Roughing

by Michaela Grey

  Saint’s shoulders were rigid, head down. Carmine watched Saint ready himself for the puck drop, ignoring Simon. Simon’s mouth tightened and he jostled Carmine roughly. Carmine steadied himself, shooting him a warning look, as the ref dropped the puck.

  The next few minutes were a confusing jumble, with a few discrete moments frozen before Carmine’s eyes. Saint winning the faceoff. Simon aiming a hard hit at Saint. Saint ducking under his arm at the last second, grabbing the puck again and racing for the net.

  Time sped up again and Carmine hurled himself into the action, driving through the center of the scrum in front of the net and setting up a screen as Saint barreled toward him.

  He didn’t see the hit that leveled him. One second he was poised and ready in case Saint passed to him, and the next he was on the ice, head ringing and a weight on his chest, a bright throbbing in his shoulder and spine.

  Carmine dragged himself to his knees, shaking his head to clear the ringing, but it didn’t help. He looked up, struggling to focus, just in time to see Saint drop his gloves and launch himself at Simon.

  The fight was quick and brutal. Simon had height, reach, and weight advantages on Saint, but Saint fought like he was possessed, pulling out every trick in his arsenal. He trapped Simon’s dominant arm in his jersey so he was forced to punch with his weaker hand, landed three hard blows to his head, and then yanked him forward and twisted, toppling him to the ice and landing on top of him. He got in several more blows before the officials managed to drag him off, shouting something Carmine couldn’t make out.

  Saint shook the officials off and skated for the box without looking back as a linesman bent over Carmine, a hand on his back.

  “How’re you doing?”

  Carmine pushed himself to his feet, wobbling slightly. His head was still ringing and starbursts of pain went off in his ribs with every breath. “‘M okay,” he managed, and skated for the bench.

  He submitted to being looked over by the team doctor, tipping his head back so she could inspect his pupils, then obediently taking deep breaths when instructed.

  “Broken ribs,” she said finally. “At least two. I don’t think you have a concussion, but you’re out of the game, come on.”

  Carmine followed her down the tunnel reluctantly, turning to look back just once. Saint was watching him from the box, nothing showing on his normally expressive face, and Carmine lifted a hand, trying not to wince.

  “Come on,” the doctor said impatiently. “We need to get you X-rayed properly and bandaged.”

  Saint found him after the game, lying on an examining table in the observation room, ribs bandaged and one arm tucked under his head as he stared at the ceiling.

  “Hey,” Saint said softly.

  Carmine lifted his head. “Hey.” Saint looked exhausted, dark smudges under his eyes and a bruise developing on his cheekbone where Simon had landed a hit, hair damp from his shower. “How are you doing?”

  Saint closed the door behind him and took a step forward. “I’m supposed to ask you that.”

  “I’m fine,” Carmine said. “Well. Couple of broken ribs. But no concussion. I won’t be out too long.” He held out a hand and Saint took another step closer. His eyes searched Carmine’s form as if trying to determine for himself that there were no other injuries, worry and fear battling in his expression.

  “I saw you go down,” he began, and stopped, swallowing hard.

  “Yeah, what happened?” Carmine asked. “I’m assuming it was Simon?”

  “He knocked you into the goal post,” Saint said, expression hardening. “It was a dirty fucking hit.” He clenched his hands in front of him, swallowing again. “I—”

  “Hey,” Carmine said. He held out a hand again. “Come here.”

  “No, I—” Saint glanced at the door.

  “No one’s coming in,” Carmine said. “Come on. Please?”

  Saint took a shaky breath and closed the distance between them. He was trembling, Carmine saw, and tenderness swamped him.

  “I’m okay, sweetheart,” he said, and took his hand.

  Saint gripped it hard and bent forward until their foreheads were touching. “I thought—Caz—”

  “It’s a vicious fucking game we play,” Carmine murmured. He reached up with his free hand to cup Saint’s cheek, hiding the grimace of pain. Saint turned his face into Carmine’s palm, lashes sweeping down.

  “I—you went down and—I wanted to kill him,” he managed. “Caz, I—”

  “Yeah,” Carmine said. He slid his hand up to cradle the nape of Saint’s neck. “I know, baby. I love you too.”

  Saint’s eyes snapped wide and Carmine breathed a laugh and tugged him down into a kiss. Saint’s lips were soft and wet, breath feathering across Carmine’s cheek, and he took a ragged breath and then kissed back, hot and desperate.

  The door opened and Saint jolted upright.

  “Coach wants you,” David said.

  Carmine looked at Saint, then at David. Had he seen? Nothing showed on his face except faint boredom and irritation. Saint’s throat bobbed and he nodded.

  “I’ll—okay. Felix said he’ll give us a ride home. Lacy’s here too, remember her from the hospital? I have to say hi to her, but it won’t take long. I’ll come get you when I’m done.”

  “Take your time,” Carmine said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Saint glanced at him and Carmine winked, hidden from David’s view by Saint’s body. Saint’s lips twitched and then he was gone, following David from the room.

  27

  Felix drove them home, careful not to brake or accelerate too hard, and Saint helped Carmine inside.

  “I can walk,” Carmine said through his teeth. The movement was jostling his ribs and it wasn’t helping his mood.

  “Sorry,” Saint said, but he didn’t let go of Carmine’s arm. “My room, it’s closer.”

  Carmine resisted briefly. “Your parents—”

  “I don’t give a shit,” Saint snapped. “Now come on.”

  Carmine made his slow, painful way into Saint’s suite and eased himself onto the bed, jaw clenched, as Saint hovered. “Steel needs to go out,” he managed once he was as close to comfortable as he could get.

  “I’ll take care of him,” Saint said. “Do you need anything?”

  “Pills,” Carmine suggested.

  “Yeah, of course.” Saint hurried to the bathroom and reappeared with a glass of water. Carmine struggled up onto one elbow and gulped the pills down before lowering himself back to the bed with a muffled groan. Saint watched him, a line between his brows.

  “I’m okay,” Carmine mumbled. The pain and exhaustion had caught up to him and he could feel himself sinking below the waves. “Stay with me.”

  Saint smoothed his hair off his brow. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Let me go take care of your dog. I’ll be right back.”

  Carmine was nearly asleep when the bed dipped and Saint curled up against him, careful not to bump him. He rested one hand on Carmine’s arm and Carmine hummed. The pills were kicking in and he was feeling distinctly floaty, the pain locked away behind a wall.

  “Did you mean it?” Saint whispered.

  Even through the haze of drugs and exhaustion, Carmine didn’t have to ask what he meant.

  “Yeah,” he sighed. He half-rolled toward Saint’s body, tucking himself up close. “Meant it. Love you.”

  “Oh God,” Saint managed. “Caz—”

  “S’okay,” Carmine said. He groped for and found Saint’s hand, pulling his arm around him. “Gonna sleep now, ‘kay?”

  Something soft brushed his temple—Saint’s lips.

  “I’ll be here,” Saint murmured.

  Carmine smiled and fell asleep.

  He woke early the next morning and maneuvered himself slowly out of the bed, breathing through his nose, until he could stand up and wobble into the bathroom.

  Saint found him in there, slipping his arms around Carmine’s waist as he brushed his teeth and pr
essing a kiss to his shoulder blade.

  “Morning,” Carmine said. He turned slowly, ribs protesting, until they were facing. Saint’s eyes were sleepy, hair standing on end, and there were sleep-creases in his cheek. Affection swamped Carmine, making his breath short, and he tipped Saint’s chin up to kiss him.

  Saint sighed and pressed closer, arms going up around Carmine’s neck. “How are you feeling?” he asked when he finally broke away.

  “A little better,” Carmine said. He ran his hands up and down Saint’s ribs. “Hungry. And I need to get to my room before your parents see, or they’re going to jump to the right conclusion.”

  Saint scowled but let him go, taking a step back. “I’ll bring you breakfast,” he said, the jut of his jaw making it clear it wasn’t optional.

  The house was still and quiet, and Carmine made it to his suite without incident, where he greeted Steel and let him out into the yard before sinking onto his bed. He peeled his shirt up and hissed at the sight of his abdomen and side, stained a violent purple fading toward green around the edges.

  Price of the game they played. The bruises would heal, as would his ribs. Of more pressing concern was the fact that he’d told Saint how he felt. He didn’t regret saying the words, not really, but the timing—he closed his eyes and groaned. He’d wanted to wait, give Saint room to adjust, not just blurt it out while he was off his head from pain and medication.

  The door creaked open and Saint stepped inside, holding a cup of coffee.

  “You should scoot up against the pillows,” he said. “I’m gonna try to make eggs for you.”

  Carmine winced. “I have a better idea—I put some casseroles in the freezer last week. There’s a sausage and egg one. Just heat the oven and pop it in.”

  Saint looked relieved. “That’s probably a lot safer.” He set the coffee on the table and waited while Carmine dragged himself up the bed until he was propped up against the pillows. Then he handed him the mug and bent to kiss him. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Carmine fell asleep after breakfast while Saint went to morning skate. When he woke, it was close to lunchtime and he could hear Saint talking to his parents in the living room. He hauled himself off the bed and limped to the bathroom, then out of his suite.

  “Hey!” Saint said, hurrying to him with hands outstretched. “You shouldn’t be out of bed, what are you doing?”

  “Bored,” Carmine said, smiling at him. “Can I keep you guys company?”

  “Of course,” Saint said, and led him to the couch.

  “How was skate?” Carmine asked.

  “Kasha got a spinorama goal on Felix, it was gorgeous,” Saint said, eyes sparkling. “Felix is pissed, of course, and planning to prank him in revenge.”

  Carmine settled into the cushions and listened as Saint described Kasha’s goal in detail, hands waving. Victor was in the chair opposite, lanky legs crossed, and Maria on the loveseat beside him, a knitting project in her lap.

  After a few minutes, the oven beeped in the kitchen and Saint hopped to his feet.

  “I’m getting pretty good at casseroles,” he said, giving Carmine a private smile. “Be right back.”

  Alone with Saint’s parents, Carmine stretched his feet out and took a slow, experimental breath. It still hurt to exist, but with his ribs wrapped, the pain was slightly blunted.

  “So, Carmine,” Victor said. “How do you like living here?”

  “Here as in Portland or here as in Saint’s place?”

  “Both,” Victor said tightly.

  “Portland is lovely,” Carmine told him. “Everyone’s friendly and welcoming and the weather’s great—I’m really enjoying it here.”

  “And living with my son?”

  “Saint’s been a great roommate,” Carmine said honestly.

  Victor scoffed. “Please. I’ve seen his hangups in real time, I know exactly how hard he can be to tolerate in close proximity. You’re telling me it doesn’t bother you to have to deal with that?”

  Carmine stiffened. “Your son is a fantastic person,” he said, slowly and clearly. “I’m honored to call him my friend.”

  “Still,” Victor said. “Don’t you think it’s about time you found your own place?”

  “Dad.” Saint’s voice cracked like a whip. He was standing in the doorway, fists at his sides. “That’s enough. Carmine is welcome here for as long as he wants to stay.”

  Victor looked between him and Carmine, eyes narrowed. “Oh, is that how it is?”

  Alarm crackled in Carmine’s chest and he struggled to push himself upright. “It’s not ‘like’ anything,” he said through his teeth. “Saint, I’ll go—”

  “Stay right there,” Saint snapped. His eyes were molten with fury, fixed on his father.

  “You need to remember what’s important,” Victor growled, standing. “Not let yourself get distracted by things, or people, that don’t matter. You’ve always been like this—too easily diverted, flitting from one thing to another. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be here.”

  “Oh, you fucking—”

  Saint cut off Carmine’s explosion with one hand held out, eyes still sharp on his father’s form. “So you know,” he said softly. “For how long?”

  Victor’s lip curled. “Since you were a teenager and couldn’t take your eyes off Billy Hardin at practice. Why do you think we tried to set you up with girls all the time?”

  Carmine couldn’t breathe through the rage clogging his lungs. He tried again to stand up, and Saint moved swiftly, gripping his shoulder and pressing him back down. His hand was tight, eyes pleading when he glanced at Carmine briefly before looking back up, and Carmine got the message. This was Saint’s battle to fight.

  He forced himself to sit back, and Saint’s posture eased a fraction before he set his jaw and addressed his father.

  “Carmine is a guest in my house and you will not speak to him or me in this manner. If you can’t treat us with respect, then it’s time for you to go.”

  Victor’s laugh was ugly and jagged. “Respect is earned, you ungrateful little shit. After everything I’ve done for you, and you—”

  “Victor.” Maria was on her feet, a hand on her husband’s forearm. “That’s enough.”

  Carmine blinked. He’d forgotten she was even in the room. From the way Victor swung to stare at her, so had he.

  Maria looked at Saint. “I think you’re right. It’s time for us to go. Saint, sweetheart, will you help me with the bags? Victor, you go wait with the car.”

  Victor opened and closed his mouth, looking between her and Saint.

  “Now, Victor,” Maria said, sharp steel in her voice, and to Carmine’s amazement, Victor went, casting one last poisonous look at Saint, who lifted his chin and stared back at him.

  There was tense, waiting silence for a moment after he left the room, and then Maria covered her mouth with both hands, tears welling.

  “Saint,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, I—”

  Saint crossed the room and wrapped her in his arms. Carmine couldn’t hear what he said, but his eyes were damp when he lifted his head.

  Maria wiped her face and turned to Carmine. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “He’s—well, he’s bitter. He wanted so badly to captain his own team, and he only played in the NHL for three games.”

  “That’s not Saint’s fault,” Carmine said harshly.

  “No,” Maria said. She shook her head. “No, I know it’s not. He’s just—” She sighed and looked at Saint again. “I should have put my foot down, but I thought you wanted it as badly as he did.”

  “I did,” Saint said, taking her hand. “I do, Mom. But I can want more than one thing.” He glanced at Carmine, eyes suddenly shy, and Carmine swallowed the lump in his throat and managed an unsteady smile. Saint returned it. “Come on,” he said to his mother. “I’ll help you pack.”

  There was silence after Victor and Maria were gone, echoing through the house. Carmine hadn’t watched them leave, opting to
stay on the couch while Saint saw them off. He was still there when Saint came back into the living room, hesitating in the doorway.

  Carmine held out a hand. “Get over here.”

  Saint obeyed, crawling onto the couch beside him. He was trembling faintly, and Carmine gathered him close, tucking him in under his arm and letting Saint relax against him.

  “You did good,” he murmured.

  Saint didn’t reply, burrowing closer into Carmine’s shoulder. “I love you,” he said instead.

  Carmine froze. “You—what?”

  Saint lifted his head, scowling. “I said I love you. Did you think I didn’t?”

  “No, I—” Carmine’s breath hitched. “I just—I kind of sprang it on you and I didn’t mean to trap you or—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Saint said irritably, pressing closer. “No one’s trapping anyone.”

  Carmine’s laugh was wobbly. “As long as we’re clear.”

  Saint pressed a kiss to his throat. “I love you a lot,” he admitted, voice muffled. “And I’m not sure why you—no, let me finish—I’m not really sure why you love me, but I’ll take it. I’ll take anything you give me.”

  “God,” Carmine said, and hauled him upright to kiss him. Then winced. “Fuck, ow.”

  “Shit, your ribs?”

  Carmine nodded, flinching.

  “I’ll get your pills,” Saint said, sliding off the couch. “Will you stay in my room with me, now that my parents are gone?”

  Carmine took his hands and let Saint pull him to his feet. “Yeah,” he said, smiling down at him. “As long as you don’t snore.”

  “Oh God,” Saint said suddenly, looking suddenly horrified. “God, I have to tell Felix.”

  “Well, he’s your best friend, right?” Carmine said. “I told Henry literally the night I realized I was in love with you.”

  “Yeah but….” Saint shuddered. “Do you have any idea how much he’s going to chirp me for this?”

  “What, for falling for me? Really, who could blame you?” Carmine preened, and Saint pushed lightly at his shoulder.