by Rachel Reid
“You were right, Fabian,” Ryan said to the empty room.
* * *
“Feel free to take that off the shelf, if you want a closer look.”
Fabian blinked, and realized, as his eyes focused, that he’d been staring at a stainless steel anal bead wand with what must have been an expression of deepest longing. But the truth was he’d only been thinking about Ryan. Again.
“I can give you the staff discount on one if you want,” Vanessa continued. “It’s the least I can do after I made you test out that garbage vibrator.”
“No, sorry. I wasn’t even looking at it. I’m just...scattered.”
Vanessa turned away from the shelf of lube bottles she’d been straightening and rested a hand on Fabian’s arm. “You could reach out to him, you know.”
Fabian shook his head slowly, and forced a laugh that sounded hideous. “The whole idea of us was absurd. We don’t make sense.”
“But you miss him.”
“God, so much.”
Vanessa gave an exasperated sigh, then went back to straightening the lube shelf.
“What?” Fabian asked.
“I don’t know. It’s like you went into this thing with Ryan determined to prove that it couldn’t work or something. Yeah, I never would have expected you to fall for a professional hockey player, but you did. And then as soon as the hockey stuff got real, you bolted.”
“That’s not fair,” Fabian argued. “He was lying to me. Hurting himself. He’s...self-destructive.”
She jabbed a bottle of lube in his direction. “Sounds like he could use some love and support.”
Fabian didn’t have anything to say to that. He knew it was true, and it was the reason he’d felt like complete shit for the past two weeks. He wasn’t strong enough to be Ryan’s boyfriend. He wasn’t able to overcome his own hatred and fear of everything hockey was. Everything it did to people.
“I saw Claude last night,” he said quietly, changing the subject.
The disappointment was clear on Vanessa’s face. “Oh, Fabian. No. You didn’t, did you?”
“No. No, I promise. Nothing happened. I ran into him at Greta’s art opening. We talked. Shared a joint outside.” He looked away. “I mean, he did try to kiss me. But I told him I couldn’t.”
“Oh. Good. Why are you telling me, then?”
“Because seeing Claude just made it all so much clearer. I don’t want him or anyone like him. I think I might be ruined for anyone other than the one person I really shouldn’t be with.”
“Which brings me back to my first suggestion: reach out to him.” A customer walked in the door then, and Vanessa gave Fabian an apologetic smile. “We’ll talk later, okay?”
“Sure,” he said, but Vanessa had already left to help the customer. Fabian shouldn’t have been bothering his friend at work anyway. He left the shop with a wave and an abysmal attempt at a smile in Vanessa’s direction, and walked out into a light snowfall.
As soon as the hockey stuff got real, you bolted. Oh god, that was exactly what Fabian had done, wasn’t it? He could handle dating a hockey player as long as he didn’t have to see any real evidence of it.
But maybe that wasn’t unreasonable of him. His whole life, Fabian had only known hockey to be a horrible, toxic thing that celebrated homophobic bullies and trained boys to believe there was only one acceptable way to be a man. Hockey was the wall that separated Fabian from his own family, the blueprint for masculinity that prevented his parents from understanding their only son. Fabian knew himself, and he knew he would never be a fan of the game, or the culture that surrounded it. So wouldn’t it be unfair of him to pretend he could overlook all of that?
He liked Ryan a lot—he always had—and he wished he could be the strong, supportive cheerleader Ryan deserved. All he could do was worry about Ryan while refusing to even watch his games. That was a terrible foundation for a relationship.
But still, Fabian wanted to be with him. So maybe he could meet Ryan in the middle somewhere. If Ryan would just take time to let his fucking injuries heal, it would be something. If he could tell his coaches that he didn’t want to fight anymore. If he could...
Fabian sighed. He knew enough about what hockey was like to know that Ryan couldn’t do either of those things without risking his entire career. Ryan wasn’t a superstar; he was in no position to make demands. He was replaceable.
But not to Fabian, obviously. With each passing day it was becoming clearer that Ryan had completely claimed Fabian’s heart. Fabian had no doubt he could find an attractive man to replace Ryan—tonight, probably, if he wanted—but the man wouldn’t have Ryan’s sweetness. His giant heart. His courage.
Because Ryan was the bravest person Fabian had ever met. Ryan might not believe it, but Fabian knew it was true. He faced his fears every day—flying, fighting, socializing—and how many people could say that? Fabian was the coward. Ryan’s career terrified him, so he’d run away.
Fabian wanted to fix this problem desperately. He had no answers right now, and he really needed to focus on the album release show, which was only days away. Maybe after that show he could devote some time to this. Maybe a healthy relationship with Ryan was impossible, but if there was even a chance, he had to try.
* * *
Ryan entered the small funeral parlor that sat across the street from the Tim Hortons in Duncan Harvey’s hometown. His back was a little stiff after driving for three hours, but overall wasn’t bad.
Ryan wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but there were a lot of empty seats in the room where the service would be held. He didn’t see any NHL players among the crowd. He recognized some of Harvey’s coaches, but none of his teammates. Chicago’s team captain, Clarke, wasn’t even there.
But, of course, today was Friday. And Clarke would be at All-Star Weekend in St. Louis.
Ryan found a seat in the back row and tried to swallow his anger. It was like Harvey had never existed. He’d given everything he had to hockey, and when there was nothing left, hockey had abandoned him. He didn’t even seem to have many friends or family here, and maybe that was what happened when you were a miserable addict everyone feared.
Someone sat next to Ryan. Not at the end of the same row, but right next to Ryan. He glanced over and was surprised to see who it was.
“Hey, Price.”
“Rozanov. Shouldn’t you be at the All-Star game?”
Ilya shrugged. “There will be others.”
Did Ilya even know Duncan Harvey? He’d never played with him. It seemed bizarre that he was here.
The service was short and impersonal. Harvey, it turned out, didn’t have much family. His parents had died years ago, and although a sister was listed in the obituary, she didn’t seem to be there.
Was Ryan looking at his own future? He didn’t like to think so. Despite everything, his family still loved and supported him. He was still confident he wasn’t addicted to painkillers or anything else, but he was starting to understand how easily he could become addicted. There was no question that he had preferred how he felt when he was high these past few horrible weeks.
When it was over, Ilya stood and said, “Walk with me?”
“Sure. Okay.”
When they got outside, they trudged across the snowy parking lot. Ilya stopped walking when they reached a large, leafless tree at the far end. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket, tilting it first toward Ryan in offering. Ryan declined.
Ilya pulled one out for himself and lit it. He leaned back against the tree’s trunk as he took his first drag. He was a very attractive man: almost as tall as Ryan, with sparking hazel eyes and curly, golden-brown hair that fell lazily around his face in a manner that matched his unbothered personality.
“Was nice of you to come,” Ilya said after he exhaled.
“Figured it was the least I co
uld do.”
“Yes. Well. Least you could do was too much for most players, it seems.”
“Yeah, I noticed that.”
Ilya blew out more smoke and said, “This game can be really fucking terrible.”
Ryan shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded. “I know.”
A moment of silence passed, and then Ryan couldn’t help but ask, “Why are you here anyway? Did you know Harvey?”
“No. Not really. But...his death. Suicide. It matters to me.”
“Oh.” Right. Ilya’s mother. The whole reason he had started a charity with Shane Hollander.
“We don’t talk about it enough in this sport. Depression. Addiction. Mental health.” Ilya glanced at him. “You know about it.”
Ilya had never had a problem with being direct. “Yeah. I know about it.”
“How are you doing?”
“Some days are better than others. But I see a therapist. It’s, like, on Skype, but it still works. And I take meds. I should probably talk about it more, but...”
“You are a private person. I understand that.”
He had to smile. “Do you?”
There was a funny little twist to Ilya’s lips. “We all have secrets.”
Ryan nodded. Of course Ilya had secrets. He wondered if Ilya was possibly as lonely as he was.
“Do you like playing hockey?” Ilya asked suddenly.
Ryan almost answered “Of course” without thinking, but he stopped himself and instead considered Ilya’s question.
“No. I don’t think I have for a long time.”
“It doesn’t make you happy?”
The last thing hockey did was make Ryan happy. “I think it makes me miserable, to be honest.”
“That’s a problem,” Ilya said.
“I know.”
Ilya finished his cigarette. “Wyatt Hayes is a good guy.”
“He is. I miss him.”
“He said you help out at a place with kids? Play hockey with them?”
“Oh.” Ryan looked at the ground, embarrassed that Wyatt had been talking about him to Ilya Rozanov. “Yeah. When I can. Which isn’t often.”
“You like it?”
“I do. I like kids.”
Ilya nodded. “What are you doing this summer?”
Ryan was having a hard time keeping up with Ilya. “I don’t know. Might go back home to Nova Scotia. Why?”
Ilya fished his phone out of his pocket and handed it to him. “Give me your number. We are organizing these camps for our charity. Me and Shane. Hollander, I mean.” He looked oddly embarrassed for a moment. “They are hockey camps for kids. They will be in Ottawa and Montreal this summer. We could use help.”
“What, me?” Ryan truly couldn’t fathom being a coach at the same camp where kids would be learning from stars like Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov.
“I don’t want to teach kids how to fight,” Ryan said, just to make it clear.
Rozanov looked at him like he was stupid. “No. You are a defenseman. You will teach them how to stand still and not score goals. Defenseman things.”
Ryan laughed. “Asshole.”
“Also, it is going to be for everyone, you know? Like...” Ilya seemed to wrestle with how to say the next part, but then just bluntly asked, “You are gay, yes?”
Ryan snorted, surprised by another subject change. “Yes.”
“Good. That’s what I mean. The camps will be for that too. I mean we will teach, um...”
“Tolerance?”
Ilya smiled. “Yes. Try to change things, right?”
“You should ask Scott Hunter then.”
He made a face. “Maybe.”
They walked back to their vehicles in silence. As Ilya was unlocking his Mercedes SUV, he said, “Find something that makes you happy, Price. Hold on to it.”
Ryan nodded, and his throat suddenly felt tight. He’d had someone who’d made him happy, and he’d let him go. And for what? A life of nothing but pain and misery that he felt obligated to endure. There was money, sure, but Ryan didn’t even enjoy spending it. He could live without an NHL salary. He just needed to find something he truly enjoyed doing.
During his drive back to Toronto, he considered the fact that he had quite a bit of money saved. He could sell his ridiculously expensive apartment and live quite comfortably for a long time while he figured out the rest of his life. He was only thirty-one. Outside of the hockey world, he was still a relatively young man.
He could quit. He could just quit. His heart started racing at the realization of how possible this was. There was literally nothing stopping him. Sure, he would piss some people off, and probably get yelled at, but would anyone really care? His coach had been threatening to replace him for two months now.
Let him do it. Let someone else live the NHL dream. Ryan was done.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Can you believe how many people are out there?” Vanessa said as she bounced into the green room. Fabian had not, in fact, looked to see how many people were in the club. It was one of the largest venues he had ever played; he was impressed that his label had booked it for his album release.
In truth, there was only one person he wanted to see in the crowd. And there was no chance of that.
“You look incredible,” Vanessa said. “I love that jumpsuit.”
Fabian had worn the black jumpsuit that he now thought of as Ryan’s. He had paired it with the exquisite necklace that was indisputably Ryan’s. He’d stopped short of wearing the lace underwear.
His stomach churned. He’d never had stage fright once in his entire life, but he was a ball of nerves tonight. He’d been horribly fragile since he’d walked out on Ryan.
God, he hoped Ryan was all right. Fabian should have been more patient with him. Leaving him the way he had couldn’t have been helpful, and he had been worried for weeks that Ryan may have spiraled as a result. Fabian had considered reaching out to him before this show, but he hadn’t been able to make himself do it. Some part of him still thought their relationship was impossible, no matter how he felt about Ryan. So now Fabian had no choice but to haul his broken heart onto the stage.
The manager of the club entered the room. “You ready?” she asked.
Fabian nodded and stood. He took some deep breaths to try to calm his stomach, then turned and hugged Vanessa. “Thank you,” he said. “I love you.”
“I love you too. Knock ’em dead, all right?”
He straightened, and attempted a smile. “Of course.”
He walked onstage to a wall of enthusiastic applause and whistles. He smiled at his audience—as enormous as Vanessa had described—and waved as he walked to the middle of the stage. When he reached the center, he lifted his violin and bow from its case, stood in front of the mic, and closed his eyes. He took two more slow breaths, centering himself. This was where he came alive. He loved this.
He opened his eyes and brought his violin to his chin. He took one more long breath, and started to play. He let the music wrap around him, reverberating off the walls of the club and returning to him. He let it feed him, filling all the places inside him that had been empty for weeks. He needed this energy so he could give it right back to his audience. Later, when there was nothing left of him, Fabian could drag his husk of a body back home and fall apart, but right now his audience deserved him at his best.
He put on the show of his life. He played his heart out, and he knew his own anguish was very present in every melancholy note he sang.
He didn’t play the song he’d written about Ryan.
When he finished his set, he smiled, then bowed as the audience went wild with applause. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion of playing, and he flicked his bangs aside with the tip of his bow.
He’d worked so fucking hard for th
is moment. Ten years almost since he’d quit the Symphony to make exactly this happen. His eyes burned with tears and he let them fall. He covered his mouth with his hand, trying to stop himself from full-on sobbing in front of this audience. Because they weren’t just happy tears. He regretted how this night could have been, if he’d still had Ryan.
He wiped at his eyes, making a mess, he was sure, of his makeup. He blinked to clear his vision and took another moment to remember this audience. To really soak it all in before he left the stage. His gaze traveled over the crowd until it landed on a flash of red hair in the very back, standing head and shoulders above everyone else.
Ryan?
It was definitely Ryan. There was no mistaking him. And when Fabian’s gaze stayed on him, Ryan smiled sheepishly and gave a little thumbs-up.
Fabian gasped. His heart beat for what felt like the first time in weeks. Without thinking, he lowered himself down from the stage, into the crowd. People were touching him, patting him on the back, grabbing his arms, but he ignored them. He just kept walking, forcing people to step aside because he would walk right over them if they didn’t.
It took forever to reach the back of the club, and for a moment Fabian worried that he had hallucinated the whole thing. But then he saw him. Huge and gorgeous and real. And wearing the scarf Fabian had given him for Christmas.
“Hi,” Ryan said.
Fabian didn’t say anything. He just wrapped his arms around him and held on as tight as he could. A second later, Ryan returned the hug, wrapping his strong arms around him and pulling him close.
“Good show,” Ryan said.
“You came,” Fabian sniffed.
“Yeah. Is that okay?”
Fabian nodded against his wonderful, solid chest. “It’s okay.”
“You got plans after this?”
“Not anymore.”
Ryan laughed. “I was hoping we could talk.”
“Yes.” Fabian pulled back and smiled up at him through wet eyes. “Don’t leave, all right? I need to stick around for a bit but...stay. In fact, stay right by my side. I don’t want to lose you.” Not again. Not ever again.
