Kissing stopped Trent talking. That was all I thought when I considered kissing him, but the minute our lips touched I went from using a kiss as a distraction to wanting him under me in bed in ten seconds flat.

Even the way Trent wriggled out of his clothes was sexy, and I tried my hardest to be sexy myself, but there was nothing hot in the way I ripped at my clothes and yanked Trent, naked, back onto my bed.

Trent was my new addiction, it seemed, and I needed him as much as I used to need the next opiate hit. I couldn’t stop kissing him, and he was so small I could pull him close and support all his weight with mine. He lay sprawled over me, hard against my thigh, and he gripped hard with his hands in my hair. And the kissing…fuck, I wanted all of him; I wanted more, kissing and touching.

Need clawed inside me. “I want to fuck you,” I said into his ear, “please.”

“Tell me you have stuff,” Trent said. Then went back to biting at my neck and kissing his way to my lips.

Blindly, I reached out and slapped my hand on the bedside cabinet, moving and taking Trent with me when I couldn’t reach. He laughed into the kiss, and it was the sweetest but dirtiest laugh I’d ever heard. Between us we found lube, condoms, and my dildo, which for some reason had Trent’s eyes widening.

“Tell me you use this on yourself,” he said. “Tell me you switch.”

I kissed the answer into his heated skin and rolled us so I was on top. “On all fours,” I said. I wanted to fuck him face to face, but first I wanted to look; I wanted to know everything about this man. He complied with a grin, spreading himself for me, and I stared.

“You going to do something?” Trent asked, looking at me over his shoulder.

I suited up, grabbed the lube, slicked my fingers, and touched every single inch. His cock was perfect, his ass tight, his thighs – god, his thighs – and I was lost. I traced cold patterns on his skin, concentrating on his cock, back to his balls, slicking his hole with just enough pressure that he was rocking back on my hand. I pressed inside as I bit his ass, then soothed the nip with my tongue. Something knocked my knee, and I glanced down to see the dildo in Trent’s hand.

“Stretch me,” he demanded.

Fuck, he was demanding, and for a second I imagined him ordering me to my knees, making me suck him off. I groaned at the thought, slicking the dildo and pressing it against him as I kissed his ass, his thighs. I used my weight to push him down so his head was in the pillows and he was supporting his weight on his elbows. Like that I could ease the fat head into him and watch it stretching him, imagining my cock in there. I gripped his cock, slid my hand from root to tip in a shaky rhythm, and the dildo was deeper, and the noises Trent made… They were obscene. Demanding.

Jesus, I was losing it.

I eased the dildo free and slid my cock into its place, smoothly, hesitating only for a moment to check if Trent was okay. But he pushed back – he wanted me inside – and I was ready to do my bit. More than ready.

I caged him under me, resting my forehead on his shoulder, and I wanted more. I wanted to kiss him; I needed to turn him. I moved back, took him with me, resting him on my thighs, fully seated inside him, and he turned his face and I could kiss him. Awkwardly, messily, but they were the best kisses as we groaned into them and demanded everything from each other. I wrapped my hands around his chest, lifted him, helped him up, gasping as he slid back down.

Fuck. I’ve never…

“Touch yourself,” I ordered, and he did as he was told in an instant. I could see his hand on his cock, then taste him in his kisses, and I was so close, but I wanted him to come with me, even given how impossible that could be.

I beat him to it by seconds, forcing myself so deep I worried I’d hurt him, but he joined me, coming and gasping into the kiss. We stayed locked like that for a second, until my knee began to ache and I eased out of him, wiping us with my discarded T-shirt and lying down on the bed. He came right to me, snuggling into my hold and sighing.

“That was good,” he murmured. “More than good.”

And all I could think was that sex with Trent was the best freaking sex of my entire life so far.

Feeling sick was what woke me. Trent was still curled against me, his face smooshed into the pillow, his hand on my chest. I eased out from under him, and he muttered something in his sleep but didn’t move. I padded to the bathroom, rubbing my belly, thinking back to what I’d eaten.

What if the kaldereta was laced with something? What if Trent is trying to get me off his skating program?

I shook my head clear of the stupid and wiped at my brow, which was sweaty, then sat on the side of the bath. The nausea was right there, boiling in my stomach, and I moved to sit next to the toilet, everything I’d eaten that night ending up consigned to the bowl. I didn’t think I’d been noisy, had tried to be sick as quietly as I could, but Trent was there, pressing a cool towel to my head and murmuring words that made no sense to me at that moment.

He laid a hand over my chest, right on my heart, and huffed, then helped me to stand. For a slim guy, he was so damn strong. He led me to the bed and urged me to sit down, but I didn’t want to sit there – I had this urge to go out to the balcony and sit the fuck still in the night air.

“I need some air,” I said, or at least, that was what I wanted to say, politely, but what came out was more of a grunted “fuck you” when Trent attempted to get me to stay in place. There was a silent tussle, but I won – however strong Trent was, I still had fifty pounds on him, and the will of a hockey player who wanted his own way.

The air was cool, and I sank into the chair, kicking away the empty beer bottle and watching it roll to the corner near the door.

When did I drop that? I guarantee some asshole dropped it from another apartment. No sense in wasting good beer. Fuckers.

Trent followed me out, pressed his hand to my heart again, and I shoved him away, because fuck off with touching me while scowling at me.

“Go away,” I snapped. I was embarrassed I’d been sick, my head hurt, and any high from sex had vanished.

“You have any tingling in your arms?” Trent asked, and placed a bottle of water next to me.

I fell on it gratefully, the burn of acid uncomfortable in my throat. It tasted ill; I was ill.

A bug, or goddamn food poisoning. Fucking foreign food.

“No, I don’t have any fucking tingling in my arms.”

I immediately felt bad. What was wrong with me? Trent was looking after me, giving me water, holding me, cooling my head.

“Your heart is racing,” Trent commented, and took the chair next to mine. “Are you anxious?”

Fuck me. “I’m anxious that your grandma’s cooking made me sick,” I snapped.

Trent simply looked at me, his expression neutral. He looked like he was thinking what to say, and I waited for the words of figure-skater sparkly-assed wisdom.

“You’re suffering symptoms of withdrawal,” he finally said.

“Whatever,” I gave back straight away. Because yeah, that was a sensible response to such a sweeping statement.

“Your heart, being sick, and I bet you’re sitting there cursing me for the food, and the care, and the fact that I’m actually witnessing what’s happening to you.”

“Fuck you, Trent.”

He quirked his lips, all disapproving, and shook his head. “Percocet withdrawal isn’t life-threatening, it just feels like it,” he said, his expression not changing.

“I wasn’t using again,” I snapped. “My knee hurt, it was pain relief.”

“Says the man who took so many tablets he lost his mind.”

“It was a mistake, and you know it.”

“They weren’t even your Percocet,” Trent said. He was being so fucking reasonable that my temper was spiraling. “Did you have to buy them off another player, or are they just handed out like sweets between you?”

I didn’t answer that. Yes, I’d bought them, a long time ago, back when I’d been in the grip of real addiction.

“Mistake or not, you deliberately took more than you should anyway – your downfall was that they were stronger than you were used to.”

I wanted to hurt him, wanted to curl my hand into a fist and punch his perfect fucking face.

I don’t want to hurt him. He needs to go.

“You can leave,” I said. The temper inside me was making me irrational.

He shook his head, seeming determined to pick at the scab that hid my past.

“When did you take the last pill?”

“I didn’t,” I said, and I sure as hell knew I was being irrational. Didn’t what? What was I even denying anymore?

Trent worried his lip, and his chocolate eyes were bright, like he was trying not to cry. What the hell? Why was he crying?

“However long it’s been, about seventy-two hours after that last dose, symptoms of withdrawal tend to peak – severe, intense. It’s only going to get worse. You understand that, right?”

He sounded like he was reading from a technical manual, and believe me, I’d read them all.

I wanted to say something clever about how Trent was overreacting and how I was fine, but all I could think of was to tell him to go, with added expletives. The anger inside me was making it impossible to form a coherent sentence.

He stood. “I don’t expect you’ll be in tomorrow. I’ll tell the team you have food poisoning or something.”

Wait. No. “I’ve never missed a game, or an appearance, I’ll be there.”

I rubbed my arms. Abruptly I was chilled, even though my head was burning, and nausea threatened again.

“Withdrawal starts when your body expects its next dose,” Trent said. “Remember that. You need to get some help with this.”

“I don’t need anyone else’s help.”

“You do,” he insisted. “You’re an addict and you’re in denial about having relapsed. Do you have a sponsor?”

Mike was my sponsor, a quiet librarian from my hometown. Not even an NHLer, just some guy who talked sense and was always there for me. I didn’t need him; he was part of my past.

“I can’t do this with you,” Trent murmured when I didn’t answer.

He’d decided my addiction was too much for him? Well, whatever. It wasn’t like I needed him in my life, with his glittery shit and his figure skating.

But wait. What if I was losing the chance of being with the only man who’d made me think I wanted more? I wanted his brightness in my life. I wanted the glitter and the smile and the fun, and the taste of him, and the flirting and sex.

Great. Now I was going through the pathetic post-sick stage of this whole shitfest. This was all Trent’s fault.

Why am I doing this? What’s wrong with me? Why is Trent giving up on me after one fuck?

Trent pushed his hands into the pockets of the robe he was using, my robe. It swamped him. I looked down. I was naked. Sitting on my balcony, balls naked.

And hot.

And cold.

Abruptly, the anger subsided, and I felt pathetic and stupid, and Trent was leaving.

“Please don’t go,” I said, and I could hear how pathetic I sounded, how needy. What did Trent owe me? Nothing.

“I wish I could stay,” he said, but the tone he used told me he was lying. “But it’s late and I need to get up early and face another battle.”

I held out a hand. “Please stay.” I sounded broken and pathetic and all the things that the tablets stopped.

Trent sighed, crossed back to me and sat on the edge of the other chair, taking my hand in his. I loved the way he held my hand, and affection swelled inside me. He understood. He wasn’t leaving; he was going to be my friend, my lover, my support. He half smiled at me, and I knew everything would be okay; I hadn’t fucked up too bad.

And then he ruined it all.

“Dieter, there’s an NHL substances program,” he said. “They have counseling as well so I assume you’ve been in contact with them. Don’t they want to see you every so often? You could call them.”

What? I yanked away my hand. “Fuck you,” I snarled.

“Dieter, if you don’t call them…”

“What? You will? You’ll fuck up my career because of one lousy misstep?”

“It isn’t one, you know that.”

“Just fucking go. I don’t need your shit, however good of a fuck you are.”

He nodded, stood, and left.

And I sat naked on my balcony feeling like everything was going wrong.

I woke up still naked on the balcony, to the early light of a Philadelphia day. Feeling like shit. Trent had seen me at my worst and he’d left. Just up and left.

I didn’t need him anyway. I was in the NHL now, and there were any amount of puck bunnies out there who wanted me. Hell, one gay club and they’d be all falling over the muscled guy with the contract.

I was the man.

A broken man.

I stumbled back into the bedroom, stopping just inside and turning back to pick up the beer bottle, dropping it in the trash. I made my bed, or at least tried, pulling the covers straight, and sat heavily when I spotted the bright blue of the scarf Trent had been wearing when he’d arrived. I picked up the soft fabric and instinctively buried my nose in it, the scent of my lover just as I remembered.

Lover? No, one-night stand I’d completely fucked things up with.

I picked up my cell, pulling out the charger and thumbing through my contacts. First name I considered connecting to was Layton, telling him to spin something to the team about why I wasn’t in today. Then I’d have to be honest about what I was in the middle of right now, and he already had the whole mess of a possible sex tape, and blackmail, although that had been very quiet since that text from Marianna.

The next name on my list was Mike, a number I hadn’t used in a long time. I keyed it in before I’d even really thought about it. I hadn’t considered time differences, and I almost hung up on my old sponsor. The one who’d held my hand through some bad times.

Then he answered, his voice sleep-rough and slightly unfocused.

“Dieter?” Mike said my name, just my name. No hello or how are you? I hadn’t spoken to him for over a year, and even though he’d called and left me a couple of messages, I hadn’t needed him. Or at least I hadn’t felt like I needed him.

“Mike,” I responded, because I didn’t know what the hell to say.

There was silence. Not unusual – my conversations with Mike had often included silences where we just sat and thought on opposite ends of the line. I heard movement, the soft exhalation of Mike getting up and out of bed.

“I’ll put the coffee on,” he murmured.

I did the same, putting him on speaker phone because I needed some distance from the man who’d been my confidant and support for a long time.

I had coffee, I felt sick, my chest tight with anxiety, and coldly I knew this was withdrawal, and that one tablet would ease the pain and confusion.

But Trent said I needed help.

I hated him for that, but I’d made the call to my sponsor, hadn’t I?

“I saw you got a contract for a year with the Railers,” Mike said, starting the way we used to, exchanging news. I’d received invites to meet up with him and I’d known I really should make the effort, but when I’d been meds-free I hadn’t wanted to connect with him again. I’d wanted to consign him to my past.

He would never be part of my past. He would be my everyday support if I needed him.

My friend with all the messy parts included.

“It’s a good contract,” I said.

“You’ve worked hard for it,” Mike agreed.

“I’m fucking it all up.” That pretty much summed it up. “I’m a grinder, I’m not ready for the NHL, my knee hurts all the fucking time, and I don’t think I can do it.”

Silence again. He was waiting for me to expand, but I didn’t know what to say or how to explain it. I needed him to ask me the right questions. I wasn’t ready to talk, and I closed my eyes and hoped he would understand.

“Mike, please help me.”