Breakaway Goals, page 13
“I know,” Hayes said. And he’d known why, objectively. Understood, even though it had sort of stung, deep down. He’d gotten it, and he’d gotten it even more when Morgan had admitted that Hayes made him feel old. Washed-up. Like his career was essentially over.
“I’m just saying, what are you two doing?” Danny questioned. “If you don’t come out of this like . . .super committed, what are you doing?”
“That’s not going to happen,” Hayes said bluntly. “He lives in New York. I live in California. It’s not . . .it’s just not happening. It’s been fun, it’s been—”
“Bullshit,” Danny said bluntly. “I see the way you two look at each other. I’m your fucking line mate. I have to see it. I can’t avoid seeing it.”
“It is what it is,” Hayes said.
“And so what, Morgan extolling your praises before the game tonight is, what, just him being nice? Him having fun? You have met Morgan Reynolds, haven’t you?”
Hayes leaned over and picked up his bag. He didn’t have the emotional bandwidth for this conversation. It was hard enough keeping things light and uncomplicated around Morgan when his feelings felt increasingly involved without having to answer Danny’s pointed questions.
“Yeah, I have. But we’ve got a game to play, Danny. You know that.”
Danny shot him an incredulous look, but couldn’t really argue with him, because it was true.
Right now, they had to head back to the hotel, take their nap, eat dinner, and then get ready for the championship game.
Tomorrow afternoon, he’d be flying back to California, and this whole insane interlude would—probably—be over.
He and Morgan hadn’t talked about it. They’d specifically not talked about it. Not two nights ago when Morgan had stayed over, and not last night, when Hayes had ended up in Morgan’s bed.
The sex was really good. The conversation was unexpectedly amazing, just talking to someone who got it. Who understood the very specific pressure cooker they both existed inside. But anything else was asking for a miracle that wasn’t happening.
Hayes wasn’t stupid enough to wish for it.
“When and if you wanna talk about it,” Danny said as they made their way to the team bus, “you just holler, okay?”
Hayes didn’t imagine he was ever going to want to talk about it. He was going to want to do the opposite, probably. Pretend it had never happened. Move on, somehow, and denial seemed the most likely avenue to make that possible.
There were a handful of texts from Zach on his phone when he woke up from his pregame nap.
I just saw Mo talking you up. Think you’ve made a fan for life, Monty.
Then, Holy shit, he was REALLY talking you up. You recovered yet? You still alive, under all those crushing feelings?
And finally, Good luck in the game today, you’re gonna freaking kill it. And that’s not just the Morgan in me talking, it’s the Zach in me believing it’s true :)
Hayes didn’t know what to say. It was hard enough to have even twenty-five percent of this conversation with Danny, nevermind Zach.
Thanks, he finally sent as he headed downstairs, suit on, to have dinner before they headed to the arena.
It was better than him sending nothing, but there was no question it would tip Zach off that he was kind of a mess.
How many years had he wanted an acknowledgment from Morgan of his game and his skill? Too many. And now he’d finally gotten it and it tasted fucking bitter in the back of his throat.
He knew Morgan meant it. He wouldn’t have said it otherwise, but the circumstances were fucking him up.
And like Morgan somehow knew it, he kept his distance during dinner, sitting on the other end, chatting with Bram and the coaching staff.
Hayes sat with Danny, who kept shooting him knowing looks, and Noah and Cal, and shoveled chicken and pasta into his mouth, not tasting a single molecule of it.
Morgan didn’t approach him until they were in the locker room. He’d been making his rounds as everyone warmed up and then geared up, doing his good captain routine, dropping encouraging words and last-minute advice into their teammates’ ears.
Hayes did notice that Morgan saved him for last—or nearly last, because he’d also noticed that during Morgan’s rotation he’d yet to head over to where Jacob sat in his stall, locked-in expression serious.
“Hey,” Morgan said, gazing down at him.
“Hey,” Hayes said, telling himself, be normal, be normal, be normal.
“You good?”
Hayes licked his lips. Dug his fingertips into his hip pad. “Yeah.”
Morgan shot him a bit of a knowing look. “Really? You’ve been quiet.”
And you’ve been hiding from me, from the moment you woke up in my bed this morning and kissed me like you meant it with your whole heart, and I kissed you back because I couldn’t help it.
“Focused,” Hayes corrected.
“Just remember that it’s the three of us out there. We’ve got your back and you’ve got ours. It’s not all on you.”
Hayes nodded.
“And, it’s . . .uh, a sixty-minute game.”
Hayes raised an eyebrow. “Any more captain-ly platitudes you want to say?”
The seriousness in Morgan’s face dissolved. “Fuck, I’m being weird, aren’t I?”
“Has Danny been bothering you, too?”
Maybe it was weird to bring it up, but it felt even weirder to be talking around it.
Morgan let out a little groan, and Hayes flushed before he could force himself not to react. “Yeah, ever since he saw that stuff I said about you.” His voice dropped even further. “I meant it all, you know? I should’ve said it a long time ago—”
“Don’t,” Hayes said, sharper than he’d intended. “I . . .you aren’t obligated to say anything about me. About how I play.”
Hayes hated and loved how earnest Morgan looked. “I meant it.”
“Yeah, I know.” Yeah, Hayes knew. Which was what made it so fucking awful.
“If Danny won’t quit harassing you, just send him my way, okay?” Morgan said.
“He’s not—is he harassing you?” Hayes asked.
As annoying as Matt Daniels could be, it was obvious he meant well.
“No, no of course not,” Morgan blustered. “He was just giving me shit about that stuff I said yesterday. But it was all true, so I didn’t really mind.”
Hayes wasn’t sure he really believed him, but he wasn’t going to call him out on it. Not now.
They were going to have to talk about this, but it was going to be after the game, no matter how it went.
“Well, if that changes,” Hayes said, giving Morgan the easiest smile he was capable of right now, “you just let me know, and I’ll deal with him.”
Morgan returned an even brighter smile. “Alright.”
“And remember,” Hayes said, reaching out and catching Morgan’s arm before he turned away, “you’re not alone out there, either. I know you’ve got the C, and like a whole fucking nation of yee haw Americans relying on you, but you’ve got us—Danny and me. The whole team, too, but us.” But me, most of all, Hayes wanted to say. Didn’t quite have the nerve to say it, but he felt it.
Morgan’s expression softened into something tender that made the something else in his chest tighten and expand.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” He shot Hayes a smile almost identical to the one he’d worn this morning, right before he’d leaned over and kissed him.
Hayes had to believe that they were going to be okay. That they’d figure this shit out. That this something else inside him would eventually be satisfied and calm the fuck down.
Morgan had heard the talk before the tournament started. That this was only going to be a slightly different, no less physical example of the yearly and very pointless All Star game. That nobody would want to play hard. That nobody would hit. That the games would be just everyone skating around, shooting the puck like it was going out of style.
But he’d always known every minute on the ice was going to be hard fought.
Their last game against Canada had been that way, and this one was even tougher.
It was still 0-0, midway through the third. No matter how hard their team had pushed—or how hard the Canadians pushed, it was like they both kept running up against the same fucking wall.
“Shit,” Danny exclaimed as he climbed over the boards, sinking onto the bench. “They’re fucking all over us. I can’t even get a moment to breathe, nevermind to hold the puck. Forget about passing or shooting it.”
“I know,” Hayes said on Morgan’s other side.
He looked as frustrated as Danny sounded.
“We just gotta keep pushing and keep being patient,” Morgan said, even though he could hear the opposite in his own voice. “They’re gonna make a mistake, eventually.”
Danny made a grumbling noise, but Hayes nodded his agreement. “They’re not perfect,” he said. He met Morgan’s gaze, and they both nodded.
Hayes’ resolution and determination fueled his own.
They would get this done.
It was maybe their second to last shift, based on the four minutes left on the clock, and Morgan, despite Hayes’ confidence, couldn’t help but feel the pressure.
Even though it had seemed inevitable all game that they were going to go to overtime, he didn’t want that. He wanted to finish the Canadians off now. Their team was tired, he was tired, and in two days, they all had to go back to their regular NHL teams. Playing extra shifts wasn’t going to make any of that easier.
“Come on,” he barked at Monty and at Danny as they went over the boards. “Let’s get this shit done.”
Hayes nodded at him and took off towards the net where the US defenders were trying to dig the puck out from behind it to get it away from where Braun was poised, ready to deflect a shot if he needed to.
Danny headed over, helping him out, and managed to muscle the guys out of the way, flicking the puck towards Morgan, who caught it and then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hayes sliding open. A lane opening up past the blue line. He passed it and then blocked one of the defenders from catching up with him, and that was all the time Hayes needed.
He took off so fast it was like Morgan barely blinked and there he was, already across the ice, more flying than skating, two defenders and one of the Canadian forwards behind him, scrambling to catch up and stop him somehow.
But Hayes wasn’t going to be stopped. Not now.
Morgan could see the determination in every stride, in the tenseness of his shoulders under his pads, in the way he angled himself, Binnington bracing for the shot.
But Hayes wasn’t going to waste this opportunity, and he slid to the left and then flicked the puck in barely a second before Binnington could react, launching it over his glove hand.
The arena erupted.
Morgan was pretty sure he was yelling, but he couldn’t hear it, not over the sheer wall of noise. He was the closest to Hayes and hit him at full speed, Hayes’ arms around him as they slid into the boards.
“You fucking did it,” Morgan yelled. “You fucking did, baby!”
Hayes smile was as wide as he’d ever seen it. “I fucking did!” he crowed back.
Danny hit them then, followed by pretty much the rest of the team, even though there was still just over three minutes on the clock.
“We gotta focus up,” Morgan said to the team when they finally all returned to the bench. “We can’t let Monty’s goal go to waste. Do not let them get around you. Do not let them get a free shot in, okay?”
But even that lecture didn’t seem to dim Hayes’ joy.
Or Morgan’s own.
They’d made that play. Danny had started it, with his aggressive move against the boards, then getting the puck to Morgan, who’d only had a split second before he knew he’d be passing it to Hayes.
Hayes, who’d made the most out of the single opportunity he’d been handed.
Morgan had told him and Danny that their chance was going to come around, if they could just keep fighting and keep being patient.
It had, and Hayes had grabbed it with both hands. They all had, maybe, but Hayes most of all. Hayes who’d started out this tournament worried and pressured but had come into his own. Glowing now, with Morgan’s gaze on him.
“Shit,” Morgan said, leaning towards Hayes, his glove in front of his mouth. “That was just . . .when I said we were here to make you look good, that’s exactly what I fucking meant.”
Hayes flushed, a deeper red than his already pink-from-exertion face.
“You’re so good, Monty,” Morgan said, because he couldn’t seem to stop running his mouth.
The look in Hayes’ eyes was tender. Goopy. Not the look of a teammate. But of a lover. Morgan didn’t hate it; he actually wanted to eat it all up, even though he’d known when they’d woken up this morning, wrapped up together, that there was no future here.
That no matter how much he wanted it, it just wasn’t there. This wasn’t a play he could make by muscling an opponent out of the way. A shot he could perfect by practicing long after everyone else had left the rink. It was immutable fate, and he couldn’t change it, even if he was dying to.
Even if Hayes looked at him like he was thinking the same things.
He’d thought maybe he’d finally need to talk about this tonight, but maybe talk was the last thing they needed.
Maybe to say it out loud would just make it worse.
Hayes nudged him and Morgan turned his attention back to the ice. There was a minute and a half left now, and the Canadians had just pulled Binnington.
“Reynolds, Monty, get out there,” Coach Blackburn barked. “Kill this.”
The Canadians pushed hard, but the clock finally ticked down to the last thirty seconds, then the last fifteen. Morgan knew what they needed and finally managed to steal the puck and clear it past the blue line, time finally running out.
They’d done it.
Morgan met Hayes’ eyes as he skated up to him, whooping the whole way.
And he knew, without a doubt, who he was passing the brand-new Four Nations trophy to, first.
Hayes felt like every molecule in his body had been electrified.
The celebration on the ice had sped by, but every so often a visceral perfect memory could cross his mind—the smile on Morgan’s face as he’d lifted the trophy, the look in his eyes as he’d handed it to Hayes first, the heft of it in his hands and the taste of silver on his tongue as he’d tipped his head back and drunk out of it.
He’d showered and changed, but even then he felt the sticky sweet slick of cheap champagne and cheaper beer over his skin.
They’d been at the bar for at least an hour and Hayes hadn’t had to buy himself a single drink, even though they were currently in Canada and Canadians in general weren’t really thrilled about how their tournament turned out.
He mentioned this to Danny who just smirked and said he probably wouldn’t have to buy a single drink for himself, ever again, no matter what country he was in.
The problem was that Hayes didn’t want to get drunk. He wanted to float endlessly on this perfect, hazy river of uncomplicated happiness forever. Tipsy but not drunk, realizing that nearly every time he looked over that Morgan was gazing at him, the look on his face making it clear exactly where they were going to end the night.
Hayes decided nobody could blame him for wanting to end it right now. Making up his mind, he set his beer down and, not giving a shit, walked right over to where Morgan was chatting with a few of their defensemen.
It wasn’t very subtle, but then 1) hockey players were a pretty obtuse bunch and 2) it wasn’t like Morgan had been particularly holding back.
“Hey,” he said to Morgan, “remember that thing I told you about?”
There had been no thing.
Morgan frowned, moving closer, his hand reaching up to steady Hayes even though he wasn’t unsteady at all. “What thing?”
“The thing,” Hayes said, nudging him.
Up until now, he’d been letting Morgan dictate this whole thing, but he was done doing that. This was happening tonight, and it was happening now. Hayes was practically a national fucking hero right now, so if he wanted to have Captain America fuck him? That only seemed like fair and adequate compensation.
It only took Morgan a second. Then he was on it. “Oh yeah,” he said, nudging back. “The thing.”
“Yep,” Hayes said smugly. “The thing.”
Morgan turned to their teammates and didn’t even have the grace to look disappointed. “Hayes and I have something we need to take care of,” he said.
They just nodded, giving Hayes another round of backslaps and congratulations, before Hayes could finally drag Morgan towards the door.
“You don’t want to stay and celebrate?” Morgan asked, grinning at him like it was making his whole ego sing that Hayes couldn’t wait a second longer.
“No,” Hayes said succinctly. “I’ve waited long enough, don’t you think? Besides, it’s practically my party. If I want to leave it early, that’s my prerogative.”
Hayes grabbed his coat and handed Morgan his own.
Morgan’s smug grin only grew as he shrugged it on. “Yeah. I take it I’m invited to this private party you’re hosting, then?”
That something else was pressing hard and fast against his diaphragm, making it hard to even breathe as Morgan leaned in, using opening the door as an excuse to get even closer.
It shouldn’t have felt more intimate to gaze up at Morgan as they headed out onto the sidewalk and say, “The only person I’m inviting,” but it was.
They’d talked about other personal things, but they’d never talked about what this was. At first Hayes had felt like that wasn’t necessary, since they both knew the score, and then it had felt like the opposite—like he couldn’t have gotten the words out of his mouth even if he wanted to.
He wanted to say, I want you to be the only person I’m inviting for a very long time, but he didn’t know if he could. If he should.
“Good,” Morgan said, nodding once.
It was all they said to each other on the five-minute walk from the bar to the hotel. Morgan only broke the silence when they got into the elevator and he leaned over, pressing the button for the seventh floor.
