re sweaty, panting, and there’s a giant pool of cum between us.
His body slumps on top of me, and I can’t even bring myself to care about the ache in my side.
“I’ve missed you.” His voice is so quiet.
“Me too, baby.”
“It’s only been two weeks. How are we going to survive when I’m back in L.A.?”
