The Tennis Club - Chapter 13: Spyrou
Hollanov, Shane/Others, Ilya/Others, Scott Hunter/Many, Ryan Price/Many | Explicit | secret gay hockey player network AU, feat. my army of hockey OCs
Henry McGee lay limp on a hospital bed, the mattress elevated, covered in a blanket to the neck, bruises peeking over the top of it. His face had taken a beating, too, probably from falling: both his cheekbones purple, the whole left side of his face swollen in various gruesome shades. It had been five years since they last saw each other in person, but Greg didn't need to remark on how Micky had grown since then. He'd been watching.
When the door shut behind him, his eyes blinked open, more alert than he'd feared, though he looked around the room, confused. His voice wheezed, short of breath, when he asked, "The fuck are you doing here?"
"I called," Greg told him. "You too good to answer your phone?"
"Been busy. My, uh, my chest kind of exploded. Dunno if you heard." Struggling to get his words out and still a jackass. Some things never changed.
"You scared the shit out of me, watching you go down like that." He'd watched the game with his daughter, Hannah. Had one hell of a time explaining away his catastrophic reaction.
Micky shifted a hand out from under the blankets, reached for him.
Greg went. Took his hand.
Tears brimmed in Micky's eyes as he stared up, a miserable sort of loneliness that Greg remembered well from their brief, too-intense year together. He'd hoped he would outgrow it.
Swiping a thumb gently under one of his eyes, Greg murmured, "You're alright. I can stick around, if you want. I got nothing but time for you, baby."
For a moment, Micky looked like he would really cry, but then a woman's voice in the hallway drew his attention away. He sniffed, muttered, "Fuck," and let go of his hand to wipe his own face. "Okay. Play along," he instructed.
The door opened a moment later, an older red-headed woman with a full face of makeup and a skirt-blouse combo that struck him as too dressy for a hospital. She had a cell phone in hand, mouth open as if about to speak, but she stopped short when she saw Greg. "Oh," she said. She put the phone away. "Hello."
"Greg," Micky said, as if it wasn't the first time he'd ever called him by his first name, "this is my mom, Cathy. Mom, this is Greg." And then, without missing a beat, he took Greg's hand again and added, "My boyfriend."
Greg kept his face carefully neutral. Playing along. What the fuck.
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