glanced down the line to find Tate staring at me.
A silent sort of thing passed between us. What it was I would have been hard pressed to explain, but I saw many things in his warm brown eyes. He chewed on his mouthguard and raised one eyebrow. I shrugged. He rolled his eyes. I closed my eyes and inclined my head to ask for forgiveness. Coach was still yelling, the fans were still jeering the Railers, and the moron behind us was still holding that miserable sign about Tate being the biggest turd on the SHT line against the glass. None of that mattered though. I opened my eyes and saw Tate tap his visor as if to say all was forgiven. Or I read it that way. Perhaps he was using some sort of Texas sign language to tell me to fuck off. I’d not know for sure until after the game, when we were all meeting up with Ryker, Jacob, and the Railers for a late meal at one of our famous Mexican restaurants. Perhaps Tate would want to go back to his place after the meal. Perhaps he was done with my stupid old jealous pushy ass. Perhaps I needed to apologize to Tennant and Colorado and Coach as well. I sighed and spit on the floor. This being in a relationship with my teammate was causing just as much havoc as I knew it would. Yet I was in no hurry to not wake up with Tate’s long, strong body next to mine.
We lost to the Railers but only just and in overtime. Which pushed back our Mexican meal, which meant that Tate and I were in the parking lot behind the eatery at three in the morning, pinkie fingers hooked, looking at each other under a black velvet Arizona sky.
“I should go home,” he said, but his eyes told a different story.
“You should come to my home. Frank will want his grapes.”
“And you? What would you want from me?”
“All that you’re willing to give me, zvedya moya.”
He grew bold then, leaning in to steal a kiss.
“About damn time you two came out,” Eli’s voice rang out, startling us apart. My partner on the ice sauntered up to us, his face a smug mask. “We have a pool.”
“We’re not out, we’re not— a pool?” I asked, keeping my pinkie finger linked with Tate’s.
“Oh yeah, it’s been running for a couple of weeks now. A Where-Will-Sugar-and-Ice-be-Caught-Sucking-Face?’ pool. I think I might have just won!”
“There is no winning. We are not out, and as my friend I ask you to keep what you have seen to yourself. Our lives are too complicated for a romance to burst into the limelight.”
“But there must be five hundred bucks in the till. Ryker had you two down to be caught in the showers, which I knew was far too forward for the Iceberg. Alex said you’d be caught in the skate room. Again, too forward. Penn said you’d be caught in the sin bin which I think is some pansexual fantasy of his or something, but yeah, so not Vlad. Henry guessed you’d be seen smooching by the concession stands, also not Vlad. But, I had a parking lot behind a Mexican restaurant after a meal with the Railers.”
“Fuck you. You’re feeding me bullshit,” I snapped.
Tate sniggered, then slid an arm around my waist. My eyes flared. Eli clapped my shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m fucking with you. Be nice to this old shit, okay, Sugar?”
“I’ll be nice to him, I promise,” Tate replied as Eli slipped around us.
“Good, I’d hate to have to kick your ass. Oh, and by the way? There really is a pool and I just won.” Eli shouted, then dashed to catch his ride home with Henry and Apollo.
“If I find out there is a pool…”
Tate pulled me to my car. “Forget about the pool. Let’s go home. Your home. Your bed.”
That I was more than happy to do.
I would find out about the pool though…
Chapter Eleven
Tate
The car ride back to my place the next morning was quiet.
I’d stayed overnight with Vlad, yes, I’d fed Frank grapes, and yes, I’d felt quieter and chilled and protected. But out here on a fresh day heading home I still had the mess in my head that wouldn’t go away.
It had started with a blurry photo tweeted a few hours back that pictured me leaving the station, and another with Vlad there, and I couldn’t even begin to read some of the