by Eden Finley
Every couple of stops, I make sure to get Soren out on a date-like activity where we can break away from the craziness that is the tour.
Sometimes we’ve had to cut them short because of paparazzi or fans recognizing us, and not every activity we do can be private like the escape room, but we try.
I don’t get much free time, but I make every spare minute count.
Soren works out in the hotel gym while I go do interviews, but he’s always, without fail, at the side of the stage for every soundcheck and show.
Despite Harley telling us to go to the after-parties, we don’t because other than keeping fans happy, I don’t see the point of them. The people pay for VIP passes to meet Eleven, not us. If we were headliners, we’d have no choice, but I do get a choice, and I choose to escape to my hotel room with Soren.
With the new sense of normal between us, it’s the first time in touring history I can say I’m completely, one hundred percent, happy.
Soren brings something extra to my life: stability in this insane celebrity lifestyle.
He calms me.
Brings me out of the clouds.
Makes my mind less fuzzy.
It’s not the sexiest thing in the world—even the word stability makes me cringe—but fuck knows I need it.
As the concert dates pass, cities blur together. We move through the motions, we get it all done, and then we fall into bed next to each other every night. It means I develop an awareness of him. Of his body.
Which is why when Soren starts to become unsettled, I notice. He covers it well during the day, but it’s obvious in his lack of sleep that only seems to grow with each city we’re in. I’m a light sleeper, so I know every time he rolls over, sense when he’s not actually asleep, and I feel the loss every time he stops touching me or gets out of bed.
We make our way through the Midwest and then the South, but it’s when we fly to Montreal that I sense him really beginning to pull away and finally have to say something.
He’s staring out the window of our hotel, looking pensive.
“Home sweet home?” I hedge. I hate how unsure I sound because I’m usually nothing but confident—even when I’m faking it.
The tension that’s been building between us scares the shit out of me because our time is running out, and I’m thinking he’s pulling away for a reason I don’t want to hear.
Soren turns, and his lips quirk. “Do I need to get you a map? Montreal isn’t Toronto.”
“Wait, Canada is not all the same? High school geography lied!”
He pulls me close. There is absolutely no better feeling than being in Soren’s arms. Not eighteen thousand fans screaming for more or the adrenaline of being in front of a large crowd. Not even coming home to Matt and Noah after a long tour and getting a good night’s sleep.
The best feeling in the world is Soren.
“I wish I could be there when you guys hit Toronto,” he says. “Although, I’m guessing you’re happy to get out of meeting my family seeing as I won’t be there with you.”
You’d think that, but I’m disappointed the schedule didn’t allow for him to be there when I am. I want to meet his parents.
Which is insane. I don’t know how to talk to someone’s parents. I don’t even talk to my own.
I practically choke on the question I don’t want to ask. “Is that why you’ve been kinda weird lately? Because there’s only two shows left before you leave?”
“I’ve been acting weird?” Have to admit, Soren’s convincing at pretending to be confused.
“You haven’t been sleeping well. Kinda been pulling away.”
“You’re perceptive.”
“Damn. I was hoping I was reading into things.”
“Sorry. I didn’t want you to worry. There are a few things going on. Mainly to do with hockey and getting this contract extension. I have to play well this year, and now that preseason is getting closer, I’m realizing the type of pressure I put on myself by signing the one-year deal instead of the three.”
“Why did you only sign the one-year deal?” I tell the hope blooming in my stomach that it might’ve had something to do with me turning up in Fiji, but I remind myself that this is about his career. Not us. And he signed it before we started hooking up.
“It came with a no-trade clause. I have Damon and Ollie close by in New York and a good support network. Thinking about getting traded makes my stomach twist.”
“I get it. Being traded could be great or it could be bad, but it’s the not knowing that’d kill you.”
“Exactly. I figure it’s better to stay where I am, but now there’s extra pressure.”
“Is … is that all that’s been bugging you?” I have a gut feeling he’s holding something back.
“Yeah. I’m just … reassessing. Maybe I need to accept that this could possibly be my last season.”
I’d totally be okay with that, but I can’t say that to him.
“Are you ready to retire?” I ask because that feels like a safe thing to say as opposed to “please retire and be my tour bitch forever and ever.”
“No? Maybe? I don’t know. I want to retire on my own terms—when I’m ready. Not when they tell me I’m too old to keep up. Sometimes I think I’ve had a great career and should get out while my body still works. Other times, I think I can’t quit until I have that championship title. When we made it to the Cup final a few years back, it was the closest I’ve ever come to winning it. I got a taste and thought it would happen for the team, but the last few seasons, we’ve barely made it to the playoffs let alone to a championship. I really want that win.”
I can’t take that away from him just because I’m falling hard and want him to follow me around the world on tour.
I want Soren with me for that but not at the cost of him saying goodbye to the career he’s been working at since before I was even born. “Then you should forget about next year for now and go focus on the win. Keep going until you get it.”
Soren leans in to kiss me. “I should be thankful they’re offering me anything with how crappy the last few seasons have been. Plus, I’m old.”
I snort. “So, so old.”
“Shut up.”
“Kiss me.”
Soren exaggeratedly rolls his eyes. “If I have to.”
“Whatever, you love it.” And so do I. Probably too much considering I have to say goodbye to him after the Ottawa concert in three more days.
I become a different person on stage, and no matter what has been going on in my life, I’ve always been able to tap into that. Sleazy managers, loneliness, forced breakups, I’ve been able to hide them all and do what I have to do on that stage.
But during the Ottawa concert, knowing tomorrow morning Soren gets on a plane, I can’t summon it.
I hit the right notes, I play the right chords … there’s just no heart in it.
Benji can tell and sends me questioning looks throughout the set, but about halfway through, he gives up and decides he needs to perform for both of us.
His over-the-top antics are a welcomed sight because they’ll at least take some of the focus off how I’m fucking this up. They also make me laugh, so, hey, at least I’m bringing some personality to the stage.
In between songs, Benji takes his shirt off, and the crowd screams so loud I have to wonder if Harley is commandeering the stage again. But no, it’s because my bass player’s abs and muscles are on display.
Can’t say I’m complaining. Benji is hot and nice to look at, and he’s the perfect distraction for the crowd right now.
I sweat so much onstage that I generally change my shirt about now, but I can see Luce in the wings, scowling at me, and I don’t wanna have to go and explain myself.
But when I look over there again, Soren has joined him. In the eight weeks he’s been on tour with us, he’s never once watched the show from the wings. He’s always down in the front and off to the side, just inside the barricades that keep the audience in their place
.
Soren’s brow is scrunched in worry or confusion, so after I finish the next song, I run offstage and hand Luce my guitar while I strip off my shirt so I can assure them I’m fine even though I’m not.
“What is going on out there?” Luce asks.
“My head’s not in it.” I throw a fresh shirt over my head.
“Since when does that ever stop you?” Ooh, yeah, Luce is pissed.
“Can we have a sec?” Soren asks Luce.
“Literally a second. He needs to go back on.”
Soren steps closer as Luce moves away. “Baby?”
The term of endearment makes tears spring to my damn eyes. “I’m fine.”
“I was kinda hoping the last show I’d get to see would be more energetic.”
I laugh. “Way to kick me while I’m down.”
“What can I do to make this better?”
Don’t leave me.
But I can’t say that. He can’t stay even if he desperately wanted to. Just like Harley couldn’t come out for me even though he desperately wanted to.
All my adult life, I’ve had faith epic love was out there for me. I had no doubt I’d find what Noah and Matt have. Yet, the two times I’ve come close, something’s always gotten in the way.
With Harley, it was our record label. With Soren the first time around, it was ex-boyfriends and big dreams. Now, it’s the NHL and our stupidly busy schedules.
This is the end of us. I can feel it deep down.
“I don’t want you to leave,” I whisper.
He leans in. “What?”
I shouldn’t repeat it, but I can’t help myself. “I don’t want you to leave.”
“I don’t want to go. But—”
“You have to. I know.”
“We’ll talk about this later tonight, okay? You need to get back out there.”
I turn to go, but he grabs my arm.
“Please make the rest of the set count? I want to remember this show for being the best you’ve ever played.”
Every part of me wants to break down instead of going out there to put on a good show, but I’d do anything to give Soren everything he wants. I want to make him happy. So, I shake off the emo part wanting to already wallow in self-pity and sing my fucking heart out.
I still don’t think it’s enough.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Soren
The talk Jet and I should be having gets delayed when we realize this is the last night we’re going to have with each other for a while and the revelation that neither of us want me to get on that plane tomorrow.
When he told me the other day that I should chase the Cup and focus on the win, I admit it gutted me. Having his support means the world, but I kinda wished he’d asked me to retire next year.
Which is unfair to put on him, I know, because if he did that and then I retired and regretted it, I could easily blame him for it.
All I want to do tonight is lay him down and worship his body that fits perfectly with mine. I want to bring him unforgettable pleasure until he won’t have any choice but to pine for me while we’re apart.
We stumble into our hotel room, all mouths and tongues and hands.
He hasn’t showered since he finished his set—we’ve been leaving the venue right after every show and he’s been showering at the hotel—so I push us into the bathroom and start the water while refusing to let him go.
“There’s so many things I want to do to you tonight, but I don’t know where to start,” I say against his neck.
I breathe in his sweaty scent.
I’m used to smelling man sweat—you can’t be an athlete without knowing what a man’s body smells like—but there’s something about Jet that’s so uniquely him, and I know I’m going to miss it.
He smells like the last eight weeks, and it’ll be ingrained in my memory forever.
“Can you just hold me?” he asks.
“Aww, baby. I’ll do anything you want me to.” It feels physically impossible to hold Jet any closer.
We stand under the water with our arms around each other for I don’t know how long.
Jet’s strong and steady heartbeat pounds against my chest, and in a weird way it soothes me. I could stand here forever and happily never leave.
But eventually, the water between us runs cold.
I turn off the shower but keep one arm wrapped around Jet.
He hasn’t lifted his head, which is buried in my shoulder.
“Come on, let’s go to bed.”
Jet holds on tighter.
I pull back and lift his chin with my finger. “Jet?”
“Why do I have ‘Like I’m Gonna Lose You’ by John Legend playing in my head?”
“I don’t know that song.”
Jet grimaces. “Do you live under a rock?”
“Pretty much. I only know Radioactive songs. You might have heard of them. Their lead singer is kinda hot. Heard he’s a loudmouth pain in the ass though.”
Jet laughs, and apparently, that’s all it takes for him to let go of needing to go slow and to start devouring my mouth.
He presses against me and kisses me harder.
My skin flushes, and it’s hard to breathe but not because of what he’s doing. It’s because of what he’s not doing. The weight of me leaving hangs between us, and the switch in him from wanting to be held to wanting to be distracted is obvious.
And I don’t think I have the heart or the balls to put a stop to it.
I can slow it down, though. I need to try to slow him down.
My hands find the back of his head, and I pull it back, breaking our kiss and exposing his sexy as fuck neck. I didn’t know necks could be sexy, but Jet’s is.
I trail my tongue down his skin. “Make love to me,” I murmur against him.
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
Nope. He wants a fuck.
“You know it’s not,” I say. “I want you to make love to me. I want to go slow, and I want you inside me.”
Over the last two months since we’ve been on tour, I haven’t bottomed again for him. It’s not for any particular reason. I think Jet’s and my preferences align similarly. We’re both vers, but I prefer topping, and he hasn’t complained or asked to top me again.
“I want you,” I say again.
“We should go to bed.” Jet pulls me out of the shower and grabs a towel. When he starts patting me down, I laugh.
“I can dry myself.”
Jet sinks to his knees. “You always take care of me when you fuck me, so I’m going to do the same to you.”
Okay, so he won’t admit that this is so much more, but that’s okay because he’s right. I do take care of him, and him wanting to do the same for me is as much an acceptance of what we have as if he’d said it out loud.
I don’t need words.
Actions speak louder.
And our bodies are saying they don’t want to be apart from each other.
Jet goes slow drying me, even slower laying me on my back and prepping my hole, and by the time his cock is lubed up and sliding inside me, I have to wonder how long has passed. The reminder my alarm to leave will go off early in the morning pings in the back of my head, but I ignore it.
If this is the last time Jet and I can be together for a while, I want to make it last.
We move together. Jet’s thrusts are long and slow. His hands and mouth wander, tracing every inch of my skin. My fingers make their own path over Jet’s tattooed sleeve.
He hovers above me, his eyes piercing mine.
His deep-brown gaze is so expressive, and even though he’s trying desperately to hide his pain, I can see everything.
I want to reassure him. I might be leaving, but I’m not leaving him. No matter what I say, though, I know I won’t be able to change the stubborn thoughts running through his head.
And like a rubber band coiling tighter and tighter, something finally snaps.
Jet pulls out of me. “Roll over.”
Maybe he was too close to letting out something he wasn’t emotionally ready for, and this is a way to put that barrier back up between us—the one I’ve been trying to pretend doesn’t exist.
I don’t think Jet truly trusts that just because I’m walking away tomorrow that doesn’t mean I’m not coming back.
I will always come back for him.
Always.
Because I’m not going to make the same mistake again.
Jet moans his release, and I feel it inside me. I’ve been too lost in my thoughts to come.
Jet knows it and pulls out again, flipping me over onto my back once more.
Without words, he slides down and leans over me, engulfing my cock in his mouth.
“Oh, fuck—”
Two fingers breech my slick and used hole and press right against my prostate, shutting me the fuck up.
It takes a total of twenty seconds for me to come with Jet’s name on my lips and confusion clouding my head.
What was I worried about again?
My phone alarm going off competes with my groan. I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want to unwrap myself from Jet, and I really, really don’t want to get on a plane today and go to the team skate tonight.
Preseason is always grueling. Training camp brings out early competitiveness, reconditioning, and the offensive coach for New Jersey even has the superstition that if we lose the first game, our whole season is fucked.
I’m not just leaving Jet; it feels like I’m leaving an entirely different world. One I’ve loved being a part of.
Now, I’m going back to the only world I’ve known since I was a kid, and the idea of it sits wrong.
I try to pull away from Jet, but he holds me tighter.
“No.” His voice is firm.
“I have to.”
“I know.” He reluctantly releases me.
“Just think, you’ve only got seven more venues. Three and a half more weeks. And you’re in New York for three of those days.”