I Lost a Bet to My Hockey Rival, Now I Wear His Number novel · Chapter 6 of 24

Chapter 6: The Tunnel

Gaspard's loft in Old Montreal had a brick wall, and Nash had been looking at it for an hour in his head.

Now he had Gaspard against it.

"Three to two," Nash said, with one hand flat over Gaspard's heart. "I scored the winner."

"You scored on a rebound."

"A rebound off your goalie's pad. In your building. In front of your mother."

"My mother is in Trois-Rivieres."

"Then she watched it on television and she was disgusted."

"She was, in fact, very disappointed." Gaspard's mouth tilted. "She wanted me to hit you."

"Did you?"

"Twice. You did not notice."

"I noticed."

Nash still had the number 29 on over his suit shirt, the big stupid navy-and-white jersey.

He had been booed in it for forty yards of tunnel tonight.

A little old man in the front row had shouted "traitre," and a kid beside him had pleaded for an autograph.

He had signed it.

He was still wearing it.

Gaspard's own shirt was open to the waist, and his tie was a rag in Nash's left fist.

"You said you would fix the score in Montreal," Nash said.

"I did."

"You haven't."

"You have not given me the chance. You have been talking for a long time."

"I'm making a point."

"You are making a speech." Gaspard raised an eyebrow, and it was so superior that Nash laughed out loud. "What is the point?"

"The point is that I get to be in charge tonight."

He said it softly, and watched it land.

For a moment the dry famous face went perfectly still.

Then the grey eyes dropped to Nash's mouth, and Gaspard said, in a low, steady, not-quite-steady voice, "Show me."

Nash kissed him.

He did it deliberately this time, slow and filthy, with his hand fisted in the tie.

He pulled Gaspard's head back against the brick so that he had to look up.

He licked into his mouth.

He bit his lip.

Gaspard made a sound at the back of his throat and his hands came up on instinct, to Nash's waist, to take control.

Nash caught them both by the wrists and pinned them to the wall above his head.

"No."

"Nash."

"Not this time. Hands there."

Gaspard stared at him.

Then, slowly, he turned his palms flat against the brick and left them.

Something hot and enormous went through Nash's chest.

"Good," he said.

"Do not say good."

"Good boy."

"I will kill you," Gaspard said, deeply offended, and his cock jumped against Nash's thigh.

Nash grinned so wide it hurt.

He ran both hands down the length of Gaspard's chest, over the bruise on his ribs and the hard flat stomach.

He unbuckled the belt without looking, pulled it free with a snap, and dropped it.

"I've wanted to do this for a month."

"A month," Nash said again, "and at the window in Boston, you told me three years."

"Did I?"

"Right before I came."

"I say many things in the middle of things." Gaspard looked at the ceiling. "Continue."

Nash let that sit in the air a second, a strange hot silence, and filed it somewhere safe.

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