Irresponsible Puckboy (Puckboys #2)(3)

When Tripp doesn’t answer, I turn my attention to him and find him wearing the odd look he gives me sometimes that I can never figure out.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says.

“Thank you.”

Tripp sighs and gets comfortable again. “You okay?”

“I dunno.”

“Go to sleep.” His eyes drift closed. “We’ll talk later.”

“Tripp?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you hold me?” I wriggle closer to him.

“Fuck’s sake, I’m naked under here.”

“And? It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Besides, the blanket is between us, so it’s not like it’s gay.”

“Right. Because being gay would be terrible.”

“You know that’s not what I mean. It’s just platonic snuggles.”

Finally, the tension starts to leave him. “Yeah, I know.”

When he finally pulls me to him, his arms are warm and comfortable. More dudes really should do this. People joke about us having a bromance all the time, but it’s the best way to describe us. I love him. More than Jessica.

Tripp’s my ride or die.

No one can come between a friendship like ours.

“Hey, Tripp?”

He acknowledges me with a sleepy grunt.

“It smells like sex in here.”





Two





TRIPP





Waking up wrapped around my best friend isn’t a new experience, but for a while now, it’s been a painful one. Because as much as I like having Dex around and appreciate that he’s not one of those straight guys who automatically think affection from a gay man means they’re in love with them, in this case, it’s actually true.

Oops.

I don’t know when I fell in love with Dex Mitchale, only that I have. And I’m a fucking dumbass for it.

Because while he’s talking about marriage to someone who doesn’t appreciate him, I’m trying my best to hide my feelings for him. I’ve been trying for a long time. So long, in fact, that I think I have pretty much accepted the inevitable.

I will be in love with my best friend until the day I die.

My friends tell me I need to get over it, and even though they’re right, I’ve decided to take a new approach: pretend my feelings don’t exist.

I’ve never seen a therapist in my life, but I’m sure they’d tell me I’m making a wise and healthy decision.

I’ve been trying to put space between us, to try to get over him that way, but I haven’t come right out and said I need it. Dex is a sensitive soul. It’s one of the first things that ever drew me to him as a friend, but as time has gone on, that need to protect him has only grown. I want to protect his heart, even if it’s at the detriment of my own.

If I told Dex I needed time apart, he would think he did something wrong and then spend the next month doing sweet things to make up for it, which would only make me fall for him more.

Telling him I’m in love with him is out of the question, because then he really will give me space, but not the kind I need. He’d apologize profusely about unknowingly hurting me, and then the space and the guilt over asking for it would eat at me. We’d both grow resentful, and it would ruin everything we have.

Wah, wah, wah, tragic gay boy stereotype in love with his straight best friend. I don’t want to live without him, but seeing him every day makes it harder and harder to keep my shit under control.

Which is how I’ve ended up here. Again. Instead of having phenomenal sex with one of our servers at the Stanley Cup celebrations—or commiserations in our case—I’m in bed with Dex.

His dark blond hair tickles my nose and smells like the soap in the locker room with a hint of sweat. I’d rather the scent of his cedar-and-spice shampoo, but this is still good. Hockey arena and sweat. My happy place.

I breathe him in and then realize sniffing the top of my best friend’s head is crossing boundaries into creepy territory, so I slip out of bed, throw on some sweats, and head out to my kitchen to make a hangover cure of bacon, eggs, and hash browns.

It’s past lunchtime, but I don’t care. I need protein, carbs, and salt. It doesn’t take long for the smell of cooking pig fat to wake the predictably always hungry Dex.

“Is this a commiseration breakfast or a hungover one?”

“Can’t it be both?”

Dex takes a seat on a stool in my kitchen and lowers his head to the marble counter. “I can’t believe we lost last night.”

As a goalie, it’s really hard for me not to take the blame for a loss. It’s a team sport, and I know it’s not my fault, but I’m the one who let those goals in last night.

“I can’t believe I let Anton score in the last two minutes,” I say. “We could’ve gone into overtime and won it.”

Dex leans in and whispers, “Don’t tell the rest of the team, but I’m kinda happy for Anton and Ezra.”

“Of course you are.” And I am too. Dex and I won the Stanley Cup three years ago, and even though the competitive side of me is crushed, I can’t deny I’m happy for Ezra’s first-ever win. I’d still prefer it to be me, but hey, if I had to lose to someone, I’m glad it was to a team that has queer players.