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    Summary

    The room tilted slightly, and Shane’s throat was raw.

    He swayed there a moment, scanning the spinning room for somewhere to steady himself – for Haas or Dykstra. Ilya had been right; he should have slowed down, stayed with his teammates. He hadn't listened, and now he was alone, 2 Moscow Mules and 3 shots deep, stuck at the bar and lost in a sea of people.

    Shane just wanted his husband. The alcohol hadn't yet done anything to alleviate the effects of the music and lights that encircled him. He felt trapped – suffocated – like his skin was fusing itself to his stiff muscles. The room spun faster, and the Canadian wasn't convinced he was standing upright anymore. His heart pounded in his ears as the music rattled his ribcage once more, an insatiable itch beckoning his blunt fingernails.

    He wanted to scream. He wanted to rip his hair out. He wanted to tear his clothes off.

    He wanted Ilya.

    “Selfish,” he muttered under his breath, tongue heavy as it touched his teeth.

    Language:
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