Breakaway Goals, page 14
Okay, Hayes realized, they were going to his room and not even talking about it. Just doing it.
Then Morgan turned to him, “That goal was something fucking else.”
“It was a good pass,” Hayes said.
Morgan laughed under his breath. “Take the win, okay?”
“I’ve spent the last few hours taking the win,” Hayes pointed out.
“And somehow that’s too much?” Morgan rolled his eyes but he didn’t make any attempts to hide his fondness as he glanced over at him.
Hayes’ throat felt tight. Say it, say it, say it, say it. “I can think of one more thing I want. That you can give me.”
“Yeah?”
“Your dick.” Hayes paused, realizing he needed to be crystal clear about what he wanted. “I want you to fuck me.”
It was such a fucking cliche he was fully expecting Morgan to smirk knowingly the moment it was out of his mouth. But instead Morgan looked floored, blown away by Hayes’ words.
And yeah, duh, it was probably the first time a guy had asked Morgan to do that. Possibly the first time Morgan had ever contemplated fucking a guy. Now that Hayes was thinking not only with his dick, he could see maybe he’d gone too hard. Not offered other, possibly easier, things, first.
Morgan turned to him, jaw still a little dropped. “You mean that,” Morgan said.
Yes, Hayes could’ve worked up to it, but this was what he’d wanted. What he’d been half-afraid to ask for, before. What he’d definitely known was a bad idea, considering the number and sheer toughness of the games they had to play during this tournament.
He’d thought this through, though. At least as well as he could with the haze of the booze in his system. He didn’t have a game for three days. Asking for this was allowed, and maybe if he was very lucky, Morgan wouldn’t be turned off by the request. Maybe he’d even like it.
“Yes,” Hayes said unsteadily. Resisting the urge to apologize. To snatch the words back and claim he hadn’t actually meant what he’d asked.
The elevator doors dinged open and they headed down the hall towards Hayes’ room.
Morgan didn’t say anything else, not until Hayes got the door open. The moment it closed behind them, Morgan had his arms around him and he was half-pushing him, half-dragging him to the bed, lips pressed hard and insistent against Hayes’.
“God, yes, please,” Morgan all but begged, pressing Hayes against the edge of the bed, tilting his head back as he kissed him intently.
Hayes broke off the kiss with a gasp. “You mean that?” he had to ask.
Morgan stared at him, the pupils swallowing nearly all the hazel of his eyes.
“God, yes, I want you. I want all of you,” Morgan muttered. He was already shucking Hayes’ jacket, then pulling at his sweatshirt, his T-shirt. “You make me crazy. When you scored that goal—I thought I was going to fall to the ice, worship you right there.”
Hayes had a fleeting thought that they really should talk about this.
That I want all of you sounded just about as serious as the something else currently pressing so insistently against his breastbone.
But then Morgan was sinking to his knees, pulling down his jeans and his briefs, mouth and then teeth on his thigh.
It was too easy to get lost in the sensation of it, the pleasure Morgan pulled out of him, easy as breathing.
He was still floating, everything perfect and amazing and wonderful as he told Morgan the lube and condoms were in the drawer. He’d bought them yesterday, in a fit of optimism, thinking that whether they won or lost the championship game, he was going to want to experience Morgan inside him, just once.
More than just once. This is just the first time.
It was impossible not to ride high on the way Morgan looked at him. Touched him. Every bit of it reinforcing the idea in Hayes’ mind that this wouldn’t be happening just once. That they wanted each other too much to be that stupid.
“God, you’re so sexy,” Morgan murmured as he slipped a finger inside him. Hayes groaned at the way it felt, shifting backwards so he could have more of it.
“Another,” Hayes begged, no longer even caring if he sounded desperate. He was desperate.
Morgan pressed his mouth to his inner thigh again, nibbling at the muscle there, then moving up, slipping Hayes’ cock into his mouth, not sucking on it, just letting it sit on his tongue as he slid another finger in.
Hayes groaned around the stretch, already craving the heft and weight of Morgan’s dick inside him. His fingers were so good, but he wanted—needed—more, the way he needed to take his next breath.
“I got you,” Morgan murmured around his cock. “Let me.”
And even though this was his first time, Hayes let him.
Kept floating on that easy, uncomplicated cloud of pleasure. Clenched up when Morgan gave him another slick finger, moaning when Morgan finally hit that spot inside him.
Ate up every single word of praise Morgan gave him. Every gorgeous and hot and sexy. Practically came when Morgan told him how good he was taking it.
Then Morgan was rising, pushing his knee up to his chest and a moment later, groaning as he fit the head of his cock to Hayes’ hole.
“Shit, baby, you’re so good like this. So fucking perfect.” Morgan met his eyes as he said it, and it was like he saw inside Hayes, knew exactly what he needed to hear, knew exactly what effect those words had on him.
It shouldn’t have been good sex. Morgan might be experienced with women, but he wasn’t with men. It didn’t matter. It was already the best sex of Hayes’ life, Morgan filling him like he was built for him. His cock, for sure, the perfect length and girth and curve, making Hayes shout with how unerringly he hit every good spot inside him, lighting him up with pleasure. But it was more than that, too.
Like they were two puzzle pieces finding each other and finally nestling together the way they’d always been meant to.
Morgan leaned over him as he fucked him, kissing him on the lips, tender and gentle, at odds with his hard, firm strokes, and sent Hayes over the edge with just that.
A second later, Hayes felt him tense and he was following him.
They collapsed onto the bed, and Morgan slung an arm around him, like he couldn’t quite bear to let him go.
This was the moment. Hayes should say something. Should break the silence, but it felt so weighted.
Instead, it was Morgan who did it. “Good?” he asked.
Hayes nodded, and Morgan groaned as he sat up. Headed to the bathroom and when he returned, he helped Hayes clean up, and Hayes knew this was definitely the time.
Especially when Morgan returned to bed, to his side, like he was a magnet and he couldn’t possibly resist.
He started out half a dozen times in his own head.
What do you think?
Are you as into this as I am?
You felt that too, right?
We could do this, even if it’s crazy?
Three thousand miles isn’t that far.
Anything has to be better than being without each other, now that we’ve found this.
But before he could decide on a tactic, on a single approach, Hayes felt his eyes begin to slip closed, the game and the adrenaline and the booze and the sex all catching up with him at once.
He had one last thought before he fell asleep.
I think I know what this something else is.
And then he was gone.
Chapter 9
Morgan didn’t fall asleep. Hayes knocked out almost immediately, combination of the game, the adrenaline rush and then fall, the booze and then almost definitely the orgasm.
But Morgan couldn’t turn his mind off. He hadn’t had nearly as much to drink as Hayes—almost nothing, other than the few sips of cheap beer and shitty champagne in the locker room and a single beer at the bar—because he’d somehow known he’d need his wits about him tonight.
That Hayes would want to turn him inside out, and he’d need to be able to think for that.
There was no question about it: Hayes had done it. Effortlessly, even, like it wasn’t even hard. Like he’d been doing it, basically from the first day, when he’d spent too much time apologizing for him being Hayes Montgomery and for Morgan being Morgan Reynolds.
He hadn’t apologized for it today. He’d leaned into it, and look what had happened. They’d won, and yes, it had been a team effort, but Hayes had also put them all on his back. Had said, like it was nothing, I got this, you guys.
He had. Hayes had been his most amazing brilliant self, all the more extraordinary because he didn’t even see how brightly he shone.
And Morgan had never felt the resounding echo of that so much in his whole damn life.
He’d won two Cups, and neither of those wins had felt even close to what tonight had been, with Hayes. A stupid manufactured tournament and he couldn’t say that he was the same person after that he’d been before.
But I don’t want to be different. Morgan didn’t want it, but the thought was impossible to ignore, screaming at him with flashing red lights.
Morgan knew he only had two or three years left, at most. Maybe he’d win another Cup. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d set some more records, maybe he wouldn’t.
Maybe later, when it didn’t feel like he was on his last fucking chance, he could lean into that difference. Maybe later it wouldn’t mean anything, in the scheme of things.
But when he lay here and thought about what this thing between them could look like, he felt soft and happy and like a person, not a hockey player.
You’re not ready to be anything more than a hockey player.
That was the unvarnished truth he couldn’t seem to get away from. He wasn’t ready. He wanted this. A part of him even craved it. Wanted to roll over and press as close to Hayes as he could, to soak up his warmth and affection and his sheer fucking brilliance, but he didn’t.
Become second to him.
But he couldn’t.
Morgan waited until the clock turned over to three a.m. and then four. Five.
Waited to change his mind. And it hurt—no question. The vague concept of getting out of this bed and leaving now, of only meeting Hayes tomorrow morning over his eggs and being able to give him a brief, friendly, bro-y hug as he said goodbye, made him want to hurl.
But the alternative felt worse. Too many years of ingrained habits. So many sacrifices. Believing, even when he’d been married and had a child, that hockey was enough, that it would always have to be enough.
The clock hit six.
He took one breath and then another and then slid out of bed. Gathered his clothes. Didn’t look at the Hayes-shaped lump in the bed. Wasn’t sure he’d really be able to say goodbye if he waited around to do it.
Shut the door as quietly behind him as he could.
Ran into Blackburn in the hallway, who looked at him oddly, but accepted the bad excuse he gave for being on a different floor. Went back to his room, took a shower, packed his shit and then an hour later he was downstairs at breakfast. Pretending like nothing was wrong.
He couldn’t say he’d reassembled his armor, but at least he didn’t react when Hayes walked in. Their eyes met and Morgan looked away. His chest ached, and his throat tightened. He wanted to be different. But they’d only ever been who they were and no amount of desire was ever going to change that fundamental fact.
Hayes probably knew it, better than he did, even, and he wasn’t the one ghosting Morgan.
But Morgan was ghosting him.
Before this, Morgan would have proudly proclaimed he’d handle anything the world threw at him. Any amount of pain and suffering; he could handle it. But walking up to Hayes and acting like he was just another player and this was just another goodbye, it was taking him out.
It was shitty. He was shitty. He should tell Hayes the truth. But he wasn’t sure he could choke out the words.
This was the only way.
Even when Hayes shot him a confused look, and Danny said, in a particularly pointed way, “Guess you aren’t eating with Hayes this morning,” he stayed strong.
He’d been strong his whole life, and it seemed that practiced strength was training for this very situation, because it was taking every single bit of it to pull it off.
Even when he left early, catching a ride to the airport, and Hayes texted him, wondering where he’d gone, he didn’t turn around. No matter how much he wanted to.
This was the path he’d chosen. The path he’d always chosen, its ruts and grooves so natural to him it was almost like the path had chosen him instead.
He just had to stay on it, and it would take care of him. Morgan had to believe that, because otherwise, he didn’t know what the fuck all this had been for.
Hayes knew something was wrong the moment he woke up alone.
Knew it was wrong, even more wrong, during breakfast when Morgan deliberately avoided him.
When he disappeared early, and Coach Thompson mentioned offhandedly when he asked that he’d gone to the airport early to catch his flight, Hayes knew it was more than wrong.
Not just wrong; the situation had catastrophically imploded.
Where’d you go? he sent Morgan. Aware he was being needy. Telling himself anyway that he was being totally normal, even if it was a lie.
But as he paced in his room, minutes ticking by without an answer, it was harder and harder not to face reality. You should have talked to him sooner. But what good would that have done? In that alternate vision of the future, Morgan would have been forced to tell him to his face that he wasn’t interested in keeping whatever this was going, and that would have sucked even harder.
His throat felt tight when he called Zach twenty minutes later.
“I fucked up,” was all he said.
Zach made a sad clicking noise. “What do you mean?” he asked, even though he had to know. Maybe not how exactly Hayes had fucked up, but he knew the end result. He’d known it when he’d warned Hayes a week ago. Told him he was playing with fire and he was going to get burned.
Hayes was scorched earth now, pain spreading through him in a nauseating wave of disbelief. Was Morgan really going to pretend they hadn’t been anything to each other? Just a hookup? They’d both known it wasn’t like that.
And yes, maybe it was essentially impossible to keep up a relationship when they played on opposite sides of the country, but if they both wanted this—if they both wanted each other, the way Hayes knew they did, deep down in a place where the truth shone like a fucking beacon—they could make it work. Anything had to be better than doing this.
“It’s over,” Hayes said dully.
Because in the end, he’d been right. It didn’t really matter what had happened, what Hayes had or hadn’t done, what Morgan had or hadn’t done, only that the end result was that Hayes was alone and Morgan-less.
“Oh, Monty,” Zach said sympathetically. “What did he say?”
Hayes swallowed. “Nothing. Just . . .nothing.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.” Hayes laughed, unable to deny how hysterical and unhinged he sounded. “Fucking nothing. I didn’t think—I didn’t think I had to say anything. I thought we were on the same page. No, we were on the same fucking page. We won, and he looked at me . . .” Hayes couldn’t go on. It hurt too much, to think of how Morgan had looked at him yesterday. Like he hadn’t even realized he was a key, but then he’d seen Hayes’ lock, and it was magical the way they fit together.
On the ice, and off it, too.
“I saw,” Zach said in a low voice. “I know what you two looked like yesterday. You didn’t imagine it, Monty, I saw it.”
“I know,” Hayes snapped and then immediately regretted it. It wasn’t Zach’s fault that Hayes had been a monumental idiot. That he’d trusted in the basic decency and good intentions of someone who self-professed to be an asshole.
“So you didn’t try to stop him,” Zach finally said in a quiet, resigned voice.
“He made it so I couldn’t.” Hayes froze. He was furious. Resigned. Hurting. And then suddenly, he felt something even worse, a feeling that had to be understanding.
Hayes hadn’t even known what this thing between them would be like, and he had some kind of framework to fit into. Morgan clearly didn’t, and had freaked out. It was hard to even be angry about that, even if he was.
Zach hummed in sympathy. “It sucks, Monty. No way around it. It really fucking sucks. When are you coming home?”
“In a few hours.” He needed to pack. To get to the airport. Not discover sudden empathy for Morgan Reynolds.
“Good.”
But it was inevitable. “I didn’t even know what it was going to look like, between us,” Hayes said, the words tumbling out. “How was he supposed to know?”
“He was supposed to not ghost you,” Zach said sternly.
“I should’ve talked to him. I was just so tired last night—the win and the booze and then the sex—” He broke off. It felt weird telling Zach, who was his best friend, who he trusted, about him and Morgan. That should’ve been an indication from the first that Morgan was different.
“I just should’ve talked to him. I should’ve. Even if it felt unnecessary. Even if I was afraid.” Hayes’ voice broke. Because that was really what it had been. He’d been terrified if he confronted Morgan with the truth, that Morgan wouldn’t pick him.
“You are not to blame here.” Zach still sounded steely, tough. Like he was five seconds from kicking Morgan’s ass. Like next time they faced each other on the ice, Zach was going after him.
Oh, God. They still had to play the Bandits one more time this season. Hayes didn’t remember when, but suddenly he was scrambling for his phone, frantically searching for the Mavs’ schedule.
“Shit,” he exhaled hard. Six weeks from now. It could be worse. It could be better, too.
“What is it?” Zach asked, sounding less stern and more worried, now.
“We have to play them again. In six weeks.”
