by Amy Aislin
Why did it sound like goodbye?
“Goodnight, Marco.”
THE NEXT MORNING, MARCO SLUNG his duffel over his shoulder and swung the door of his cabin open. Outside, Las stood with his butt parked against the porch railing.
Hope consumed Marco in a wave, a brilliant and shiny thing. It was candy canes at Christmas, an A+ on an exam. Then Las’s expression registered—the furrowed brow, the stiff smile, the crossed arms—and hope shattered like delicate crystal.
Las straightened, tugging down the hem of his T-shirt. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Eyes nearly as dark as the feeling in Marco’s gut roved his face, alighting on his lips for only a second before they caught on the duffel. “I know you have to go.”
Marco dropped it at his feet. “I’ve got a few minutes.” He had exactly five minutes before he had to meet the weekend shuttle driver in the lobby of Windsor Ranch House for his lift to the airport. It was fine; he’d run. There wasn’t a scenario where he wouldn’t listen to what Las had to say.
Las scuffed the heel of his boot against the porch. “I don’t like how we left things last night.”
“We’re fine, Las.”
“Are we?” He leaned a hip against the railing, gaze drifting off into the distance. “Because it doesn’t feel like it. And I don’t know how to fix it.”
“There’s nothing to fix.”
Marco crept closer, craving Las’s presence, and gripped the railing so he wouldn’t grip Las to him. Like Las had gripped him last night, nails digging into Marco’s biceps. Marco had had little crescents dotting his skin for a couple of hours afterward. He’d stared at them as he’d tried to blank his mind and sleep. But all he could see were those crescents and Las’s downturned lips and his glistening eyes and the regret combined with longing. All he could smell was Las’s earthy scent that he’d inhaled and memorized while Las stood close enough to kiss, fence between them be damned. All he could feel was Las’s hands on him, tight and warm; Las’s shallow breaths on his cheek, smelling faintly of beer; Las’s sadness reflected in Marco’s heart.
I can’t. Marco had known what Las’s answer would be even as he’d asked Las out, had been prepared for the rejection.
So why did it still hurt so much?
“You and I, we want different things,” he said. It was time to acknowledge that truth. “You want me but you don’t want to get hurt again. And I get that. Believe me, I do. I want you and…” His hand clenched around the wooden railing. “I’m willing to take the chance.” There. All of his cards on the table.
Las whipped back to him, his expression utterly pained. “Marco…” His voice too.
“You don’t have to say anything.” Marco picked up his duffel. “I promise we’re fine.” He’d make it fine. Las’s friendship was better than nothing at all. He’d bury his feelings until…
Until when? He left at the end of the season? As if distance would quash what he felt for Las.
Duffel strap secured over his shoulder, he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Still friends, right?”
“Of course.” A whisper that wrapped itself around Marco and pulled tight.
Unable to help himself, he touched, just a little, a quick squeeze to Las’s shoulder. “I’ll see you in a few days.”
Had their conversation made things better or worse?
At the bottom of the stairs, Las’s “Hey!” made him turn.
Las smiled, a little strained around the edges, but a smile nonetheless. “Show ’em what you’re made of.”
Marco tipped an imaginary hat at him. “Count on it.”
Las waited until Marco’s form retreated over the knoll. Marco walked with his shoulders braced as if expecting a swift storm to knock him over, head held high, hair loose around his shoulders. Then the hill swallowed him up and he was gone from view.
Not from Las’s life, Las had to remind himself as his chest tightened in fear. He’d only be gone a few days. Less than a week.
Sighing, he headed for the barn where he’d left Harriet, ignored the clack of keys from the computer in Alice’s office, saddled his horse, and took off. Having no desire to spend any more time on the guest services side—there were too many people around—he followed the path between the wheat field and the staff dining room to the highway, crossed to the other side, and nudged his horse into action.
That conversation had cleared up exactly nothing. Las still felt like he’d fucked up, like he’d put distance between them all on his own. Like he’d lost something he’d never get back.
As Harriet cantered through a pasture of scattered cows, he forced himself to pay attention. The last time he’d had Marco on the brain while riding, Harriet had thrown him.
Eventually, he slowed Harriet to a walk. She huffed a breath and shook her head, stomping one hoof into the ground.
“Yeah, you and me both.”
A figure on horseback trotted toward him. Las recognized Cal, reins held in one hand, expression set in tense lines.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve got a cow in labor,” Cal said, drawing Dash alongside him. “If you’re not busy, I could use the help.”
As a distraction, a birthing cow was better than most.
“Lead the way.”
DEVELOPMENT CAMP REMINDED MARCO OF why he loved hockey.
Conversely, it also reminded Marco of why he hated hockey.
Okay, not hate. Hate was a strong word. And it wasn’t hockey; it was everything that came with it. The pressure to succeed. The lectures from coaches on the importance of working as a team. The flash of cameras. A reporter’s microphone in his face. Watching what he said and did and wore—a good impression on youth, stakeholders, management, season ticket holders—basically everyone—was essential.
After Sunday night’s physical where Marco had gotten a clean bill of health, Monday started bright and early with the prospects hitting the ice and then a goalie clinic in the afternoon. And the week sped up from there: interviews with the press, skills testing, participation in a youth hockey clinic, a 3-on-3 tournament. They’d spent more time in the gym than on the ice, learning proper weight training and stretching techniques, and a lot of emphasis had been placed on stick handling and shooting drills. The best part was a scrimmage with the veteran players.
Every time he turned around, a reporter was asking him to comment on how much of an honor it was to have been invited to camp.
It was an honor. Hell, not just that: it was an experience his six-year-old hockey-loving self never could’ve imagined. He met the team’s veterans. Participated in a cookie bake-off to benefit a youth shelter. Was put through his paces by coaches who’d been in the league for years.
He was lucky. So lucky. Others would kill for his spot here. And although he enjoyed meeting other players and improving his skills and playing his favorite sport and the way he looked in an NHL jersey, it didn’t replace the longing in his heart for the Wyoming sky and a certain skittish cowboy that was as much a part of the landscape as the mountains.
It was physical, the longing. He kept seeking Las out to share a thought with him. Kept turning to the sky to seek the stars at night, finding only a partial representation of the panorama he’d gotten used to in Wyoming. Kept looking for nature in the city.
Kept trying to convince himself that minor or major league professional hockey could make him happy, if only so he could finally tell his parents that he had a direction for his life. Truth was, no matter how lucky he knew he was, no matter how much of an honor it was to be here, pro hockey wasn’t for him. He had friends and former teammates who’d kick his ass and dissolve their friendship if they ever learned of the direction of his thoughts. And although sometimes it made him anxious to think about an unknown future, for now he was content to take each day as it came.
He’d performed well at camp. Not exceptionally; he hadn’t kept up with practice or training since his college team had won the Frozen Four in the spri
ng. Not badly; he had too much love for the sport and was too grateful for this opportunity to botch it. But well. Maybe better than that. He took Las’s words to heart and showed them what he was made of.
And it was fun. But also the most exhausting few days of his life. Not the hockey. But the constant pressure to be on.
On his final day in DC, he sat in the hotel restaurant at a table set for five and waited for his family to arrive. It wasn’t exactly a quick drive from Philly, but this might be the only chance for him to see them until the end of his contract with Windsor Ranch, so they were making the trip out to see him for an early dinner. While he waited, he pulled his phone out, opened his messages, and tapped on Las’s name. Thumbs hovering over the tiny keyboard, he contemplated everything from Hi to I miss you.
The first was inadequate; the second would freak Las out. Where was the middle ground? How are you, maybe? He too didn’t like the way they’d left things. He shouldn’t have asked Las out again, but he couldn’t not try. Now that he’d fucked things up between them, was there anything he could say to make things better?
In the end, he texted Las a picture of the DC skyline that he’d taken from his hotel room window last night, only a smattering of stars visible atop a city lit up like Christmas. Not quite the same, he wrote. Tell Harriet I said hi. He didn’t expect a quick response back—it was mid-afternoon in Wyoming and Las was no doubt busy working—but less than a minute later, his phone pinged.
Las had sent him a photo of Harriet. If horses could have human expressions—Las would probably say they did—then Harriet was giving the phone the stink eye.
Las: She’s unimpressed and demands apple slices as a way to make it up to her.
Marco: Make what up to her?
Las: That you left. She misses you.
Marco’s hands clenched so hard on the phone that the plastic case protested. Were they still talking about Harriet?
Marco: Tell her I’ll see her soon and bring all the apple slices I can find.
Las: She says she’ll hold you to that. How’s DC?
Marco: Busy. Hot. Lots of tourists. I’m ready to come home now.
Marco: To the ranch, I mean.
Damn, what did he mean?
He didn’t have a chance to figure it out—his family arrived.
“Marco!” His loud Italian mother bustled into the restaurant and called his name from several feet away.
Wincing, conscious of the attention she’d drawn, Marco stood from the table. “Hi, Mom.”
Her hug smelled like yeast from all the bread baking she loved, a scent that had permeated the air of his childhood home for as long as he could remember.
His dad was next, smelling vaguely like leather baseball gloves. Marco remembered it well from all the times he’d visited his dad at the sporting goods store he managed. His dad pulled back and clasped his shoulders. “All good?”
“Yeah, Dad.”
His sisters were next. Floriana, the older one, the personal trainer. Sonia, the younger one, studying cosmetology. They came at him from both sides even though he towered over them both.
“I missed you guys.” He gave them a kiss on the tops of their heads and an extra squeeze.
Once they’d sat, he said, “You guys didn’t have to come all the way here.”
“Are you kidding?” his dad said. He’d been born in America, so his accent was nonexistent compared to his wife’s, who retained a slight one owing to her family having emigrated to the United States when she was eleven. “Of course we did. DC’s close, relatively speaking. We wanted to see you while you’re here.”
“So.” Across from him, his mom beamed. “How was it?”
“It was good,” he said, flipping one page of his menu back and forth, back and forth. “I learned a lot, got to meet a lot of people. I don’t think I’ve learned so much in such a short span of time.”
“Like what?” That was Floriana.
“Things you’d appreciate, actually. How to stay in peak form during the season and off, how to reach my full physical potential in different situations. And I think I learned more about food than about hockey; we were taught about nutrition down to the most tedious levels. What ingredients are in our meals, how many calories, grams of fiber, sugar, carbs, fats. Even what foods are beneficial at what time of day.” He winked at Floriana. “I could teach your clients now.”
She scoffed. “You wish.”
“What’s next for you, then?” his dad asked.
“I head back to Windsor in the morning.”
“I meant with your hockey career.”
“Oh.” Marco’s muscles knotted. Not much, he wanted to say. Instead, he settled with, “I don’t know yet. This wasn’t a tryout.” Although it had felt like one more often than not. “It’s an opportunity for players at different stages of development to learn and grow and get used to being part of the organization and the expectations that come with it.”
Expectations that Marco was already chafing at.
After they’d ordered, he said, “Catch me up with you guys. What’s been going on at home?”
Nudging Sonia, Floriana said, “Sonia has a boyfriend.”
“I don’t—” Cutting herself off, she turned to Marco. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“You brought him home to meet us,” Floriana reminded her.
Marco’s eyebrows flew up.
“See!” Floriana snapped her fingers, then pointed at Marco. “Even Marco thinks he’s your boyfriend.”
Backing into his seat as far as he could, Marco raised both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
Sonia narrowed her eyes on him.
“I’m innocent!” Marco insisted.
Later, once they’d eaten and Marco had handed out the gifts he’d purchased from the Saturday market, Sonia thwapped him in the hand with her dessert menu. “The pictures you’ve been sending us are amazing. Do you have more?”
He pulled out his phone, brought up the camera roll, and handed it over, letting his sisters scroll through.
“Whoa, who’s that guy?” Sonia turned the phone in his direction. On it was a selfie of him and Las from the day Las had taken him on the expert-level hike and shown him the overlook. “Your boyfriend?” she said with a smirk.
“No.” He’s not interested, he almost said, except he didn’t want to talk about it. And it wasn’t true. Las was interested, just not prepared to take a chance. And that hurt worse than if Las had simply been uninterested. “Las is my friend from college who invited me to Windsor. His family owns the ranch. My last day is September twentieth; I’d love it if you guys could come visit before I leave.”
“We looked up the ranch you’re working at,” his mom said, mug filled with chamomile tea sweetened with honey held between her hands. “The room prices…” She grimaced.
Yeah. The room prices. Was there a friends-and-family discount he could ask Las about? He didn’t remember that being one of the employee benefits of working at the ranch.
“There are other places in town. Several B&Bs, a small hotel downtown.”
“The flights though.” His dad’s lips twisted. “I’m not sure we could all go, but maybe a couple of us at the end of the summer?”
“That’d be awesome. Except maybe for you, Mom.”
“What?” She paused with her mug halfway to her mouth. “Why?”
“All that nature,” Marco teased. She liked nature as much as Marco liked being in the spotlight. He’d screeched like a dying bird when an oversized moth had flown into his cabin his first night on the ranch; his mother would claw through the walls to escape it.
“I don’t mind . . . nature.”
Silence for a moment and then they all burst into laughter, to which his mother rolled her eyes and waved her hand as if nothing they said could be taken seriously.
And it was nice. Exactly what Marco had needed after Las’s rejection coupled with too many days in the limelight. Home
and family and laughing for no reason.
If he felt like a piece of him was missing, too far away in another state, he kept that to himself.
LAS SPENT THE TIME MARCO was away alternately working with the ranch hands, taking Harriet on long walks away from people, working on the USNC proposal for his mom, and googling apartments for rent in Laramie. If he couldn’t get a single room in the graduate dorms, he’d find his own place.
Once, he tried to sleep under the stars in the back of his dad’s truck, but without Marco, it no longer had the same appeal. He ended up spending a lot of his free time at his tent and skipped more than one family dinner, a fact that didn’t annoy his parents as much as concern them. They seemed to understand that he needed space.
“Everything okay, kiddo?” his mom asked when he showed up for breakfast a few days after Marco left. “Your dad and I have been worried about you.”
“I’m fine. Just…” He tried to come up with an excuse as he served himself hash browns, eggs, sausages, and fruit. He shook his head, at himself, the situation, the fucking light of day. He was pissed at himself, annoyed with Marco for making him question everything, tired down to the bone from too many sleepless nights.
“If there’s anything you want to talk about—”
“I know.” He forced a smile that would reach his eyes. “Thanks.”
Later, after attending family dinner for the first time in days and once the sun had set, he sat at the desk in his bedroom and stared blankly at a website advertising apartment rentals near UW. None of them interested him, just like food didn’t interest him beyond a need for it to keep him going through the day, or even the proposal for his mom, or tomorrow’s upcoming Fourth of July festivities. The only thing that brought him any solace was his horse and his tent. Even the stars were tainted without Marco to share them with.
If this was how he felt with Marco away for less than a week, how would he feel once Marco left permanently in September?
