by Eden Finley
Waking to a cold bed and empty room, I reach for my phone to see if Jet left me a message. Which he didn’t. But social media notifications take up my whole screen like they have been ever since Jet made us publicly “official.”
I really need to work out how to turn those off. I’d ask Jet but then he’d mock me about being an old guy who doesn’t know how technology works.
I rub my tired eyes and get out of bed but only reach the couch before I lie down again.
I wasn’t lying when I said touring is exhausting, and I’m not even doing the heavy work. But I wouldn’t change it. No way. For the first time in a long time, I see my life without hockey in it. I’m living it.
All athletes have that fear of what will happen when we retire. Our careers have short shelf lives, and then what are we supposed to do?
Jet has made me realize I can do anything I want.
Something digs into my side, and I shuffle around to pull it out from under me.
It’s the book I’ve seen Jet write lyrics in.
I don’t mean to look because that would be like reading someone’s diary, but it’s open to a page where the words stand out and cause giant alarm bells to go off in my head.
On bended knee
Not in front of me
We couldn’t promise forever
But we never said never
I gave you my heart
You tore us apart
Living a lie
Though I understand why
Living a lie
My heart breaks for Jet but possibly even worse for me. I don’t know if I can compete with this—what he has with Harley.
I have no doubt in my mind that if Harley wasn’t bound by his contract and he could be with Jet for real they would be together, and that doesn’t sit right with me. But I can’t let him go.
The door to the hotel room clicks open, and I don’t have time to drop the book of lyrics.
“I wasn’t reading it,” I blurt out.
Jet laughs. “Yeah, that sounds believable.”
“Okay, I didn’t mean to read it. My eyes did it on their own.”
“Unless you’re plannin’ to cut an album and steal what’s in there, I don’t care if you read it.”
“Really?”
His eyes move to the page in question. “They don’t mean anything. Those were rambling thoughts that came to me. Probably won’t even become a song.”
“They’d make a good song. Emotional.”
“Meh.”
I study his face, trying to work out if his indifference is genuine or forced, but I have no idea.
He takes the seat next to me on the couch. “Just because I have these thoughts, it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t mean I’m pining for him. It doesn’t mean I don’t have real feelings for you or that I’m using you. It’s just a song.”
Hearing those words makes doubts about us even stronger in a way. Jet’s music—his songs—is what brought us together the first time. He has publicly mapped out our past through his words, and it hurts, but it ties us to each other.
“Are the songs you wrote about me ‘just’ songs too?”
“Well, no, but both those songs went multi-platinum.” Jet smirks. When I don’t return it, his face drops. “Do you really want your songs to mean more? Pretty sure we wouldn’t be sittin’ here if I held on to those lyrics. Songs are emotions felt in a passing moment in time. Some mean more than others. I love my songs about you, but if I were to dwell on why I wrote them, I guarantee I wouldn’t want to do this.”
His arms wrap around me, he moves closer, and his mouth meets mine. Jet kisses me soft and meaningfully, and it’s easy to forget Harley even exists in the same universe when his lips are on mine.
But doubt still lingers.
Jet must sense it because he breaks the kiss. “Think of it this way. The song you loved so much? That was about Matt and Noah. I wrote it when they were going through some stuff. They didn’t think they’d survive it, but they ultimately did. That had nothing to do with me or where I was emotionally during that stage of my life. These words”—he picks up the book—“I wrote this while watching Harley propose to someone who wasn’t me. It took me to all those months of being lonely on tour, of being used by band managers and groupies. Then when I found someone who made it not so lonely, the label took him away from me. It has nothing to do with how I feel about him now. Twelve hours later, I couldn’t care less about Harley getting married because after this tour, I won’t have anything to do with him. That’s my choice.”
I get it, I do. It makes sense. It still makes me uneasy though.
“Are we cool?” Jet asks.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Thank you for explaining it to me.” I pull Jet close and move in to kiss him again, but he holds off.
“Glad we settled that, but we don’t have time for this.”
“Why don’t we have time? I thought we had this morning off?”
“We do, but I spoke to Luce, and I did something.”
My eyes narrow.
“I know the tour is insane and always on the go and people are always barging in or dragging me to interviews and we haven’t had a lot of actual time alone other than in bed.”
“Definitely not complaining about the bed part.” I move in to kiss him again, but he pulls back.
“Get dressed. We’re going out.”
“In public? Where we’ll be mauled by paparazzi and fans?”
“Just get dressed. Trust me.” The mischievous gleam in Jet’s eye shouldn’t make me nervous but it does.
I get changed quickly, and we head down to the chauffeured car that has been shuttling us from the hotel to interviews to concert venues and back.
Paparazzi are camped outside the hotel, but we’re both decked out in hats and sunglasses. This has been our life since arriving back State-side.
We rush to the car to give them as few photos as possible, and then we’re off to God knows where to do God knows what, but Jet looks excited about it.
I want to bug him for more information, but I get the feeling his excitement comes from surprising me rather than where we’re going.
We leave the city and not long after pull into a practically abandoned parking lot leading to a nondescript building.
“You’re abandoning me here and making me find my own way to the airport?”
“No, but that’s a great idea for the next leg of the tour. Come on.”
I follow Jet to the entry, and he looks so damn proud.
“Last night you complained that people keep interrupting us and we don’t have real alone time. So …” He opens the door, and I see it in big block letters behind a reception desk.
ESCAPE ROOM.
“So, we’re going to be locked in a room for two hours. No interruptions.” He bounces on the balls of his feet.
I’m stunned and a little taken aback. “I can’t believe you came up with this.”
“Is that a dig at my intelligence? I’d argue with you, but I have no doubt that we’re going to need the full two hours to get out of here if I have to use my brain.”
I squeeze his hand. “I didn’t mean that. At all. I meant … last night, when I complained, I was just exhausted. I didn’t mean for you to do all this or for you to worry I’m unhappy.”
Jet flushes and glances away. “I know touring is hard, and I want to make sure you have fun.”
I wrap my arm around his shoulders. “I’m having so much fun, but this is a perfect break.”
A throat clears behind us. “Are you ready?” the receptionist asks.
We nod.
“Which room would you like to escape from?” She points to the options.
We look at each other and then back at her without an answer. It doesn’t matter because it’s not the actual activity we’re interested in.
She eyes us, our arms wrapped around each other, and then she smiles. “I think I know which one you’ll love.”
The room in question
has a setup that doesn’t make much sense at all. There are random knickknacks, bookcases, an old desk, a giant globe, and a whole heap of incohesive furniture. It looks more like someone’s storage room than a planned mess.
The attendant explains how it works—that we get clues which lead to a key to get out of the room and we have two hours to do it.
As soon as the lock turns and shuts us in, a light on the desk flashes.
“Hey, question,” I say. “Wasn’t there a horror movie about this? If we don’t figure out the clues, we die?”
Jet looks horrified. “And you thought to bring that up now after getting locked in here?”
“A hockey player and a rock star using their brains to save their lives.”
“We’re fucked,” Jet says, and I laugh.
“Hey, not all hockey players are dumb.”
“Okay, Mr. Smart Guy. Where’s our first clue?”
“I’m guessing the flashing light on the desk.”
“Ooh, look who’s paying attention.”
I press it, but nothing happens. It’s just a light. “Okay, so there’s the light, but what do we do with it?”
“Not so easy now, huh?”
“You want to maybe help look?” I bite back.
Jet smiles. “Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. It’s going to end in a fight. I can see it now.”
“Never. I’m cool under pressure. You’ve seen me on the ice.” I bend to look under the table to see if anything’s underneath the light.
“Umm … Sure.”
I stand straighter. “Wait, you have seen me play, haven’t you?”
He runs a hand through his shaggy hair. “Of course. There was that Stanley Cup game. I was there for that.”
“Hold up. That’s the only game you’ve watched? I’ve been stalking your career, and you’ve never once seen one of my games since the night we met?”
Jet becomes flustered. “Uh, maybe check the drawers. There might be a clue in there.” He rounds the table and reaches for the handle, but I close in on him and grab his wrist.
“You haven’t seen me play,” I say again.
“You say that as if it’s because I don’t care. I do care. I care too much.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It was hard enough hearing the gay brigade talk about you. I didn’t want to watch you. I had too many what-ifs flying around in my head. It wasn’t until what happened in Tampa that I finally accepted we would never happen, and then I didn’t want to watch your games because I was mad at you.”
“Jet—”
He turns to face me. “Don’t. It’s all water under the bridge or whatever, but yeah, that’s why I haven’t seen you play. We don’t need to get into it.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything. I was going to do this.” I cup his jaw and kiss him, soft and sweet.
I could do this for the full two hours. I could use this time to savor him while also convincing him this is happening. I’m here.
I’m here for him.
When I pull back, Jet lets out a cute whine.
“I’ll watch every single one of your games from now on. Just keep kissing me.”
Well, if he insists …
We go back at it until we’re breathing heavy and groping at each other.
I press Jet against the desk, and I’m about to push him down on his back when a voice echoes around the room.
You have one hour and forty-five minutes left.
I slump and pull back. “We better get to it. You check the drawers on that side.”
There’s nothing in them.
“What about the phone?” Jet points to a flashing light on the phone.
It’s flashing in time with the light on the desk.
I pick up the receiver and press the hold button where the light is.
“I’m a word that ends in ‘U-C-K’,” a recording says. “I’m needed when you get too hot.”
I repeat it to Jet.
“A fuck?” he asks. “Are we supposed to look for porn in here?” He looks around. “What kind of room did she put us in?”
Another clue is said in the phone, and I repeat it to Jet. “I often have a lot of guys inside me.”
“Slut doesn’t end in U-C-K.”
The knickknacks catch my eye. “Firetruck.”
I hang up the phone and rush over to the antique toy firetruck in amongst other classic metal cars.
There’s another clue stuck to the bottom.
“After you turn me on, I get hot. I’m of no use until you screw me. If I’m not in tight, I could fall out.”
“Seriously?” Jet asks. “Is it me or are these clues super dirty?”
“I think that’s the point. They sound dirty but have normal answers.”
“Okay, so we’re not looking for a vibrating butt plug. Got it.”
“Something you screw,” I say. “Like a drill? Or a nail?”
Jet glances above my head. “Light bulb.”
“Perfect.”
There’s a single dark light bulb hanging from the roof, but there’s nothing on it. No clue, no letters …
“Do we have to unscrew it?” Jet asks.
I shake my head. “It’s fixed.”
“Maybe turn it on?”
I pull on the chain, and it illuminates the room in a bluish hue, but nothing happens.
“I don’t get it,” Jet says.
“Neither.”
Our next fifteen-minute warning sounds before we can figure it out.
“It’s a black light,” I mutter. “But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Let’s go back to making out on the desk,” Jet says.
“Giving up on only the third clue?”
He shrugs.
“Black lights show things you can’t see without them.” I step away, and on the ground is … I squint to try to make out what image it is. “Is that …” I cock my head.
“It’s a dick,” Jet supplies helpfully.
“It’s not going to be a dick. It looks like one, but it’s going to be something not sexual.”
We split up and look through all the junk in the room. There’s so much stuff in here it could be anything.
“What if we look under everything?” Jet asks. “Statistically, we have to come across another clue somewhere.”
I glare at him. “You don’t play by the rules, do you?”
“Never.”
“I’m making a mental note right now.”
Jet picks up a random snow globe and looks under it. “You’re taking notes on me?”
“I’m going to remember that if we ever play a game, I’ll have to keep an eye on you to make sure you’re not cheating.”
“Cheating makes it fun.”
“Well, yeah, winning is fun. Which is why we need to find this cock-shaped … whatever.”
“Maybe there’re cameras in here, and they want one of us to whip out our dick, and then they’ll give us the next clue.”
“By all means.” I gesture for him to go first.
He gets as far as unzipping his jeans when I see it on the shelf next to him.
“Cactus plant.”
Jet glances up from his crotch. “Huh?”
“Beside you. Cactus. Looks like a dick.”
“Are you sure I don’t have to take out my cock?”
“I didn’t think this through.”
Jet zips up his fly again. “You’ve seen it plenty.”
“I’ll never, ever see it too much. Just FYI.”
“What if we joined a nudist colony?”
I involuntarily growl. “No one gets to see that but me.”
Jet seems to like that. Our eyes lock, his deep-brown eyes on my lighter ones, and suddenly, I can’t remember what we were supposed to be looking for.
Jet breaks first and as if reading my mind, he says, “Cactus.”
“Right. Cactus.”
We move through more clues, all dirtier sounding than the last, but a
lways with a normal answer.
It takes us an hour and a half to find the key out of the room.
I flip it in my hands. “Should we use it now or enjoy the last half an hour of no interruptions?”
“Let’s get out of here. I have another surprise for you.”
“Well, aren’t I lucky?”
“No, you’ll get lucky later tonight. This afternoon, you might wonder if you still like me.”
It’s not until we arrive back at the hotel and, instead of going up to the room, he drags me down to the basement that I understand what he means.
“You’ve brought me to a gym.”
“I know you haven’t had much time to work out, so I spoke to Luce, and he’s going to schedule some bigger blocks of time for you in each city while I’m doing radio interviews.”
“Is this because I complained about getting fat?”
“Sort of, but no.” Jet turns to face me. “I kinda feel like I dragged you from a vacation in Fiji to practically working on my tour, and I know you were tired last night, so it was mostly whining, but I want this to work for both of us. You need to be ready for the season, and I don’t want it to get to a point where you have to go home early so you can focus on training. I’m trying to find a way we can both get what we need while getting you to stay on tour with me.”
The things Jet does shouldn’t stun me. I shouldn’t be surprised by how thoughtful he is.
Perhaps it’s because of this outlandish persona he has even with the rest of the gay brigade and his band. He puts on a show for everyone, but this—this caring guy who wants to fix whatever made me go on a tired rant—this is who Jet is deep down. And that guy is someone I could so easily fall in love with.
I love his snark and his energy and his public persona, but I love this other side of him even more. I don’t think he shows it to many people, and my heart feels full knowing that I’m one of the few who gets to see the real Jet.
I just wish I didn’t have to leave him in six more weeks.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to walk away from him.
Not again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
JET
Routine becomes easy once I know what it is Soren needs from me. Since our escape room and gym date, he’s been able to still have a sense of normal in his life.
