A Guy Walks Into My Bar

by Lauren Blakely

  Fitz sets down his empty glass, reaches for the remote, and flicks on the TV. “SportsCenter?”

  I sink onto the bed, flinging a hand over my eyes. “Dear God. No. Just no.”

  Fitz cracks up. “I’m not that much of a dick. I won’t subject you to SportsCenter.” He tosses the remote on the floor. “Do you really hate sports?”

  I remove my hand from my eyes. “Sports are great. I just don’t want to watch sports news in bed with you.”

  He wiggles a brow. “I get it. There are better things to do.”

  “Yes, that. And I’m sure we’ll be recharged shortly.”

  “So, what do you want to do in bed with me, then?”

  I glance at the tumbler. “Drinking scotch is fun. But if you really want to watch television, I’d rather watch a comedy on Netflix or something.”

  His blue eyes twinkle. “Dark comedy?”

  “Love it.”

  “British comedy?”

  “Of course.”

  “Sitcoms?”

  “With no laugh track.”

  Grinning, he offers me a hand to high-five, and I smack it back. “Laugh tracks suck,” he says. Stretching across me, Fitz reaches for his phone, clicks on Netflix, and scrolls through the newest comedies. We find one that interests us both, a show about a group of friends too tangled up in each other’s lives.

  Fitz clicks play and then settles in next to me, his head on the pillow beside mine. His body fits snugly against me, his arm draped across my shoulders.

  Everything about this moment screams opposite of hookup, yet that calendar mercilessly flipping forward reminds me that it’s safe to enjoy this moment, since it’ll end soon.

  Still, I can’t resist teasing him.

  “You realize we’re both over six feet, and we’re in this little sliver of the bed,” I point out, staring at the other unused side of the king-size bed.

  He grins, inching closer to me. “Are you saying you don’t want to snuggle with me after I fucked your brains out? Or are you trying to tell me diplomatically that I suck at snuggling?”

  I crack up. “Because that would be an insult to you? Being rubbish at snuggling?”

  “I am not rubbish at snuggling, and you know it. I am an awesome snuggler,” he says, squeezing me harder.

  “You’re not too bad.”

  “You hate snuggling. Admit it,” he says, dipping his head into the crook of my neck and planting a loud, over-the-top kiss there as a soft thunk registers in my mind.

  “Yes, I despise it. Please stop,” I say as I do the opposite, somehow scooting closer to him.

  “I can’t stop. I can’t help myself,” Fitz teases, then grabs me hard, yanking me into his arms.

  “Okay, now you’re being ridiculous,” I say, but I’m laughing, even as I gently push him away, the sound of the show playing in the background a little more distant now.

  He raises his head, furrowing his brow. “What happened to my phone?”

  “I think it fell on the floor.” I peer over the side of the bed and reach down to grab the phone from the carpet. I hand it to him, the show still playing.

  “So, good show, huh?” he asks dryly.

  “It’s fantastic. I could write an essay on it.”

  “We could do a trivia night about the show.”

  “Yes, I know so much about it. Let’s find a pub and do a quiz, and we’ll ace it.”

  Fitz laughs, clicking the end button on the show. A notification pops up on his phone—a new text message.

  I look away, not wanting to pry.

  “You can answer your messages. It doesn’t bother me.”

  “It’s from Logan. He thanked me for the pic,” he says, then shows me the text.

  Logan: Amelia loved the pic. Thanks, man. Anyone who makes my kid that happy is good in my book.

  Fitz smiles, then scrolls to the next message. “And this is from his sister, Summer. She’s also one of my friends in New York.”

  “They’re the ones with the cousin I’d surely be mates with because of our furniture hobby?”

  “Yes, that’s them,” he says with a laugh, then clicks on Summer’s message.

  I don’t look at his phone, but I can’t help but notice the way his eyes light up, how a smile seems to tug at the corner of his lips as he reads her note.

  But I say nothing. It’s not my place, even though I’m curious about what makes him look like that, what a friend says to him that puts that happiness on his face. Of course, it doesn’t seem hard to make Fitz happy. He’s wired for it, like a golden retriever. Happiness seems to be the natural state he gravitates to, yet another thing to like about him.

  That list is getting far too long for my own good.

  “Summer says you’re a smoke show,” he says, nudging me, breaking my momentary daze.

  “She does? Why would she say that?”

  “I showed her your picture. A different one than I sent to Amelia. I sent Summer one where you look hot AF.”

  I sit up straighter in bed, intrigued, maybe even a little delighted. “You did?”

  The look on his face is sheepish as he confesses, “She wanted to know what I was up to, so I sent her some pictures.”

  “Ah, and did you say, ‘This is what I’m up to—banging this hot English bloke’?”

  “Something like that,” he says, still clutching his phone. The look in his eyes, the sound of his voice almost makes me think he wants me to dig further, to ask what he said about me.

  I don’t entirely know if I want to go down this road, but I don’t want to turn away from it either. So, with a little bit of nerves, I ask, “What did you say?”

  He shows me his phone so that I can see his response.

  Fitz: This is what I did today. Had the best time.

  Three pictures are attached to the message—a shot of us by the Millennium Bridge, another by the Tower Bridge, and one more by the Leaky Cauldron. We look happy together, like a couple. I’m having a hard time looking away from the images.

  I read his text to her a few times, and each time my chest warms a little more, and words stick in my throat. Words I want to say. Words I’m terrified of saying.

  I meet his gaze. He looks like he’s waiting for something. A confirmation. A departure. Something. And none of this feels like it fits our earlier conversation on the bridge, but all of it feels necessary.

  Like we’re stepping over those lines we drew again so firmly this afternoon.

  Especially when I say the words that scare me and electrify me all at once. “Same. Same for me. I had a great time too.”

  His shoulders relax, and his grin ignites. “Then Summer said you were a smoke show. And I said, ‘Trust me, I know. He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever met.’”

  I laugh, shaking my head, even though inside I’m preening from the compliment. “I bet you say that to all the guys.”

  Fitz props himself on his side, his head resting in his hand. His lips go ruler-straight. “No. I don’t. It’d be a lie.”

  I roll my eyes because that’s easier than to accept he means it. Besides, what does it matter if he’s attracted to me more than anyone else? It doesn’t—not in the scheme of things.

  “I meant what I said earlier.”

  “On the bridge?”

  “By the Tube station,” he says, an intensity to his voice. “I meant it all. And yes, I meant what I said on the bridge earlier too.” He stops, sitting up, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he mutters.

  I sit up too, some self-preservation telling me maybe it’s time to go. My fight-or-flight is kicking in.

  “Don’t go.” He reads my mind, grabbing my arm.

  “I’m not going to leave,” I lie.

  “I meant what I said on the bridge, Dean. I don’t do relationships.” He exhales heavily. “But I meant what I said outside the Tube station too, about wanting to see you. And I meant what I said to Summer. I meant all of it.” He lets go of my arm, grabs my hand again, and threads hi
s fingers through mine. “But the thing is . . .” He sighs. “I really like you.”

  Fitz shrugs, a little helpless. A little aimless.

  And a whole lot endearing.

  And so damn likable.

  That’s the problem. When he says these things, my heart thumps the slightest bit harder. I wish I could say it was from the exertion, from the sex, but that was a while ago. This is just from talking.

  That’s why my heart is hammering—because I feel the same way.

  And there’s no room in my life for this.

  But I don’t have to rearrange my life for him. All I have to do is rearrange the next three nights and two days.

  I squeeze his hand back harder. I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I can’t quite believe I feel it this soon. Or at all. “I like you too,” I say, then give him a matching what can you do shrug.

  My reward comes in the form of a tackle. He pushes me down on the bed and smothers me in kisses and laughter, and then he rolls to his back, breathes out hard, and says, “I feel like I just ran a marathon.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t say that. I don’t, Dean. I haven’t. But I guess it doesn’t matter. This is ending when I leave, so I don’t need to pretend you’re like everyone else. You’re not,” he says, shifting to his side again to look at me, his hand sliding down my waist, over my hip. “You’re not like any other guy. And I can say that because it’s going to be over in two and a half more days. And I want to enjoy the hell out of this time with you. But I’m not just a player. I mean, I am, I have been, though there’s a reason I’ve avoided anything serious.”

  “What’s the reason?” I ask.

  “Look, I’m out. I have been since I was fifteen. It’s not a secret. But because of that, because I’ve been open, that’s how people saw me for a long time. The gay hockey player. The openly gay division-one star. The openly gay first-round draft pick. The openly gay rookie.”

  “Are there other openly gay pro hockey players?”

  “Yes. I’m not even the first. But I am the best.”

  I shake my head, amused. “There’s that cocky side I adore.”

  He laughs lightly, then continues. “And that also meant I was seen that way for the longest time. Not by my stats or my performance on the ice, but by my identity.”

  It’s not tough to be out in my profession. But for Fitz, it must have been difficult. “That must be hard. I can’t imagine, because my life is so different. There are plenty of gay bartenders. It’s not something anyone makes a thing over. I’m no one’s hero.”

  “Look, it’s not like I think I am anyone’s hero. But I didn’t want to be identified by who I liked, but how I played. That’s why I just have hookups. Why I avoid entanglements. I don’t want the media talking about that. I don’t want to be seen on the reg with so-and-so. Oh, that’s New York defenseman James Fitzgerald and his boyfriend. I want it to be, Oh, that’s one of the league’s best players, out playing paintball with his friends, or at a concert with his buddies. That’s why I don’t do serious.”

  “Self-protection,” I say, understanding him more.

  “Exactly. I just want to be the NHL’s top D-man.”

  “Well,” I say, with a wry grin, “I don’t know if it helps that I still barely know what that is.”

  “You’ll understand all the nuances soon enough.”

  “And you’ll know how to mix a perfect martini.”

  “One that goes to my head? Like you told me the night I walked into your bar?” he asks, reminding me of the conversation we had just three nights ago.

  “Exactly. I’ll teach you my secrets.”

  He smiles, but then it fades away, and he stares at me, that hungry look in his eyes. But it’s a needy look too. Almost desperate, but in a wildly sexy way—not a clingy way. Not a way that scares me.

  Fitz slides his thumb along my jaw. “You go to my head.”

  I lower my eyes as my chest fucking flips. As this wild warmth spreads through me dangerously, like a wave. And this feels nearly as good as fucking him.

  Or maybe as good.

  And I think—no, I’m sure—he’s going to my head too.

  So I look up, take a breath, and say, “The feeling is mutual.”

  His grin is huge, and he sighs, relieved. “Thanks for understanding why I’m a dick.”

  “You’re not,” I say, laughing.

  He tips his chin at me. “What’s your story? Why do you avoid relationships? You just like playing the field?”

  “Ah, the million-dollar question.”

  “I take it there’s not an easy answer?”

  “Is there ever?” I toss back, dancing around the truth.

  “Hardly ever.”

  I draw a fueling breath. Answering this question isn’t my favorite thing to do, but he opened up to me. I can do the same.

  “I suppose I could tell you it’s because of the last guy I was involved with. He wanted too much too soon, and I didn’t have it in me. I wanted to focus on my future, on the bar, on what I wanted to build with Maeve,” I explain. “I found my attention wavering, and I didn’t feel that deeply for him. Once I ended it, I was able to focus on this—what I want. My life, my dreams, provincial as they are. I mean, I’m sure they seem small next to yours. Global Series and worldwide recognition.”

  “Stop it. That’s not the point. The point is they’re your dreams. They matter to you.”

  “They do, and that got in the way. I don’t want things to get in the way. That’s what my mum did. She let love get in the way. Took off for Australia with a guy, and she’s not even with him anymore.”

  “It didn’t work out?”

  I shake my head. “She’s married to someone else now. Her fourth marriage. Her choices, right? I just don’t want to make the same ones.”

  “I hear ya,” Fitz says, leaning back on the pillow. “But that’s why it’s good we feel the same way. We dig each other, but we also know it’s ending soon. We can have fun. We can have a great time together.”

  I poke his side. “‘Great’? Just ‘great’? I thought you said it was ‘the best time’?”

  He smiles, then yanks me toward him. “You know what would really make it the best time?”

  I grin wickedly, knowing what comes next will be dirty. “Wait. Let me guess. Does it have two numbers in it?”

  His eyes twinkle with naughty mischief. “It’s like you know me.”

  And maybe I do. And I like knowing him.

  And touching him.

  And I really like sucking him off while he does the same to me, since the numbers are sixty and nine. That’s how we finish a night that’s pretty much perfect—more so because it caps off a perfect day with him.

  With this guy who is not at all like Dylan. Not at all like anyone I’ve ever been with.

  But if he lived here, I don’t think I’d stop at Thursday. I don’t think I’d stop in a week or a month. I’d want more of him.

  I could see us being a thing.

  A real thing.

  And that’s why it has to be good that he’s leaving. It just has to. There’s no other way to see him and me.

  TUESDAY

  Also known as the day I know.

  22

  Dean

  For the second day in a row, I wake up next to Fitz.

  For the second day in a row, it feels entirely natural.

  And for the first time, I’m aware of the need to seize every moment.

  But he’s still asleep, so I do something risky.

  I text Maeve.

  And I call in the biggest favor I’ve ever called in.

  Dean: Gorgeous, wonderful, kind, all-knowing best friend of mine . . .

  Maeve: You obviously want something.

  Dean: I do. I need your help.

  Maeve: Oh. You’re not joking. You’re serious. Hit me up.

  Dean: What are the chances that you’d cover for me over the next few days? Call in one of our backu
ps?

  Maeve: IS THIS WHAT I THINK IT IS?

  Dean: What do you think it is?

  Maeve: You. Falling. Hard.

  I scoff lightly at her note. Then I look at the man next to me. The ink climbing over his arms, his back. The scruff on his face. The way his hair sticks up as he sleeps.

  Some kind of storm brews in my chest as I watch him, and I silently curse my best friend for being right.

  Dean: All I’m saying is I would love a few days off. I will do any chore in the universe. I will get you your jukebox.

  Maeve: Oh my God! You have no idea how much I want to say I told you so, but even my cold black heart won’t let me. I am just happy that you like him so much. (That IS why you want the time off? You want to spend it with the hockey hottie?)

  Dean: Yes. I do.

  Maeve: I’ll do it under one condition.

  Dean: Name it.

  Maeve: I want to meet your man.

  Dean: He’s not my man.

  Maeve: Don’t even try that poppycock with me. He so is. Bring him by. And yes, go have fun. I’m happy for you.

  Dean: It’s just fun. It’s just a fling. But I’m enjoying it. And I want to enjoy every second of it.

  Maeve: Sometimes a fling is all we need.

  Maeve: To get a jukebox!!! Ha, I told you so!

  Dean: You did. And I’m so glad.

  When I set down the phone, Fitz is stretching, eyes floating open. “Morning, sunshine,” he says, all sleepy sexy.