A Guy Walks Into My Bar

by Lauren Blakely

  His voice goes serious. “And you felt it just now?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  He simply nods and takes another bite. “Interesting.”

  “Why is that interesting?” The question sounds more defensive than I intended.

  He laughs lightly, then sets down his fork. “Fitz, you brought it up. I’m simply remarking that it’s interesting.”

  I scratch my jaw, trying to sort out these nascent ideas, these stick figure sketches in my head. “Yeah, sorry, babe. I think I’m just distracted. The flight and all. My mind is kind of like a train station right now.”

  “Understandable.”

  I return to the important issue, since I want some clarity before I go. I need it. “Did you make a pros and cons list for us?” I ask, my stomach flipping a little with nerves. Because I want him to have found all the pros. I want him to tell me he’ll do a long-distance thing, even though I don’t want that at all with him.

  That’s the irony of this unworkable sitch with Dean.

  I want all of him, and I don’t know how to be content with whatever scraps I can scavenge.

  I’m an all-in kind of guy. A go for it person.

  Don’t do anything halfway when you can give 110 percent. That’s how I’ve been my whole life. It’s what I had to do for my mom when my dad died. Maybe not right away, maybe not even for a few years. But once I was a teenager, once I heard from enough coaches that I had a shot at the NHL, I knew I had to give every ounce of blood, sweat, tears, luck, and talent to hockey.

  So I did.

  That drive brought me where I am today—a place where I can finally make a difference for my mom.

  Where I can be the man of the family.

  I know how to do that. I’ve trained my entire life to give my all.

  But to give only some? Sparing a bit of myself when we manage to make our schedules line up? I don’t know how to do that.

  Except I’ve got to figure it out. Dean’s worth it.

  Maybe pros and cons are the way to start. As I stand and clear the plates, I say, “Tell me about your list, babe.”

  “Here’s a hint.” His English accent sounds a little melancholy as he joins me in the kitchen. “It’s all cons, except for one thing.”

  My stomach dips in fear as I brace myself for the cons. “Give me the bad news first.” I set the dishes in the sink then turn to face him.

  Dean moves next to me, jerking me close. “It’s a lot easier if I tell you the pro.”

  The pro.

  Only one damn thing.

  I have a sinking feeling I know where this talk is going.

  We are going nowhere, a plane sputtering out of the sky.

  I steel myself for rejection. “What’s the pro?”

  He slides his arms around my waist, probably to lessen the blow, as he says, “You’re the only pro.”

  That should make me happy, but it doesn’t. “Dean,” I say, and I hate that I sound enamored of him. I sound like a guy with an unrequited crush.

  “Fitz . . .”

  “Are you . . .?” I don’t even know how to say it. Ending things? Because things were always ending, and I’ve got to remember that.

  But yesterday, last night—it felt like a new start, like another chance to figure out how to do this.

  He presses a tender kiss to my lips. “No. I’m not ending things,” he says, following my thoughts. Then he pulls back. “I’ve been thinking though.”

  My stomach roils again, and I need to get myself under control because feeling this way is foolish. I knew a split was coming. Knew my time with him was ending. But the end, it fucking hurts.

  I clench my teeth.

  I will keep my shit together.

  “I think you need to focus on training camp,” he says, calm but not clinical. He sounds like he’s been thinking on this for a while, turning this over in his head.

  “I know. I will. But what are you getting at?”

  Dean clears his throat. “On Sunday, you told me your job was the most important thing to you. The last thing I want is for you to go home and lose sight of that. You said you had this pact with your teammates because you came close last year but didn’t make it. You said your teammates are depending on you.”

  “They are. That’s all true.”

  Dean runs his hand along my face, and I move with his hand, like a cat seeking him out. A desperate fucking cat. That’s my fate. God help me.

  “So let them depend on you.” His voice is kind, loving, even. “I think you need to focus on that when you return home, and not on me. You and me—we don’t know how to do halfway. If we start calling or texting or talking every day, that’ll knock you out of whack.”

  I furrow my brow. “You’re saying this for my benefit?” Then I put my finger on what this sounds like. It sounds like a breakup line.

  But he doesn’t look at me like he’s handing me a line.

  “I care for you too much to be the reason you’re distracted. And I think that would happen right now.”

  “You want to cool it?”

  “I don’t want to,” he says, holding my face. “But I don’t want to stand in the way of your career. Your success.” He offers me a small smile. “Besides, I know you. You’ll call me in a few days. We’ll talk, we’ll dirty talk, we’ll video chat, and we’ll be getting each other off in no time.”

  I groan. “You realize that sounds red-hot?”

  “I know. That’s the issue. We’ll combust. But you made your pact for a reason. You need to honor it. I want you to honor it.” His hand slides down to my shoulder, along my arm. “I’m not going to be with anyone else. I can’t.”

  “I can’t either.”

  Dean squeezes my arm. “Do you get it? Why I’m saying this?”

  I swallow roughly, getting it. “I do. You’ll be all I think about, and I need to focus on the ice, on the game plan.” I draw a deep breath. “But what then? After the season starts?”

  “Maybe when you’ve done your thing, whatever this pact thing is and however it works, then call me. Text me. FaceTime me. We’ll do . . . something.”

  I manage a sliver of a smile. “Something?”

  My guy roams a hand over the fabric of my shirt. “Something good.”

  I can smile again. The prospect of his something, someday is enough to keep me going. “Yeah? You mean it?”

  Dean pushes his pelvis against mine. “Of course I mean it, dickhead.”

  I laugh and slide a hand around the back of his head. “You sure?”

  “Yes. And I don’t know what happens then, so don’t ask me now. I don’t have a crystal ball. All I know is I care about your career and your job and your family, and I don’t want to be the reason you can’t focus, or that your teammates toilet paper your locker or whatever it is that you guys do.”

  I smirk. “You think they’d TP my locker if I got distracted by the sexy British bartender I left behind? That’s what you think they’d do?”

  He shrugs. “I honestly have no clue.”

  I laugh. “Maybe they’d throw eggs at my car?”

  “You have a car?”

  “No. I don’t have a car.” I clear my throat. “They won’t TP my locker, or throw eggs at my car, or pour glue in my shampoo. They’d do something else if I was all fucked in the head.”

  “What would they do?”

  “My captain would give me words. He’d sit me down, tell me to focus. To get my head out of my ass. He’d tell me to do more passing drills. More shooting drills. More one-on-one drills.”

  “That last one sounds fun,” Dean says, wiggling his brows.

  “One-on-one drills with you and me sounds hella fun.” I cup his cheeks. “I thought you were ending this.”

  Dean shakes his head. “No. I don’t think I can.” He lets out a long exhale. “But, Fitz, I still don’t have any idea how to make us work. I have no more answers today than I did yesterday. All I know is you need to focus on your job for the next thirty days or
however long, and I think you can do a better job at that if you’re not doing naked stripteases for me over FaceTime.”

  I let out a low rumble, then tug on the waistband of his jeans. “Let me show you my striptease right now.”

  And that’s what I do.

  Still, the morning marches to a cruel end.

  I pack my bag, zip it up, and unplug my phone from the wall where it charged this morning.

  A message from Ransom sits on the screen.

  Ransom: You ready? You better be. We’re gonna bring it.

  I send a quick reply.

  Fitz: Let’s fucking do this.

  Ransom: World domination, bro. World domination.

  Fitz: Nothing less.

  I close the thread, one more reminder that Dean is right. Best to shut this thing with him down for now. For a while.

  Fifteen minutes before I need to go, Emma rings the buzzer. She comes upstairs, where I give her a hug and tell her I expect regular updates.

  “You’ll get more than you can handle,” she says.

  “I can always handle your updates,” I tell her.

  She stands on tiptoes to give Dean a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Be sure to come by some time,” he says.

  “And let me know if you ever want to go to the National Gallery.”

  I roll my eyes, cutting in. “Are you guys trying to kill me here? You’re making me ridiculously jealous.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll livestream the Van Goghs for you,” she teases.

  “It’s not the Van Goghs I want to see,” I tell her.

  She shoots me a duh look. “I know, James. I know.”

  We walk out together, the three of us, and as I wait for the Lyft to Heathrow, I walk with Emma a few feet away. “Thanks again,” I tell her.

  She smiles. “I had a feeling about the two of you.”

  “You were right,” I say.

  “Call me when you figure out what you’re going to do.”

  “There’s nothing to do.”

  “Like I said. I’ll be here.”

  She waves goodbye and leaves, and I return to Dean and the Lyft that’s pulled up.

  I nod toward the car. “Come with me to the airport.”

  “Ah, the old airport goodbye.”

  “Give me the airport goodbye, babe.”

  “As if I’d do anything else.”

  He locks the door to his flat, and we get in the car to head to Heathrow.

  37

  Dean

  We stand in front of security at the airport. The man I just spent the most fantastic six days of my life with is boarding a plane in less than an hour. He is leaving, and this is ending, and my stupid heart aches.

  It aches more than I ever imagined it would.

  If this is heartbreak, I don’t ever want to feel it again.

  Goodbyes are awful.

  He’s inches away from me, looking somehow even more handsome than the night he walked into my bar. Because now I know him. I can see beyond that cocky grin. Beyond that swagger. Beyond all that charm. I’ve seen inside his heart, and I know how incredibly big it is. He gives me this look, a look that seems to say everything. This sucks, why am I leaving, why aren’t you coming with me, why can’t I see you every single day?

  A look that says What’s really happening in a month? What will things be like after this . . . pause?

  Part of me thinks maybe I’m reading too much into his expression. But part of me knows that’s exactly what’s on his mind.

  “I guess this is it,” I say.

  Fitz grabs my face with both hands, pulls me close, and rests his forehead against mine. “You have no idea how much I’m going to miss you,” he whispers, all rough and packed with emotion.

  As I loop my arms around his neck, I answer him. “No, you’re wrong. I have every idea because I feel the same.”

  He presses his lips to mine, a soft, poignant kiss that sends sparks through me. I try to make light of it. “Trying to get me aroused at Heathrow?”

  He growls in my ear. “This is so much more than arousal, and you know it.”

  There’s no point fighting it. No point denying it. “I know, Fitz. I know.”

  He inches back so he can meet my gaze. “You know what this is.” It’s a statement, not a question. His lips curve up in a helpless grin, his expression sad. “I fell in love with you.”

  My eyes float closed for a second, as I absorb the intensity of his words, the weight of them, the strength of them. I let them weave their way through me, filling every corner, making me feel alive in a way I have never felt before.

  Nothing has come close.

  No one.

  Ever.

  And now I feel it everywhere, and he’s leaving.

  I open my eyes, part my lips, and grab a fistful of his shirt in frustration. “I can’t believe you did this.”

  His lips crook up in a curious grin. “Did what? Fell in love with you?”

  I tighten my grip on his shirt. “Walked into my bar, walked into my life, walked into my fucking heart. I can’t believe you did this to me. And now you’re leaving.”

  Fitz smiles at me again. “Why does it bother you so much, Dean?”

  He knows what he’s doing. He’s goading me.

  Fitz has always been the one to go first. Fitz has always been the one to open his big heart to me. Damn him for doing that. Damn him for making it so hard to say goodbye.

  Letting go of his shirt, I grab the back of his head, my jaw tight, my body tense from the horrible reality of him leaving. “Because,” I answer. “Because you know what happened. You know because you feel it too.”

  There’s the intensity in his gaze that must drive him on the ice. He brings that to this moment as he demands, “Tell me.”

  I’m stoic for a moment. Maybe if I keep this truth inside, if I keep my feelings to myself until he gets on the plane, I won’t stumble and screw up my whole damn life.

  I now get why I’ve avoided love.

  I understand why I chose men like Dylan, guys I knew on some level I’d never be serious with. If I never got serious, I’d never face this.

  And now, I am.

  Now I’m taking an absolute walloping because I fell in love against all my better judgment.

  Against my brain.

  Against my rules.

  Against my pros and cons.

  Once I say it, I don’t know how I’ll be able to stop myself from getting on that plane with him, stowing away in his luggage, and doing whatever it takes.

  That’s the problem. I want him so much. Too damn much. I’ve never been able to resist him, even though I should have, even though I know what giving in can lead to.

  And now, I don’t think I can resist telling him the truth.

  More than that, I don’t want to. In spite of my fears, I want him to know what he’s done to me.

  I slide my hand along the back of his neck, tugging him close. “I fell in love with you too,” I whisper.

  The second the words leave my mouth, he crushes my lips in the most wonderful and terrible kiss of my life. Wonderful because it’s with the man I love, and terrible because he’s leaving.

  “I have to go,” he says, when he breaks off.

  “I know.”

  “I’ll be thinking of you the whole time.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t think of me. Just do your job.”

  “Can’t help it.” He taps his temple. “You’re here.” Then his chest. “And here.”

  I give him my most wry grin. “The feeling is mutual.”

  He holds his hands out wide. “I fucking love you. That is all.” He heads through security, looking back at me nearly every second.

  I don’t move. I stand, hands in my jeans pockets, eyes on that man as he sets his carry-on on the conveyor belt, as he walks through the scanner, then as he grabs his bag on the other side.

  Then, one last raise of his hand. I do the same.

 
I watch him walk around the corner and out of sight, where he’ll board a plane for America, where he’ll return to his busy life, to three games a week, to constant travel, to life on the road, to teammates who need him, to family who depend on him.

  And I go back to my little corner of this city I love.

  The only place I’ve ever lived.

  The only home I’ve ever known.

  And it’s a little bit grayer without him.

  NEXT WEEK

  Also known as misery.

  38

  Fitz

  I am spent. Officially drained. Thoroughly exhausted.

  But it’s a good kind of tired, one I feel deep in my bones and in every damn muscle in my body. It’s the tired that comes from sprints and more sprints and then still more.

  From drills, to work with rookies, to time in the conditioning room doing cardio, weights, and more weights.

  I only break for meals and to see my teammates and catch up with Logan, Summer, and Oliver.

  All the following week, I do everything to stay in the zone.

  Our latest session is open to fans, and when we finish up, a handful of peeps cheer as we head off the ice.

  Ransom nods to the folks at the edge of the rink. “Ready to sign some shirts and pucks?”

  “Always,” I say, knocking fists with my teammate.

  A bunch of us skate over to the stands, chatting up the superfans, which anyone who comes to training camp absolutely is. A brunette is particularly chatty with Ransom, while an older dude who used to coach talks up the goalie. A guy my age asks me to sign his jersey.

  Finally, there’s only a mom and her kid left, waiting for Ransom and me.

  “You two are my two favorite players.” The kid is maybe twelve, with a mouthful of braces.

  “You have excellent taste, then,” Ransom says, signing a hockey stick for him.

  “You like to play?” I ask, as I take my turn to sign.