My gaze lands on his swollen and purpling bottom lip. I stand there, fists clenched and teeth grinding. The only reason his lip should look like that is because I devoured it. My thumb catches it. I toy with it, inspecting it until he hisses.
“Have you iced this?”
“Yes, and I saw the team medic for the rest of it after the game. Luke, did you hear what I said?”
I inhale and exhale slowly, my piss-poor attempt at calming down. Right. Something about Tate and Ryan. I can hold it together until he’s explained the situation.
Really, I can.
“From the beginning, McKinnon.”
He explains while I keep my hands busy removing his letter jacket. By the time I have him stripped to his t-shirt and pajama pants—he’d clearly intended on staying here too—I’ve heard the sordid tale of my brother fucking a rival hockey player in his bed.
I’ll kill Tate, but that’s going to have to wait.
Ace is moving a little stiffly. Soreness from the game must be setting in. And what a game. I finally got to see what Tate was talking about. Ace has instincts you can’t teach, extra senses, the kind only some of us have that border on intuition. There’sa saying in hockey that you don’t go where the puck is, you go where the puck’s going to be. Ace is always there, like the puck wants him, like it follows him. It peels off his blade and into the net like it never had another destination. Once you see him do that, all you crave is to see it again. I get it now; he’ll fill the largest sports arenas just like he fills his college one.
I’m glad I wasn’t watching up close. I’ve been the rowdy hockey fan at games, but I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to stomach Ace taking hit after hit without the murderous need to race onto the ice and pulverize the man who did it.
The best thing I can do for him is give him a massage, some relief, and a place to sleep. I lead him to my room, pointing to my bed as I turn on the lamp.
“Sit.” I grip the hem of his t-shirt; he places a hand over mine.
“Um, are you sure you wanna do that, Daddy?”
“How bad is it?”
“I’ve had way worse.”
“Ace.”
He sighs. “Nothing’s broken, but it’s gonna look like it is.”
I keep going, tugging the shirt over his head, unwrapping the finest body I’ve ever seen. All the training leading up to the season’s chiseled him, defining every striation in every muscle. I’m gonna enjoy having my hands on him.
But first, I fetch the arnica from my drawer, something I keep on hand for myself. I rub it gently into the nasty bruise spidering up his arm.
“Wild puck,” he explains.
I twist my lips. Yes, this is part of hockey, but no, I don’t have to like it. I rub the arnica in slower than I should, mentally cursing the sport, pucks, and McKinnon for being a puckhead.
He watches me, a smile spreading across his face. “Adorable,” he says.
“McKinnon,” I growl.
“You are,” he insists, not afraid of me at all. “You’re kinda nurturing for a beast-like guy.”
Only with him. Onlyforhim.
Switching gears, I set up the lube and massage oil on the bedside table, removing my robe before I seat myself with my back against the headboard. All I’m wearing is a pair of tight gray boxer shorts.
Ace stares, mouth wide. Guess I’ve still got it.
“Get over here, princess.” I pat the space between my thighs.
“No fair. If you get to be that naked, then so do I.”
He won’t be a spoiled princess.
