Open Ice Hit (The Sin Bin Book 2)

Tommy was dying. The whole fucking cast of Stomp had taken up residence in his head and were going at it like there was no tomorrow, turning his skull into a throbbing, vibrating thing.

He blinked his eyes open, which turned out to be a terrible mistake. It was dim in the room, but what little light there was stabbed through him without mercy.

Memories percolated through his brain incomprehensibly. He’d been…There had been a game—he’d been getting ready for a game. Tommy couldn’t remember which one, just the feeling of gearing up, and then there were the team medics—the familiar room at the rink, the one meant to…

“Fuck.”

Tommy sensed movement to his side before Jacki’s voice whispered, “Don’t move too much. You have a concussion. Here, just, I’ve got some ice chips in the freezer, let me get them.”

Time must have folded in on itself because the next thing Tommy was aware of was something cold and refreshing hitting his tongue.

“What happened?”

“You got slew footed by fucking Jackson. Slammed into the boards, hit your head.”

Dread crawled through him. “How bad?”

“It’s…Don’t worry about that, okay? Just relax and—”

“How bad?” Tommy interrupted.

Silence stretched for a few seconds. “Your head got pretty rattled, man. You passed out for a few, woke up before you were carted off the ice, so…No internal bleeding, but you know how it is.”

Yeah, everybody in the fucking league knew how it was with concussions—they could last a week, or a month, or a year. They were the most unpredictable injury you could have.

Luckily, he’d only had a minor one before in Juniors, and that had only taken him out for a couple of days. It’d felt nothing like this, though—the pain radiating from his head was taking over his whole fucking body.

“What’d the doc say?”

“Good to go home with company, less stressful than a hospital and all that. They’ll come by and check on you tomorrow morning. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours, so it’s Tylenol for you, bud.”

Fuck. Tylenol fucking sucked, but it decreased the possibility of internal bleeding. “Gimme.”

Tommy took the pills with a little help, head swimming with pain at the slightest movement. By the time he was done, he could feel exhaustion taking over again.

“Imma pass out.”

“I’ll be here.”

And then there was nothing.

The next few days were absolute shit.

Hockey players were good with pain as a necessity, but Tommy couldn’t fucking think. Couldn’t open his eyes, or listen to podcasts, or talk for too long. Any goddamn brain activity made fireworks sear the edges of his head and left him dizzy and sick.

Patience, Tommy knew, was the key to concussion recovery, but those first four days until he could move around felt like a month of inactivity.

Jacki and the carousel of other teammates coming through his place to take care of him disappeared when they went off for a long roadie. The doc hadn’t even entertained the idea of Tommy accompanying them, and he didn’t put up a fight—he was going to be miserable alone, but getting on a plane right then sounded like actual torture.

He was just settling into the notion that he was going to sit around, lonely as fuck, for the following week, when a knock on his door interrupted the very important dozing he was doing on the couch.

Tommy made his way carefully to the entrance. Nausea still sneak-attacked him when he walked too far—and by too far he meant more than from the couch to the bathroom and back.

Tommy couldn’t bring himself to look through the peephole, closing his eyes and opening the door a crack.

“Who is it?” he called out, frowning at the ominous silence before the visitor spoke.

“Vicki.”

Tommy froze against the door. Was he…hallucinating? “Uh…huh?”

“Vicki,” the voice said again, enunciating slowly. Yep, that was definitely Viklund.

“Oh. Uh, sorry, dude, but I have a concussion? I’m not really up for anything right now.” Trust Vicki to show up unannounced for a fuck when Tommy couldn’t even stand more than a minute before the world started spinning around him.

“Jesus, I’m not here for that. I just…can you just open the door? I’ve got some fucking soup for you, okay?”

Tommy mouthed the word soup to himself slowly before slapping a hand over his eyes and opening the door fully. “Tell me when you’re inside. I can’t look at the light.”

There was some shuffling, rustling, and then an arm wrapped around Tommy’s waist, taking his weight as the door closed.

Tommy hadn’t realized before that moment that he could recognize Vicki by scent—something spicy and smooth. Tommy leaned against Vicki without even thinking about it, his eyes remaining closed as he was herded back to the couch.

Tommy blinked up blearily at Vicki, a vision of shadow and beauty standing in front of him. “Um…”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I just ate.”

“What time?”

“Like nine or something.” He’d been unable to stay in bed and had transferred himself to the couch after choking down some peanut butter on toast.

“It’s three in the afternoon, Tommy,” Vicki bit out.

“Oh. Shit.”

“You need to—forget it. Sit there, I’m going to heat up the soup,” Vicki ordered, disappearing before Tommy could reply.

Tommy was definitely hallucinating. There was no way Noah Viklund had just shown up at his house with soup.

Soup.

Despite Tommy’s attempts to convince himself it wasn’t really happening, Vicki eventually came back with a massive bowl of some delicious smelling broth, vegetables, and what looked like chicken floating merrily in the cloudy substance.

“Take the tray so you don’t burn yourself,” Vicki said, placing said tray on Tommy’s lap.

Tommy stared at the dish. Then at Vicki. Then at the dish. “Did you make this?”

“Obviously not,” Vicki scoffed. “Just eat it.”

Tommy didn’t have the energy to argue, picking up the spoon cautiously and tipping some of the broth into his mouth. “What the…”

The soup was fucking delicious. Like, Tommy’s body was a goddamn mess, pain and nausea, and a dark frustration pulling him down, and this—this fucking soup was the first pleasurable thing to happen to Tommy since the hit.

“Holy fuck. This is really good. Where is this from?”

“A restaurant. Keep eating.”

Tommy rolled his eyes, immediately wincing at the shot of pain that went through him. He pressed his hand against his forehead, grunting.

“Bonehead. Just. Fucking stay still and eat, okay?”

That actually didn’t sound like a terrible idea.

Tommy ate slowly. Chewing kind of hurt, the movement of his jaw rattling his brain, but it was worth it. Before he knew it, there was nothing left, and Vicki took the bowl from him.

“Where are your sheets?” Vicki asked gruffly.

“Um…closet between the guest rooms. Why?”

Vicki, predictably, didn’t answer, disappearing into the kitchen.

Tommy closed his eyes. He’d just rest for a little while and then ask Vicki what the fuck he was doing there.

The thread of his thoughts unraveled, spooling messily as someone helped him up and back into bed.

The sheets smelled clean and fresh.

He closed his eyes and let himself sink into the sweet, empty darkness.

Vicki was there when Tommy got up the next day.

Not only was he there—he’d woken Tommy up twice to eat more soup before letting him sleep all day and night.

“Uh…hey,” Tommy greeted dubiously.

Vicki startled slightly, shutting off his phone and turning it upside down on the couch he was sitting on as if the little bit of light from the lock screen would bother Tommy. “Hey. How’s your head? Sit down.”

Tommy didn’t say anything as Vicki got up quickly, maneuvering him onto a cushion before walking into the kitchen.

Literally, what the fuck?

He’d been too out of it yesterday for anything more than vague confusion, but the bizarreness of the situation was fully hitting him as he stared at the gloom of his living room.

Vicki—Mr. Prep Yourself I Don’t Have Time to Pamper You—had apparently taken it upon himself to nurse Tommy back to health.

Tommy turned as a slight rattling of dishes sounded from behind him, Vicki appearing from the dark with another one of his trays. This time, there was tea, avocado on toast, and what looked like Greek yogurt with blueberries, nuts, and honey on it.

Tommy blinked at the food as it was set on his lap. None of this had been in his house yesterday. “Did you buy this?”

“It’s high in zinc, protein, and magnesium. Good for cell recovery, okay?”

If anything, that confused Tommy more. He looked at Vicki steadily, noticing his disheveled appearance for the first time, the way he was holding himself stiffly as if waiting for something bad to happen.

It was strange to realize Tommy knew Vicki well enough to know what he was dreading—Tommy asking him what the hell he was doing in Tommy’s house when he normally kept his distance.

Or as much distance as was possible, what with the two of them fucking constantly.

But Tommy wanted to know. Worse than Vicki’s aloofness were the peeks into the tender parts of his soul, the soft-bellied insecurities Vicki tried so hard to hide. Worse because it strung Tommy along and made him want things he shouldn’t want—hope for things he shouldn’t hope for.

But Tommy recognized Vicki was going through something this season. He wasn’t arrogant enough to think it had anything to do with him—it was something Vicki was struggling with himself, something between who he thought he should be and who he was—but Tommy was still caught up in it, dragged by the tidal force that was Vicki.

The truth was, he didn’t want to hurt Vicki. If he could be a port in the storm, then he’d be just that, even if it meant Vicki sailing away eventually.

He wouldn’t lose himself in this, but Tommy had always been desperate to please behind his bratty, contradictory exterior. More succinctly—he wanted to please Vicki.

“Looks good,” Tommy murmured. “Thanks.”

Tommy ignored the way Vicki relaxed fractionally beside him, making his way through the food slowly. It was all delicious—the avocados, especially, were a surprise. Tommy wondered how Vicki had gotten them so perfectly ripe, if maybe he’d gone to his own apartment to get them.

That would be ridiculous, but then again, this whole situation was ridiculous.

“Have you just been sitting around in the dark like a freak?” Tommy asked as he finished up, placing the tray on the coffee table.

Vicki rolled his eyes.

“When do you have practice? Or do you have a game today? Actually, what day even is it?”

“Day off. And it’s the first day of March.”

Fuck, he’d been out of it for almost a week, and, more importantly…“Dude, it’s your day off, and you’re spending it here?”

Vicki looked away, shrugging. “It’s fine, my plans fell through, so whatever, it’s not a big deal.”

Kinda seemed like it was a big deal, what with Vicki conveniently appearing the second Tommy’s team went on a road trip. “How’d you find out? Please don’t tell me it’s being replayed everywhere.”

“I haven’t really…I saw it live. Was on a roadie, caught it on TV.”

“Oh. I haven’t seen it yet. From one to ten, how fucked up was I?”

There was a long, long stretch of silence before Vicki replied. “It didn’t look good.”

“Aw, bud, were you worried?” Tommy joked, but the laugh got caught in his throat when Vicki finally looked at him.

The expression on his face was…hard to describe. Flayed open, maybe, hitting Tommy like an electric jolt, sparking his senses.

There were times on the ice when all thought stopped. All conscious calculation and decision-making was hushed, leaving a clarity born of trained intuition. The bodies would part, the puck would become part of Tommy’s body, of his mind, everything aligning so he could see exactly what was going to happen before it did.

That moment, sitting on the couch with Vicki, darkness all around them, felt just like that. Like he could finally see Vicki past the ice glare of his defenses. Something silent and unnamable was being communicated through the still air between them. There was no humor or lightness there—whatever Vicki had felt when he’d seen Tommy crash into the boards wasn’t something to joke about.

“I’m okay,” Tommy whispered. His head still hurt, and he could tell he’d get sick if he moved around a lot, but it was leaps and bounds better than even yesterday.

“I know,” Vicki replied quietly, but there was still a sliver of fear in his eyes.

Tommy didn’t know how to feel about seeing actual proof Vicki cared. It shouldn’t have been such a relief, but it was.

“So how’re you gonna entertain me, then?”

The moment broke, the wash of their usual dynamic tumbling in gratefully.

“How’s your head, really?”

“Honestly, a lot better. I can maybe look at my phone a little, see—”

“Absolutely not.”

Tommy groaned. The worst thing about having a concussion—apart from, you know, the pain and dizziness and not being able to play hockey—was the moratorium on all screens. “Oh come on.”

“Are you serious? You could barely move yesterday.”

“I’m so bored, though. Please, I just wanna see how the Dogs are doing. It’ll take a second.”

“No, you jackass. Just…I’ll read the reports to you.”

Tommy’s mouth snapped shut on any further protest. “Really?”

“It’s not like it’s a big deal. Just. Lie down.”

Tommy, an expert at pushing his luck, nabbed a pillow and settled it on Vicki’s lap, resting his head there contently. He half expected Vicki to shove him off, but all he did was tut like an old lady and take out his phone.

“Close your eyes. I’ll lower the light on the screen.”

“It’s fine,” Tommy said even as his eyelids closed.

“Let’s see…I mean, they’ve only played one game. They won against the Phoenixes.”

Tommy breathed out a relieved breath. He was bummed he hadn’t made the trip to New Orleans—that city had the best live music—but he wasn’t going to turn down a win at this point in the season. “What was the score?”

“Two to one.”

“Overtime?”

“Nope.”

“Who scored?”

“Schmidt and Ricky.”

“Oh, hell yes. Can you send a text to Ricky? My phone’s right there on the charger.”

Vicki gave an annoyed huff and reached for the phone. “Really? You can’t wait ’til they come back?”

“Gotta pump my boy’s tires, man. Come on.”

“Fine.” Tommy could feel Vicki’s eye roll. “Dictate.”

Dictate Tommy mouthed mockingly. “Just write, like, ‘This is Tommy’s friend, he says congrats on the goal you animal.’”

“Oh, you have friends, do you?”

“Shut up and write.”

The text was sent. It wasn’t even half a minute before they got a reply, Vicki snorting as he opened it. “He says, and I quote, ‘You have friends?’”

“Why do I even fucking bother?” Tommy grumbled.

“He also asked how you’re doing.”

“Better.”

Vicki sent another text, setting Tommy’s phone down and picking up his own.

Tommy closed his eyes, figuring Vicki had reached his limit on catering to Tommy, but a second later Vicki’s low, calm voice filled the space steadily.

Tommy blinked. “What—”

“It’s an article from The Athletic. Shut up and listen.”

Tommy did as asked, a little befuddled as to how the fuck he’d ended up with his head on Vicki’s lap, listening to him read so Tommy had some form of entertainment.

Tommy’s body relaxed in stages until he was a puddle on the couch, nothing but Vicki’s voice keeping him from evaporating completely. The headache was nothing but a dull ache after taking some pain killers, and Tommy really thought it couldn’t get better until Vicki’s hand landed softly on his head.

Tommy buried his face in Vicki’s stomach. He smelled so good. “Pet me,” he murmured into the shirt, any impulse control having been eradicated the moment Vicki had let him rest on his thighs.

There was a moment of stillness before Vicki’s fingers started carding through Tommy’s curls with a gentleness he’d barely witnessed from Vicki.

Tommy closed his eyes and drifted.