by Chantal Mer
“I was never going to be as good as you. As good as Ash. I was good enough but would have been lucky to have a few more years before there were younger, better players to take my spot.”
“You were a damn good player, Isaiah. You could have—”
“Stop, Dad.” I collapse onto the sectional, exhausted from ten years of rehashing the same conversation. “For my entire life, I tried to live up to you and your expectations. I played hockey because I wanted to be like you. I hid being gay from myself and others because I didn’t want to be a disappointment. I was aggressive and cruel, and attacked before being attacked. Had I not been forced out, I would have continued down the same path.”
Now sitting, my dad seems to deflate, all of his anger seeping, replaced with an emotion I can’t name. “There’s nothing you could do that would disappoint me, son.”
“Not even being gay?” Five years ago, when I came out to my family, I was worried. My mom took it surprisingly well, considering her strong faith and Reverend Willis’s sermons on how homosexuality is the work of the devil.
But my dad had a harder time and dealt with my coming out by ignoring it, acting like it never happened.
For years.
I was blown away when he told me he was the emcee for the Hockey Allies bachelor auction, simply because my being gay was a topic we had avoided since I came out.
Creases line his mouth. He looks like he’s aged years in two minutes. His shoulders curl in on themselves, and he blows out a sigh while swathing his hand over the lower part of his face.
“Apparently, I’ve done a shit job being a father.” He mumbles into his hand.
“Dad…”
“I was scared.” His admission puts into question everything I know about my father. In my entire life, I have never seen my dad display anything other than confidence.
“Afraid of what?”
“I was scared for you, Isaiah. Being Black and gay. Like I said, that’s two strikes against you. Since the day you were born, I’ve wanted to protect you from all the assholes in this world. When you’re a parent of a Black boy, you know there’s a high chance he won’t survive you, just because the world is afraid of Black men.” Dad’s typical listen-to-what-I-say tone has taken on a pleading quality. “The world is full of people who will think the worst of you because of the color of your skin. When you came out, I had the additional worry of all of the dickheads who would want to hurt you because of who you’re attracted to.” He clasps my hand, hard. His words shaky but powerful. “But never have I been disappointed in you. Proud, yes. Disappointed, absolutely not.”
The backs of my eyes sting. If it weren’t for my parents drilling into us how to behave when pulled over and how to carry ourselves in public, my sisters and I would have found ourselves in a load of trouble. “You don’t have to worry about me, Dad. I’ve always been able to handle myself.”
“I’ll worry until my last breath.” My dad is not dramatic, so when he says this, I know he means it. “When you become a parent, you’ll understand.”
“I’ll have to find a man first,” I joke.
“Then things with Delacroix aren’t serious?” Dad sits straight, hope laces his words, which only saddens me.
“I don’t know what they are, but I want to explore it.”
“Being connected with him could damage everything you’ve worked so hard to build.”
“Ash said the same thing, but the work we do is not connected to my personal life.”
Dad stands and straightens his silk tie. “You’ve been in the public eye enough to know how naive that is.”
Not wanting to argue, I lift my shoulder as I walk my dad to the door. “Maybe.”
Before he leaves, he pulls me into a bear hug. “I love you, Isaiah. Be careful. Be smart.”
“Love you, too.”
As he descends the steps, he calls over his shoulder, “Call your mother.”
“I will.”
He wraps his burgundy scarf around his neck and buttons the front of his long wool overcoat.
Being aware of my dad’s fears is a revelation. And one more reason I admire the hell out of him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ash
“I can’t believe you actually took an entire day off.” Sophie’s face beams from where my phone is propped up on the counter.
“Alejandro can handle everything at the restaurant.” I stir the sauce I’ve been working on all afternoon. “I promised Isaiah a home-cooked meal and a movie.”
“Is that a fancy way of saying you’re going to Netflix and chill?”
While we’ve spent almost every night together, because my hours are not the typical nine-to-five, and he’s doing more network stuff since his spots during All-Star weekend were so well received, every moment has felt rushed. Like we have to jam as much into the few hours we have together as possible. “We haven’t been out on a proper date, and I want to do something nice. With his schedule and mine, it feels like we’re always stealing minutes.”
“Why aren’t you going out tonight, then?”
“I know he wants to go out, but I’m still concerned about the fallout if we’re spotted together. He’s worked so hard, Soph, and I think he has a chance at getting something steadier with one of the networks. Maybe after his fundraiser, we’ll give it a try.” Dipping a spoon into the sauce, I blow on it before tasting. Perfection. If I do say so myself.
“What does he say about the possible fallout?” Of course, Sophie probes. My sister never lets me get away with glossing over anything. Fortunately, Cila starts barking right before the clipped knock sounds, saving me from twenty more questions from my annoying but well-meaning sister.
“It’s opened,” I yell before turning my attention back to Sophie. “I’ve gotta go.”
The sound of Grinder’s nails clopping against the hardwood, along with Cila’s bounces and barks, brings a smile. These last few weeks have been miraculous. Every moment with Isaiah brings more and more of the light fluffiness. When he’s not present, the light fluffiness remains for longer and longer. Having him and Grinder in my space and being in their space feels natural and normal.
I like it.
A lot.
“Nope. I’m not going anywhere until I get a chance to check out the man who’s made my workaholic brother take a day off.”
If I thought it would work, I’d hang up, but Sophie is tenacious and won’t let up until she’s spoken to him. I hear the thud of Isaiah’s bags and the thump of his shoes being dropped by the front door. Grinder noses my thigh, and I give him a pet between his ears. “Hey, big guy.”
His tail wags, and having greeted me, he goes in search of Cila, who I hear Isaiah talking to.
Soon, a masculine hand is on my hip, and the smell of cocoa butter mingles with the garlic and oregano. His head on my shoulder he peers into the Dutch oven. “You’re making sauce from scratch?”
“Hi, Isaiah.” Sophie waves, then lifts Mr. Peabody’s black paw, waving it.
Isaiah shifts and leans over the counters, waving back. “You must be Sophie.”
“And Mr. Peabody.” My sister rubs under the chin of the tuxedo cat, who doesn’t seem a bit dismayed that she’s wearing a white pinafore with pink hearts dotted across it.
Isaiah’s eyes widen. “You’re Peabody and Friends?” He pinches my side. “Why didn’t you tell me your sister was famous?”
“Um…” I do a double take and catch the apples of Sophie’s cheeks looking like glowing balls of happiness.
“You follow us?” She’s tapping Mr. Peabody’s paws together like the cat is clapping.
Mr. Peabody looks less than pleased. One day that cat is going to smother my sister in her sleep.
Isaiah takes my phone from its spot and lifts it closer to his face. “I’ve followed you for years. Yours is one of the best Insta accounts around. I loved the outfit she wore for Talk Like a Pirate Day.”
“Now, I like you even more.” Sophie is bouncing in
her chair, poor Mr. Peabody bouncing with her.
Isaiah swaths the back of his hand across his forehead. “Glad to hear it. I wasn’t prepared to meet family yet.”
Sophie tilts her head. “Tell Asher to bring you out for a visit.”
“I’m right here, Soph. And mind your own business.” Even though our…whatever this is, has been progressing quickly, it’s not meet-the-family quick.
Sophie blows me a kiss. “Okay, boys, I’ll let you get to your Netflix and chill date.”
Isaiah barks out a laugh as my face immediately heats, and I groan, “Sophia…”
The little brat only laughs. “Love you, Asher Smasher.” She points to Isaiah. “You and I are going to have many more conversations.”
Isaiah smiles. “Can’t wait.”
“Take care of my brother.”
Isaiah intertwines his fingers with mine. “Promise.”
Soph nods like there was only one correct response to her directive before the screen goes dark.
Isaiah places the phone back on the counter. “She’s hysterical.”
“She’s something,” I mumble, returning my attention to the pot.
He kisses me, and like every time we’re together, I’m transported to some alternate universe, where there is only Isaiah and me. Where his kisses and his body are all I need to sustain me.
When he ends the kiss, I want to forget about dinner and the movie and spend the night tangled with his limbs and my sheets.
“You really made sauce from scratch?” That he’s so surprised makes that fluffy feeling expand.
“When you tell me you’ve never had homemade sauce, you might as well lay down the gauntlet announcing a challenge.” Placing the spoon on its rest, I fold him into my arms, his body warm and inviting. “How was your day?”
“I’ve had better.” He pokes his finger in the sauce and wraps his succulent lips around it.
My cock hardens immediately. When he closes his eyes and hums his approval, I’m close to pinning him to the counter and fucking him until we’re both screaming and shaking. The only thing stopping me is the weariness in his answer.
I rub my hands up and down his back. “You want to talk about it?”
“No.” When he looks at me, it’s guarded.
“Okay.” I’m not gonna lie, the fact that he doesn’t want to discuss his lousy day pokes at me. Over the last couple of weeks, he’s been open, sharing so much of himself that I’m opening up more with him. The only other person I’ve been this open with is Sophie. But we all have those days where the last thing we want to do is rehash the shit that happened, and just forget. So, tonight will be all about helping my man forget his crappy day.
Yes, I’ve begun thinking about Isaiah as my man. Surprisingly, I’m not too freaked out about it, because he’s not freaked out about it. This man has an inner strength that rivals his outward strength.
I give him a peck and pat his ass. “There’s beer in the fridge and a chianti over there.” I point my chin toward the bottle sitting on the island. “You can start on the charcuterie board.”
“What the heck’s a charcuterie board?” He grabs a beer from the fridge and pops it open. Taking a sip, he holds it up. “You want one?”
I shake my head and stir the pomodoro. “Nah, I’m good. A meat and cheese board.”
Hip pressed to the island, Isaiah plucks a piece of prosciutto. I watch, transfixed, as he puts it into his mouth. I find that his mouth is the star of many of my fantasies. He’s just so damn good with it.
“You realize we can never break up,” he says before spreading brie on a sliver of crusty artisan bread I picked up from one of my favorite bakeries earlier in the day.
“Why’s that?” I plate the gemelli and spoon the braised beef and sautéed mirepoix over the pasta before pouring the pomodoro over all of it. The flavors mix and mingle, creating a mouthwatering combination.
“I can’t go back to eating baked chicken.” He stops as he watches me. “Did you make the pasta from scratch, too?” He sounds so impressed I can’t help but bark out a laugh.
“What kind of chef would I be if I didn’t?”
“Yeah, we are never breaking up. I won’t be able to do box pasta after this.”
I slide his plate to him, and after grabbing the beet salad, we sit at my compact kitchen table. “So, if we’re never breaking up, does that mean we’re dating or a couple or something?”
Lips around his fork, he moans. “Jesus, Ash, this is the best damn thing I’ve ever had.”
“You’ve said that about everything I’ve ever cooked for you.” And yet, I don’t tire of hearing him say it, nor do I think he’s being disingenuous.
“Because everything you make is beyond delicious.” He stabs a roasted beet and shakes his head. “I don’t even like beets, and I would request this for my last meal.”
“Glad it meets with your approval.” I laugh.
He wipes his mouth and places his fork down before pushing his plate back and leaning his crossed arms on the table in front of him. “Back to your question. We are dating, a couple, and something. You okay with that?”
This is usually the point where I would say something about not being in a good place, or it being too difficult to build a stable relationship with my hours, or that my restaurant is my one true love. Instead, I push my plate away and mirror Isaiah’s position. “Yeah, I think I am.”
His face lights up. Hand behind my head, he pulls me to him, kissing me in a way that says he’s relieved, pleased, and has plans for later tonight. When we break away, he slides his plate back in front of him and digs in. “I thought I was going to have to chase you or something.”
“I did too.”
Hand on my knee, he’s beaming. “I’m glad you recognize what a catch I am.”
He’s joking, but I need him to know how true his statement is. “You are, Isaiah.” I lace my fingers through his. “You have a way of making everyone feel like they’re someone special. You’re open. You’re loving. You’re passionate. You’re forgiving. You’re someone I aspire to be like, and to be worthy of.”
He’s stone-still, staring. His throat bobs as he swallows, and he twists his hand so we’re palm to palm. “I’m going to finish this amazing meal, because there is no way I’m letting it go to waste, and then we’re spending the rest of the night affirming our official couplehood.”
My dick likes everything he says. “What about the movie?”
“Ash, I’ve had a shit day. I don’t give a crap about the movie. Coming home to you is all I’ve wanted.”
I’m stunned silent. That he thinks of my place as home is as flabbergasting as it is exciting. His hand still in mine, I squeeze twice. “Then hurry up and eat, so I can make you forget about your day.”
His downtrodden smile strips me. “You already have.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Isaiah
After another run-in with the board of my non-profit, Hockey Included, about Ash catering our fundraiser, my nerves are dampened. The fact that my dad was of no help is demoralizing. I’ve been enduring their jabs about Ash for the last several weeks, but with the fundraiser only days away, my tolerance for their bullshit is waning.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I turn on the alerts and find that I have thirty missed texts and calls.
Before I have a chance to begin going through the messages, my phone pings and vibrates in my hand. Immediately, my heart does a happy dance when I see who it’s from.
Ash: Go to your place after work.
We’ve been spending more time at Ash’s place, which I’m okay with, but I think the reason has something to do with his not liking my electric stove. I don’t blame him. He has a gorgeous Viking gas range and state-of-the-art appliances. Cooking in my postage-stamp-sized kitchen is probably like using an Easy-Bake Oven for him.
Me: Want me to pick up Cila before I go home?
Ash: Best if you stay clear of me, my place, and the restaurant.
I dial his number. He picks up on the first ring.
“I knew you’d call.” Though his voice is strained, there’s still a smile in it, which eases some of my trepidation.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve got three news vans outside, a bunch of print guys, and we’ve been fielding calls from gossip shows.” His exasperated breath hits my eardrum as though he were standing next to me.
Did something happen at the restaurant? Is he okay? Is the restaurant, okay? “What are you talking about?”
“Someone spotted us holding hands last Saturday morning when we were walking the dogs and leaked it. Now everyone wants to know what’s going on.” A deep sigh passes through the line. “This won’t be good for you or your fundraiser. It’ll be better if you keep your distance until it dies down.”
“No.”
“Isaiah, this isn’t me running. This is me wanting to protect you and the work you do from the backlash that will come from being associated with me.” He keeps going like if he pauses, I’ll disagree with him. I will, but I let him keep talking while working on calming my boiling blood. “I’ve already talked to Alejandro. He’ll do your event on Tuesday, and I’ll operate the restaurant.”
For some reason, Ash being at the fundraiser is just as important to me as the actual event. I want him there. “No.”
“Isaiah—”
“Stop, Ash. Nothing is changing. My personal life is my personal life. You agreed to cater the event. I want you, not Alejandro.”
A long, exhausted sigh. “I think you’re being foolish.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t give a shit.” Okay, so maybe that came out sharper than one of Ash’s knives, but I will be damned if I let him consider leaving. Or think a little media will scare me. “And I’m going to your place, as we planned.”
“Zinnia went to walk Cila and said my place was surrounded.”
“I don’t care.” I swipe my hand over my face and lean back in my office chair before steadying my voice. “I hid who I was for the first twenty-five years of my life, I’m not hiding anymore.”
