by Eden Finley
“What’s funny?” Matt asks.
“Doesn’t that feel weird to you? Like the words are foreign coming out of your mouth? ‘Hey, if you need to get anywhere, take our plane.’ Like it’s no big deal. If you’d told us that fifteen years ago, you think we would’ve believed it? Maybe you would have because you were always good at football, but wanna know what I almost replied with? ‘Thanks, but I’ve got access to my own.’ I mean, it’s the label’s, but I can still use it if I need to.”
Matt chuckles. “I’ll admit, it took a long time to get used to.”
“Thank you for the offer. I’m not saying no. It’s comforting to know I have options.”
“You and Soren will make it. I’m sure of it. And I’m going to say one more thing, but then we can erase it from our memories.”
“Oh, God, I’m terrified of what’s about to come out of your mouth.”
“Talon and Miller always say the key to a long-distance relationship is … uh … naked Skype calls. And now we’re pretending I never said that.”
I laugh. “Noted.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Soren
My phone beeps as I reach the locker room, and as I pull it out of my pocket and stare at the pic that’s been sent through, my chest warms. I don’t know if it’s because of the photo or the caption. It’s obviously a group text with the rest of the gay brigade, but the fact I’m included in it means Matt and Noah must actually be okay with Jet and me.
It’s a photo of Jet asleep in their recliner with baby Jackson on his chest.
Better up your uncle game, bitches.
It’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and a voice in the back of my head says that photo could be our future if we wanted it.
We can have anything we want.
“Whoa,” Morgan says beside me as his looming presence hovers over my shoulder. “Please tell me your boyfriend didn’t steal a baby.”
“It’s Jet’s niece.”
“Cool. So, listen …”
I sigh. “I know preseason has been a mess. Don’t need to rub it in.”
“Your man is a distraction.”
“Would you be saying that if I was dating a woman?”
“Fuck yes. The number one reason for losing a Cup is dick distraction. It’s scientific fact.”
I laugh.
“But I’m not trying to give you a hard time. I was going to ask if you wanted to stay back after practice today and try to get out of the funk you’re in. Sometimes, you’ve gotta let go and forget about doing well and just mess around to get out of your head … or, you know, distract yourself from whatever’s distracting you.” He nods toward my phone.
“Thanks, man.”
He claps my back. “See you out there.”
Practice goes about as well as the rest of preseason has.
I struggle. I struggle hard.
The coaches yell at me, and my teammates grumble under their breaths.
“Need to turn it around, Sorensen, or the fans are gonna be screaming for you to ditch your boyfriend,” Pratt says. “Remember when they thought Grant’s girlfriend was a bad luck charm? It was a mess.”
Grant got traded two seasons ago, so I can’t quite remember what happened with that.
“Didn’t he marry her?” I ask.
“Yeah, to show the fans they were wrong and his relationship was serious. Dude got divorced after thirty-five days.”
Figures. “Well, thanks for the warning. I’ll be sure not to marry Jet to prove a point.” If I was going to marry Jet, I’d do it to prove a point to him, not our fans.
Morgan skates up to me. “We still hanging back?”
“Yeah. What’re you going to make me do? Suicides in full gear like Coach?”
“How’s that going to get your mojo back? All that’ll achieve is it’ll make you like me less.”
“That’s true.”
Morgan picks up the puck on the blade of his stick and tosses it in the air a few times. “I was thinking we could have a good ol’ fashion game of shinny.”
A grin takes over my face. “Hell, yes.”
“No checking. No icing. Let’s do this.”
Messing around with Morgan reminds me of Fiji with the guys. It doesn’t feel like work because it’s fun, and I forget what I’m supposed to do, where I’m supposed to be, and how hard I have to skate.
I just fucking play.
“That all you got?” Morgan taunts. It only spurs me on. Which makes him go faster. “Come on, old man.”
I groan. “Not you too. I get enough of that from Jet.”
Morgan changes direction, taking the puck with him. “Then I approve of the kid.”
“You’re not exactly a spring chicken yourself. You’re pushing thirty … old man.”
“Still younger than you,” he sings.
“Asshole,” I hiss but laugh as I do it.
He pulls his stick back, preparing for a slapshot, but I kick it up a notch and get to the puck first.
It lights that fire in me—that need—and my movements become more natural. My skating is smooth, my puck-handling soft, and anyone watching wouldn’t believe for a second that I’m in a slump.
My coach must agree because … “Where the heck has that been, Sorensen?”
Morgan and I pull up short and turn toward the chute where the offensive coach stands.
“I told him he just has to get out of his head,” Morgan says.
“Think you can bring that in two days?” Coach asks.
I fucking hope so. I don’t say that, though. I say what you’re supposed to when your coaches ask something of you.
“Of course, Coach.”
The first game of the official season is an away game against Winnipeg. The pressure to do well after our shitty preseason is the most intense I’ve experienced in my entire career, or at least it feels like it in this moment.
The coaches give their usual pep talks while the team gets riled up.
I’m too nervous to get fired up like the others, which is ridiculous. It’s my fifteenth season playing professional hockey. Nerves happen every now and then, but this is beyond normal butterflies.
This is I may vomit on the ice nervous.
It could be because of the rocky preseason, or maybe it’s something bigger. Maybe, it’s because retirement has always been a future thing to contemplate. Whereas now, I’m ninety percent sure this will be my last first game of the season ever.
The beginning of the end.
Hockey is still my home. It always will be. I’m sure I’ll still attend games, maybe even do workshops for peewee hockey or something.
I thought retiring meant having to say goodbye to the sport, but that’s not true at all.
The more I think about the possibilities, the more I realize there’s so much more I could be doing that doesn’t have me stuck in this tight schedule. Leaving the NHL doesn’t mean leaving hockey.
The nerves get the better of me for the first seven minutes of the game. I make easy mistakes, and it’s the disaster that’s been the past month all over again.
When the coaches call for a line change, I sit on the bench, my leg bouncing erratically.
Something hits me over the back of my helmet, and I turn to find Morgan’s red and angry face.
“Get out of your head,” he yells over the noise of the crowd and loud atmosphere of a hockey game. “Think of something fun, and then go out there and live it.”
The most fun I’ve had since Jet left was with Morgan the other day. Before that it was … shit, any time I’ve been in Jet’s presence.
I picture the way his curls fall into his face and think of his unapologetic attitude.
Just his passion for life makes me feel complete. His joy is contagious, and it’s impossible to be in a bad mood around him.
I must make a face because Morgan smiles.
“That. Right there. Hold on to that.”
I get back on the ice, thinking of
Jet, picturing the photo of him and his niece that Matt sent the other day, and I think about how much fun we’ll have next year when I’m no longer doing this.
Make this your best season ever.
Jet’s voice rings through my head so loud and clear I’d swear he’s out here on the ice with me.
Pratt, a D-man on my line, wrestles for the puck. His opponent goes down, and Pratt gets the breakaway.
The rookie, Ivanov, the one I’ve been barely able to keep up with, chases after him.
One of Wayne Gretzky’s famous sayings is: A good hockey player plays where the puck is. A great hockey player plays where the puck is going to be.
So, I don’t skate to catch up to Pratt. I skate to put myself in the perfect position.
And it’s like fucking magic.
I’m where he needs me to be the second he needs me to be there.
He passes backward to me, and I take my shot. My slapshot to the top right of the net is always on point, but everyone in the league knows that about me by now. It’s my signature move and has been for years. That won’t do this time. Not if I’m going to make this season my best. That’s why I deke the goalie out of position and let him think I’m taking the slapshot. He prepares to catch it in his glove and blocks the right side, which is why he’s taken off guard when I change direction and send the puck sailing past him.
The lamp lights up for the first time tonight for either team.
Pratt gets to me first with a massive hug and backslap, and then the rest of my line catches up and does the same.
My mojo is back.
After that, there’s no stopping me.
I get an assist for Ivanov’s first-ever NHL goal.
Another assist.
Then a goal.
Assist.
And to top it off, in the last minute of the third period, I pull off the fucking hat trick, and we walk away winners of the game 7–3.
Six of those points belong to me, and I don’t think I’ve had a solo game that great in at least five years.
Nothing can bring down this high. Not even when our head coach says, “So glad you finally caught up from your vacation, Soren.”
“I figured saving it all up for when the proper season starts would be smart,” I say, and the entire team laughs.
After I shower and get dressed in my post-game suit, I take my phone out.
My stomach flips.
Jet: My man scored a hat trick. Congrats, babe. You were on fire tonight.
Me: Wait … are you telling me you saw one of my games? Like MY game. Me. One of my games …
Jet: I told you I would. And hey, I totally streamed your preseason games but there was nothing in them to brag about.
Me: You’re lucky I’m on such a high right now even your snark can’t bring me down. I wish I didn’t have a roommate tonight so we could Skype.
Jet: Ugh. I’d love that, but we can’t anyway. I’m still at the studio. Will be all night at this rate.
Me: Still?
I tell myself not to hate that. He’s working. And it’s not like he’s there with Harley alone … I don’t think.
Me: Are Benji and Freya there?
I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t ream me for that one.
Me: Sorry. I do trust you, but I don’t like it.
Jet: Hey, I wouldn’t like it either if I were you, so I understand. Benji and Freya aren’t here, but Marty and Luce are. They’ve been running interference with Harley. It’s fucking entertaining, but it’s getting painful. We still haven’t even begun laying down our track, and it’s been two weeks.
Me: Apart from that, how’s working with him?
Jet: Don’t get me started.
Chapter Thirty-Two
JET
I grit my teeth. “I’m gonna kill him.”
“You can’t,” Luce says.
“Sorry to every teenage girl in the world, but your precious Harley Valentine is a dead man.”
“Jay …”
“What?” I snap.
“You can’t kill him. You’re too pretty to go to prison, and sex is only fun when it’s consensual.”
“Damn my boyish good looks.”
Marty snorts.
“Maybe I could chop off all his hair? He won’t still be that good-looking with a shaved head.”
“Still considered assault,” Luce says. “Still risking prison time.”
I grunt. Maybe I should be thankful he’s working his way through a shit ton of songs for his album because the asshole took over our recording time in the studio. The sooner he’s done with his album, the sooner Radioactive can start on ours.
I turn to Luce. “Any word from the label about getting recording time at another studio?” I pitched the idea that we’d get an album out sooner in a familiar environment. Like New York where we were discovered. Yeah, they saw right through that one and shut it down. Recording studios are a dime a dozen in L.A. and therefore cheaper. The ones in New York are expensive, and the label heads refused. Apparently, we’re still not big enough to demand stuff.
“They’re still a firm no on that one,” Luce says.
“Damn it.”
Harley comes out of the recording booth smiling because he’s recorded yet another single. A single that’s not ours. “Sorry about that. I gotta go where the inspiration is, you know?”
“Yeah, and all your inspiration since you got here has been for other songs on your album and not our collab.”
The song he recorded the day after the announcement that Eleven was breaking up was released out into the world not a full thirty-six hours afterward. It’s already at number one.
He’s done the pushing part. He beat out the other guys in Eleven, and now he’s riding the number one wave while he gets his first solo album done.
“You said you’d only need me for a couple of weeks. We haven’t even started. What is it? What do you want from me?”
Even though I’m only yelling, Luce holds me back in case I follow through on my death threats.
“I want a number one hit from you. That’s what I want. What we’ve been writing … it’s … blergh.”
“Blergh? Blergh?” I turn to Luce. “Please tell me he did not just say my lyrics are blergh.”
“I’m staying out of this,” Luce mutters.
And if I’m honest, I can’t say I blame him. Or Harley.
I have been half-assing it when it comes to this collab. I’m throwing out words in hopes some will stick. I don’t know what the label is hoping for, but I’m pretty sure we can’t write about our relationship, so what does that leave us with? Love is off-limits, heartache is off-limits, and I don’t want my new boyfriend to have to listen to me sing that kind of song with my ex. That means everything coming out of me is shallow and weak.
“Can we have a minute, guys?” Harley asks Marty and Luce. “We don’t need babysitters.”
Luce raises an eyebrow at me.
“If you must, you can keep watch from out there.” I point toward the foyer of the recording studio. The big glass-paneled doors in this place don’t give much privacy, but I prefer that. For Soren’s sake. I know nothing will ever happen between Harley and me again, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable with Soren being in a room with his ex by himself, so why should Soren have to suck it up?
I respect that it makes him uneasy, and I don’t ever want doubt between us, so Marty and Luce keeping close doesn’t piss me off like it does Harley.
As soon as they’re out of the room and the audio engineer and his producer follow, Harley doesn’t hold back.
“Are they really necessary?”
“Well, one is my manager, and if you remember correctly, Radioactive is supposed to be using this space to record our next album, but a fucking boy band broke up, and now, someone has taken over the entire studio.”
“Okay, I get it, you’re pissed, but … Can we sit?”
We take opposite ends of the plush leather couch behind the mixing board.
&
nbsp; “What happened with us?” He sounds so serious that I can’t help myself.
I laugh. “Hmm, let’s see, big white dress, a promise of forever, matching rings—”
“That can’t only be it. It’s a sham engagement.”
“That sham engagement meant that we could never have anything real. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Someone real. Someone honest. Someone who makes my day brighter just by being in it. Soren is that for me. What you and I had … We turned to each other when we were lonely and on the road. Maybe even the secrecy of it all added to the confusing feelings. Put two gay dudes on a music tour for eight months and tell them not to bang. It’s impossible.”
“Trust me when I say it’s entirely possible.”
My eyes widen. “Luce said not all you Eleven guys were straight, but I still can’t figure out who. And I don’t exactly want to ask because, you know, rude and stuff.”
Harley smiles. “Since when do you care about not being rude?”
“True. But damn, my gaydar is so broken.”
“Let’s just say, it’s the person you’d least suspect because he has the best cover story.”
The best cover story. Like a wife isn’t the best … Wait … a daughter?
“Oh, shit, I guess I wasn’t subtle enough because from the look on your face, you’ve worked it out. Can you pretend I didn’t just out one of my best friends to you? I don’t think he’d care. At least, not with you, but it’s not my place.”
“Yeah, of course. Is that the real reason Ryder wanted to quit Eleven?”
“Nah, his main reason was Kaylee. When we left the press conference, we all hugged, and he joked about seeing us at the reunion tour when we’re forty. I think he just wants a break.”
“A break sounds good right about now.”
“You’ll get one as soon as we work through this block of ours.”
“Harley …” I don’t want to be a dick, but he can’t keep doing this. “We don’t have a block because there is no us anymore.”
I see the moment it really clicks for him, and I hate that I’m causing that look of hurt on his face. I’m pretty sure it’s how I used to look every time he left me alone in a hotel room on the road after sneaking out in the morning.
