Page 2 of The Blame Game
Dom bit back the instinct to make a snarky retort. He fucking knew that.
Sawyer held up his hands, clearly reading the annoyance on his face. “I’m just saying …”
“No. I know.” Dom looked away. “Just pisses me off. I used to play a full game plus overtime, go out drinking after, and not feel like I’d been hit by a goddamn train the next day.”
Sawyer chuckled. “I hear that. Not playing a full game but …”
Reflexively, they both glanced down at his knee.
At the moment, Sawyer was fully dressed in a pair of fitted trousers and a button-down shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders and pecs, so Dom couldn’t see the scars from multiple surgeries that wrapped around the knee joint, testament to the injuries that had ended Sawyer’s hockey career before it ever began.
But Dom had seen Sawyer naked plenty of times. He knew exactly what he looked like under those clothes.
Dom’s gaze drifted across Sawyer, moving up. He looked great tonight, the shirt making his eyes especially blue.
Sawyer always dressed well, but he had to. That was part of their cover story.
On paper, Dom hired Sawyer to be his stylist. Since Dom did regularly make the NHL’s best-dressed lists, it wasn’t entirely a cover.
The agency made sure their escorts knew how to please in every way.
“Anything I should try on tonight?” Dom asked, nodding toward the clothing rack on the far side of the condo that held a couple of suits.
Sawyer glanced away from the screen, blinking. “Hmm?”
“Should I try anything on?” Dom repeated.
“If you want,” Sawyer said with a shrug. “I think by now, I know your size and so does the tailor but …”
“Nah,” Dom said. “I trust you.”
It was meant to be a flippant, off-hand comment but it landed oddly, flat and weighty in the silence that followed.
It was true though. Dom trusted Sawyer as much as he trusted anyone.
After years of this arrangement, he’d had ample opportunity to sell Dom out and he hadn’t done so.
If he had, he would have risked outing himself and that Dom had been paying him for sex for the better part of four years.
Mutually assured destruction was the safest option, after all.
Detroit scored, bringing it to 5-4, and Dom leaned in, staring at the screen intently as the last five minutes of the game wound down, both teams pushing hard, Portland trying to hold on to their lead, Detroit straining to close the gap.
In the final seconds there was a scramble in front of Portland’s net and the goal horn sounded, the teams tied at 5-5.
Dom watched the replay, the puck bouncing off the goalie’s pads at a weird angle. It didn’t matter how ugly the goal was though; if it crossed the line, it was good.
“You jinxed it,” Dom said, disgusted. “They’re going into overtime now.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Sawyer let out a rueful laugh. “Whatever, I can catch the highlights later.”
He turned the TV off, the screen going black, reflecting a vague and distorted image of them sitting on opposite ends of the sectional.
“In a hurry tonight?” Dom asked with a lift of his eyebrows. “Hot date?”
Sawyer shot him an unamused look. “Just you, baby.”
“Ha-ha.” Dom scoffed because Sawyer was clearly in a weird mood tonight and maybe so was he.
