It’s been a long time since I’ve woken up wrapped around someone, and if it weren’t for Ollie’s mom calling out “Breakfast is ready,” I’d happily stay here.

Ollie’s body is warm and large, and his arms encase me tightly as if he’s scared to let me go.

I’ve had boyfriends in the past, and even if they never lasted long, this is probably what I miss the most. Waking up next to someone who makes me all disgustingly mushy inside.

My body’s all floaty, my mind empty—a state only a night of great orgasms can achieve.

That all turns to shit when one of Ollie’s brothers knocks on the bedroom door.

“Hurry up. Some of us need coffee thanks to being awake half the night listening to your fuck session.”

My eyes widen, and I nudge Ollie. All he does is mumble something I can’t understand and rolls over to face the other way.

“Your brothers are here?” I ask.

“Mmm, they were all drinking and stayed the night.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me that? They heard everything.”

“We weren’t that loud,” he says through a yawn.

Only, when we drag our asses out of bed and head downstairs, it’s pretty damn clear we were that loud.

All four of Ollie’s brothers clap and cheer, and his mom refuses to look either of us in the eye as she flits around the kitchen.

“Really, Ollie,” Nic says, “you should’ve known why the oldest was always put in the attic. The noise from up there travels. It was Ma and Dad’s way of making sure we didn’t bring a girl home and impregnate her.”

I’m sure the pink tinge on Ollie’s face matches mine.

Note to self: never, ever, have sex with Ollie in his parents’ house ever again.

“Well, it worked, didn’t it? No teen pregnancies in this house,” their mom says and starts putting plates on the table. “But at least you two know for next time.”

“Although to be fair, in your own words, Ma, I won’t be getting anyone pregnant up there.” Ollie’s able to laugh off his embarrassment, but I’m not as easy.

“Well, I’d love to stay for breakfast, but I’m going to go drown myself,” I say and try to run away.

Only, I run straight into Ollie’s dad. “Pfft. No need to run off. There’s really no secrets between us now.”

Ollie’s brothers snicker.

“I’m so sorry,” Ollie whispers to me.

Either they’ve all had their fun or they’ve taken pity on me, but they drop it after that.

Everyone seems looser this morning than the tension-filled disaster I missed out on while I was asleep all afternoon.

Even Ollie appears more relaxed. He smiles at me in a way I’ve only ever wished to be smiled at. Like, we’re actually a couple.

When we’re not. I mean, not really. I have no idea what’s going on in Ollie’s head.

He basically passed out last night as soon as we’d cleaned ourselves up, and it’s not like we’ve had a chance to talk this morning.

After breakfast, Ollie turns to me. “I was gonna go see Tommy today before the game if you wanna come? Or do you have to get back to the city?”

“I’ve got everything I need for tonight’s game, so I’m easy.” I wince when everyone laughs. “Walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“You’re gonna be so much fun to have around, Clarky,” Max says.

Even if I’m mortified, the mockery is different to the type I suffered through in high school, and I know they accept me, which is something I wasn’t so sure would happen. Especially from Max, who I thought would never be okay with me being with his brother instead of Ash.

“I could’ve gone back to my hotel room,” I say as we pull into the driveway of a cute house somewhere in suburbialand outside the city.

“I wanted you to come. And Tommy knows about us anyway.”

It’s slow going on my behalf as we get out of Ollie’s parents’ car he’s borrowed and make our way up the stone path toward the house, which has a giant wraparound porch filled with kids’ toys.

“This house isn’t exactly what I was expecting for a hockey legend with ten seasons under his belt,” I say.

Ollie smiles. “This is their everyday home—the one they live in most. There’s also the apartment in the city for game nights and the holiday house on the Cape.”

“Yeah, that sounds more like what I was expecting. I guess I’ve always figured Tommy to be the flashy type not …” I stare at the renovated colonial house, which is beautiful, yes, but it’s … normal.

“Tommy’s ego on the ice might be huge, but in reality, he’s just a guy supporting his family. The difference between hockey-season and off-season Tommy is astounding. I can’t wait for you to witness it.”

He grimaces, and I assume it’s because he realizes what he’s said. After the season, I’ll most likely be back in Chicago. We won’t be hanging out and doing whatever we’re doing.

As we approach the house, my ankle twinges with each hobbled step. It’s definitely less painful today but still annoying.

Ollie huffs and lifts me bridal style before I even have the chance to protest.

“What are you doing?” I struggle against him. “I can walk, dickhead. Plus, I’m, like, heavy and shit.”

He leans in, so his mouth is close to my ear. “Need to keep your foot elevated, remember?”

A shiver runs through me from memories of last night.

My eyes scan the quiet street, but paranoia for Ollie sets in. “What if someone’s watching?”

He does the same glance over the street I did. “Let them see. You’re just an injured guy being carried by a super-hot, super-strong hockey player. I’m being chivalrous.”

I laugh. “If you say so.”

“And you’re not heavy. I bench press more than you daily.”

“Okay, big guy, I get it. You have muscles.”

Ollie’s voice takes on a husky quality as he says, “Muscles you traced with your tongue last night.”

“Truth.”

I don’t know what game Ollie’s playing, but it’s working. Reminding me of last night has me hardening and my worries of our future muted.

But my hard-on dies completely when Tommy’s door opens, and instead of Tommy or his wife—or hell, I’d settle for either of his kids—Damon, my friend and Ollie’s agent, stands there looking at us with a furrowed brow.

His dark hair is styled casual messy like it always is, but instead of the suit I’m used to seeing him in, he’s in jeans and a T-shirt. That’s when I remember his boyfriend is Tommy’s brother-in-law.

“Shit,” I gasp as Ollie almost drops me. I struggle the rest of the way out of his grip and tell my brain to come up with an excuse. Any excuse. “Umm, I injured my foot, and my magazine wanted me to interview Ollie and do a follow-up to all those articles I wrote about him earlier in the season, and now that the Dragons are out—”

Ollie bursts out laughing. “It’s a good thing for me that you suck at lying.” He throws his arm around me. “Hey, Damon, you know my boyfriend, right?”

Damon’s eyes are the size of saucers, and they probably match mine.

“Boyfriend?” I croak.

“Boyfriend-type-person,” Ollie says with a wave of his hand. “You know what I mean.” He kisses the side of my head and walks past Damon into Tommy’s house.

Damon and I stare at each other with mirrored dumbfounded expressions.

“Did he just come out to me?” Damon asks. “Oh, God, has he come out to the world without telling me first?” He whips out his phone from his pocket, but I step forward and cover it with my hand.

“Your professional world isn’t imploding, but I fear Ollie’s head might be. I had no idea he was going to do that.”

We make our way inside, Damon faster than I can manage on my ankle, only to find Ollie in the kitchen talking to Tommy as if he didn’t just come out to his agent.

Ollie claps Tommy on the shoulder. “Ready for the game, old man?”

“Of course,” Tommy says as his wife and Maddox enter the room.

“Why do you guys look like you’re trying to do math?” Maddox asks Damon and me.

The dynamic hockey duo turns to us, as if just realizing we’d followed them in.

“Oh. That,” Ollie says. “I think they’re freaking out because I told Damon that Lennon and I are a thing.”

Maddox cocks his head at Damon. “Why would that shock you? We saw them flirting at the benefit.”

“I’m trying to work out if I should be in friend mode or agent mode,” Damon says.

Ollie finally loses his calm composure, and he frowns. “You guys already know I’m gay?”

Damon shrugs. “Suspected.”

“Lennon, did you give me your gay vibes?”

I laugh.

Damon takes out his phone again. “Does this mean … like, do you need me to do a press release, or—”

“No,” Ollie says quickly. “Not ready for that, and I hadn’t planned on telling you today, but I’d planned on it eventually.”

Damon nods. “Whenever you’re ready. OnTrack Sports and I will support you one hundred percent.”

“Yeah. After Matt, I figured,” Ollie says.

Tommy slaps Ollie on the back. “I’m gonna be totally lame here and tell you I’m proud of you.”

Ollie nudges him. “’Cause I totally did it for you, bro.” His eyes flick to mine before looking away again and speaking quietly. I don’t think I’m supposed to hear it, but I do. “Not making the same mistakes this time.”

He continues to refuse to look at me, but I can’t tear my eyes away from him. His long body makes me want to go to him and wrap myself around him, like how we were last night.

Maddox pulls me out of almost doing something indecent in front of everyone.

“You could totally tap into the queer market,” he says to Damon. “Represent all the gay guys in sport.”

Tommy leans against the kitchen counter, next to Ollie. “He might already be there with Matt and Ollie.”

Damon scoffs. “Trust me. There are way more gay guys in sports. It’s just a fact that it’s still hard to come out in our world.”

“Exactly,” Ollie says, and even if he’s still not ready, he’s taken another important step, and as selfish as it is, my stupid brain and heart think he’s done it for me—something he wasn’t willing to do for Ash.

But as fast as that happens, guilt replaces it, because the last thing I need is the pressure of being the guy he comes out for.

Of course, Ollie knows everyone at the arena. This used to be his playground. He fist-bumps his way past all the security and into the press box with me, despite my protests about being in the vicinity of several other reporters who’ll be interested to know why he’s sitting with me instead of in his old team’s owner’s box or in the stands with family and friends.

He assures me it’s fine and he’s allowed to have friends. No one should suspect otherwise.

I’m legitimately beginning to worry that topping for the first time means he lost a severe amount of brain cells when he came.

Sex makes you dumb, people.

He’s taking risks he hasn’t allowed himself for years.

I’m sweating. Is it hot in here?

This is a lot of pressure.

It eases a little when the game starts and I have to concentrate, but he’s got that whole awareness thing about him again, and I feel him everywhere.

“Stop it,” I mutter.

“Stop what?”

When I turn to him, his eyes are on the ice, and I begin to wonder if the heat from his gaze has been imagined, but nope. His lips twitch upward.

“I have to work.”

“So do I,” he says. Then he leans to his right, bringing him closer to me so no one else can hear but not so close it looks suspicious. The scent of his cologne is stronger and somehow reminds me of sex. In particular, sex with him. “I have to work at getting you back to your hotel room and out of your clothes as soon as this game’s over.”

Kill. Me. Now.

Seems Ollie’s goal all day today has been to drive me crazy. Or try to make me come without him even touching me. He’s exceedingly good at both, and if he’s not careful, I’ll have to go back to my hotel room, but it won’t be to fool around; it’ll be for a new change of pants.

I would’ve thought he’d be more inconspicuous than this, but maybe I’m being overly paranoid. Maybe he was like this with Ash, but I got the impression he hid as much as possible with him and didn’t allow for silliness in public.

I have to admit, it’s a huge turn-on not being able to touch but subtly dropping hints about what’ll happen later. I wish I could concentrate on the ice instead of the unfairly hot, talented, somewhat awkward when he’s uncomfortable guy who not only makes playing hockey look good but also makes the game interesting.

I thought I was having an off night when Ollie was with his family instead of at the game. Turns out my interest in hockey solely revolves around one hockey player.

As if sensing me watching him instead of the game, he glances my way, and the smile he gives me reminds me of a promise—a promise for more. And not just sex, but everything. I wish I was rational enough to dismiss it, but whether it’s my inner nerd wanting this since I first started liking boys or whether it’s my stupid side, a huge part of me knows I’m already in too deep. We might’ve only admitted aloud yesterday that we want each other, but if I’m completely honest, I’ve been gone for this guy since the day we met.

It’s the reason I kissed him that day in the stairwell. It’s the reason I started watching his games and following his career. And ultimately, it’s the reason my boss transferred me to hockey. Because my passion for the game—a.k.a. Ollie—shone through in the articles I wrote about him.

“Whoa,” Ollie says, his gaze snapping back to the ice.

I tear my eyes away, only to be confused by what’s happening below.

Two New Jersey players have gotten into a fight … with each other. Not Boston.

“That’s new,” I say as I watch the two giants drop their gloves and try to pummel one another.

The reporters surrounding me start tapping away furiously, probably live tweeting and googling the players’ stats and entire careers.

Sorensen and Healy by the names on their jerseys. I open Google, but Ollie beats me to it. “Caleb Sorensen and Kip Healy.”

The home crowd roars with cheers, presumably because the enemy is fighting between themselves.

“What’s their deal?” I ask.

“I have no idea. I’ve faced Healy a few times, and he can be a bit of a dick, but not any more than the usual trash-talking shit that goes on or the sneaky penalties we all try to pull off. Not sure about Soren. He was traded from the West Coast last season.”

Other players from New Jersey pull their teammates apart, and when they skate back to the bench, their coach sends both players off.

“That’s weird, right?” Granted, I’m new to hockey, but I don’t think I’ve heard of teammates fighting during a game before.

“Fights break out all the time during practice,” Ollie says, “but we’re always told to leave that shit off the ice. Maybe their egos are too big for their helmets. Apparently, us hockey players are known for that. Who knew, right?”

The squabble between teammates is quickly forgotten when Boston gets the breakaway and flies down the ice. Tommy lands a slap shot to the top right of the net, and from that first goal, all the way through to the third period, Boston doesn’t let up. New Jersey puts up a strong fight, but the thirst Boston’s had all season doesn’t waver.

I’d think Ollie would be distracted, watching his old team kick ass, but he’s more interested in distracting me.

While the game seems close, and both teams take about the same amount of shots on goal, Boston dominates, sinking three of them. Boston’s goalie is on point, not letting a single shot through.

I don’t see New Jersey turning this around.

While the after-game press conferences drone on and on, all I can think about is Ollie in my hotel room waiting for me. I sent him with my room key as soon as the game finished so we wouldn’t be seen together, and as promised, as soon as I get back to my hotel room, Ollie greets me with no words but his mouth on mine, his fingers working my shirt buttons, and an obvious mission to fulfill his annoyingly hot promises he kept hinting at throughout the game.

“Please tell me you got your article written and sent off,” he says breathlessly.

“I purposefully stayed back to get it done.”

“Good. Because I need your ass again.”

“I’ve created a monster.” Not that I can hate that.

“Nope. I just like having a new toy, so I’m gonna play with it as much as possible.”

I snort. “My ass is your new toy. I’m sure that’s supposed to sound wrong somehow, but right now, I can’t think of why.”

And speaking of my ass, he grabs my cheeks over my suit pants and brings me closer to him.

“Warning you now,” he whispers. “This isn’t going to be like last night. I’m gonna take you hard and fast, because all I’ve wanted all day was to be back inside you, and I don’t have the fucking patience for you edging me.”

I try to say “Same here” or “Hurry up” or some other affirmative, but all that comes out are mumbling sounds that make no sense.

It’s obvious he understands anyway when he strips off the remainder of my clothes and pushes me on the bed on my hands and knees.

In a daze of want and need, I don’t know where the lube comes from, and I don’t care. When one of Ollie’s fingers breaches my hole, there’s no exploring like last night. No going slow. He aims for my prostate and immediately starts pegging it.

My cock goes from happily interested to achingly desperate.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I hiss.

My ass clenches around his finger as if trying to trap it inside me.

“Not yet,” he says playfully, but I get the feeling he’s gritting his teeth as he says it. “As much as I said hard and fast, I’m not going to make it painful for you.”

“A little pain is good. I need … just need more …”

He adds a second finger, the sting of stretching a welcome ache. Last night, we went so slow, and Ollie was so cautious, I barely felt it this morning. After tonight, I want to ache for days. I’m going to leave for game three and four in New Jersey, and I doubt Ollie’s coming with me, so I want to feel him until I see him again for game five.

Ollie gives me exactly what I want. He somehow manages to get himself sheathed one-handed while his fingers continue to prep me and turn me into a quivering mess.

My forehead falls onto the mattress as I rock back and forth onto his fingers. “You need to hurry up before I come already.”

I whimper at the loss of his fingers until he eases inside, and the noise coming from me turns into a grunt.

Ollie whispers under his voice, words I don’t understand, which turn into rambling about my ass having the ability to kill him and that death by sex would be worth it if he’d already won a Stanley Cup. Then he starts rattling off hockey stats, and it takes a minute for me to realize he’s trying to distract himself.

We’re both fighting against our own control, both getting lost in the empty thoughts running through our heads where we can only concentrate on one thing, and that’s the feeling of each other. His heat, my want, our combined urgency and need.

Ollie’s cock pulses inside me, harder than steel, and my hips move on their own. Stretching out, I raise my hands above my head, slipping them under the pillow and gripping the sheet tight as I continue to fuck myself slowly on his dick.

Ollie starts moving, his quick detour from hard and fast over with, and he meets my movements, thrust for thrust—the reason I love bottoming. There’s no better feeling than being turned out until I’m walking funny and I can’t remember my stupid name.

Soon he’s taking me at a punishing pace, and hard breathing and the slapping of our bodies are the only sounds to fill the room. Ollie’s grip on my hip tightens, and I lose myself to him a little more. It’s not that I get off on pain but more the possessive way in which he takes my body. It’s the claiming bruises, the lasting aches. Last night was sweet, but this is primal, and I’d be happy to take Ollie either way. Last night, I was cared for. Tonight, I feel needed.

And when he wraps his hand around my cock while shouting his release, it only takes a few strokes for me to fall over the edge after him.

We stay like that, Ollie slowing his thrusts inside me as he continues to empty into the condom. My chest and the bedding are covered in cum, but instead of making a move to clean up when Ollie pulls out of me, I roll onto my back and collapse onto the bed.

A warm tongue licks at my spent cock. I moan as Ollie laps at the overly sensitive flesh, but I don’t stop him.

“Mmm, babe, you taste amazing, but fuck, you came hard. I think you might need to shower.”

“Shower sounds good,” I say, but my eyes drift closed.

Ollie laughs against my skin. “We’re totally the reason these hotels need black lights. You’re lying in a pool of cum.”

I wave him off. “Legs jelly. Brain broken. Sleep now. Bodily fluid cleanup later.”

“I love it when you’re romantic.”

“Sunshine, flowers, candy, semen … it’s allllll romantic.” I’m rambling now, and I don’t even care.

I’m vaguely aware of Ollie leaving the room and coming back with a wet towel to finish cleaning me and the bed up, and as he rejoins me and wraps his arm around me, something niggles at the back of my mind, but I’m too sated to let it come to the foreground.

It’s like that sense when you leave the house and can’t remember if you turned the iron off, or when you needed to do something but totally forgot.

Sleep pulls me under before I remember exactly what it is or why it’s important.

The incessant buzzing of a phone comes from somewhere in the room. A grumble comes from beside me as Ollie rolls over and throws an arm around my waist.

“You should get that,” he mumbles but holds me tighter. “I’ve been ignoring it for, like, ten minutes now.”

“How do you know it’s not yours?”

“Mine’s dead. Died last night, and I forgot my charger.”

“I don’t wanna,” I complain.

“I know. But I guess we better get up. When’s your flight?”

My eyes fly open. “Shit, what’s the time?”

“It’s early. I think.” Ollie slowly releases me and clambers to his feet. On his way to the bathroom, I admire the view, especially when he bends down and picks up my pants off the floor.

I sigh when he throws them at me and they smack me in the face.

“I’m gonna shower. Hurry up and check your messages so you can join me.”

My protest is weak, but after the water starts running, I force myself to get this done, because a wet, naked Ollie should never be passed up.

I pull my phone out of my pants pocket, and my stomach rolls at the sight of numerous notifications on my screen. As someone who doesn’t have many friends, it’s never a good thing when your social media is lit up like a Christmas tree and you have missed calls from your boss, your coworker … and Damon.

But it’s the notification with the preview of a news article that catches my eye. I squint and click the link and hold my breath.

There I am splashed all over Sporting World News staring at Ollie next to me in the press box like he hung the damn moon. I look love struck, Ollie looks smug, and that means we’re both completely screwed.

I only catch the headline Strömberg Switching Teams? when my phone starts vibrating with another incoming call.

Kevin.

“Hawkins,” I say into the phone, my voice thick from sleep and worry.

“He’s gay, isn’t he?”

My stomach sinks, and I want to vomit. “What are you talking about?”

Do you really think playing dumb will get you out of this?

“We just need confirmation, man. The article’s already written and ready to go.”

“You can’t do that!” I bolt from the bed and start pacing until pain shoots through my foot and I remember my stupid ankle.

“Why not?” Kevin asks.

“You can’t out someone. Harry won’t go for it. We’re not that type of magazine. Do not print that article.”

“He practically outed himself with the shit he pulled last night.”

I knew sitting with me in the press box was a dumb idea.

My legs give way, and I land my ass on the end of the bed.

Ollie’s going to hate me. Six years he’s played professional hockey. He hid a relationship for four of those, and one night after we get together, his news is all over the damn internet.

“Besides,” Kevin says, “Harry’s already signed off on it.”

“Well, he’s not going to get it from me.”

“What the fuck, Lennon? Is this some sort of us against you people thing?”

You people? I want to scream, but I don’t have a voice.

“Just confirm yes or no.”

“No,” I rasp.

“No as in it’s not true, or no as in you won’t confirm?”

“If Harry runs that story, he can expect my resignation in his inbox within the hour of him publishing it. That’s all I have to say.” I hit the end call button and resist the urge to throw my phone across the room.

I bite back a sob. Not for me—I can worry about what this means for my job later—but for Ollie. This is the one thing he didn’t want—to be thrown out of the closet the same way Matt was. He wanted to do it on his own terms, but I somehow came along and screwed that up without even trying.

I stay perched on the end of the bed, but I can’t bring myself to look at my phone anymore.

This is it. This is all I’m going to get from Ollie. A couple of nights of smoking hot sex, a connection I’ve never felt before, and what I’m sure is going to result in a broken heart when he tells me he never wants to see my face again.

The shower turns off, and I can’t catch my breath. The second Ollie steps out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist, his smile drops. There’s no mistaking the guilt written all over me. I think it’s coming out of my pores.

All I can do as I contemplate Ollie hating me is beg. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”