Him

by Sarina Bowen

  Vin pours black ink into one of the plastic cups on the tray in front of him. “I hate the summer.”

  I can’t help but grin. You’d think someone who deals with the frigid Canadian winter for half the year would welcome the hot weather. “Why’s that?”

  “Because it always ends.” He lets out a glum sigh. “We get, what, two, three months? And then it’s gone and we’re back to shivering in our long johns. Summer’s a total cocktease.” He shrugs, repeating himself. “It always ends.”

  He’s right about that. Summer always ends.

  36

  Jamie

  I am nailing this interview. That’s not me being cocky—it’s just the truth.

  My potential boss, Bill Braddock, is about forty years old, and a good guy, too. I can tell already. We’ve just spent forty minutes nerding out about the best methods for training forwards to be more responsible defensively. When Bill talks strategy, his eyes light up.

  I want this job. I really do.

  “Sorry,” Bill says. “I got us off track again.”

  “That’s quite all right,” I answer. “This is the crux of it, right? Teaching kids to relax so they can defend their zone effectively.”

  He nods enthusiastically. “How did you learn to be so calm, anyway? I’ve seen your tape.”

  “Ah.” I chuckle. “I’m the youngest of six kids. I was born into mayhem. It’s all I know.”

  I’ve got Braddock laughing now. He actually slaps his own knee. “Priceless. Was it ever a drag?”

  “Sure. When you have six kids, you’re always losing one. And when you’re the youngest, it’s usually you. I remember standing in the cereal aisle of the grocery store, trying to decide between Cheerios and Chex. I’d look up and everyone would be gone. Once they left me at a rest stop outside Lake Tahoe. At least they only got fifteen miles away before they realized I wasn’t in the car.”

  Bill is red-faced from laughing. “How old were you?”

  “Seven? Eight? I don’t know. But I knew not to panic.”

  “Incredible.” He chuckles, then reaches a hand across the desk. “Come to work for me, Jamie. I think we’ll get along great.”

  I lean in for the handshake. “I’d like to do that.”

  “It’s a big decision, you can take the weekend…”

  Now I shake my head. “I want to coach. I don’t need the weekend.”

  He sits back, his expression telling me he’s impressed. “Well, all right then. Can I hook you up with a rental agency? Housing is going to be a little tricky. Toronto is expensive. We pay our coaches what we can, but nobody’s getting rich…”

  “Yeah, I’m going to need to sort that out.” For the first time in an hour, I think of Wes. He might be only a few miles away right now, looking for an apartment, too.

  I need to speak to him—I’ve already decided that. But then I’ll have to find a way to put him out of my mind. I don’t want to always be looking for his face when I walk down the street.

  Moving on is going to be hard.

  I stand up and offer my hand one more time. Bill shakes it, still smiling as if he’s just won the lottery. At least I’ll be working for a good man. I’m hoping that means good things about this organization, too.

  “Let me know how I can help you get settled in,” Bill says, rising from his chair. “I mean it. Shoot me an email if you have any questions about neighborhoods or whatever.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Five minutes later, I’m outside again on the streets of Toronto, loosening the tie I’d worn to my interview. I missed lunch today, so I take a seat at an outdoor cafe on Lakeshore and order a wrap sandwich and iced coffee.

  Toronto is a nice place. A big city, too. Somehow I have to find Wes today. I tried calling him this morning after I got off the plane, but his number has been disconnected. At first I’d panicked, thinking he’d gone to great lengths to shut me out. But when my phone carrier sent me a text explaining the international charges I was racking up in Canada, I realized Wes had probably switched to a Canadian carrier.

  That has to be it, right?

  Either way, I need another plan for reaching him quickly. I could go to the rink, but I doubt they’ll let me just waltz in. And even if they do, Wes might not appreciate it…

  My phone rings, startling me, and for a second my heart leaps. But of course the caller isn’t Wes. The phone says HOLLY.

  “Hi there,” I answer, trying to keep my tone light. We haven’t spoken since our awkward evening in Lake Placid, but I’m really hoping she meant what she said about us still being friends. “You’ll never guess where I am right now.”

  She laughs, and the sound is comforting. “Not Detroit, then?”

  “Nope. Toronto. I’m taking a coaching job.”

  “Really? That’s great, Jamie. I’m so proud of you. Glad you went with your gut.”

  My heart swells a little. Everyone likes to hear they’ve done well. “Thanks. It’s going to be an adjustment. Canadian money is funny looking.”

  Holly giggles. “Why Toronto? Are you going to tell me about your mystery woman?”

  “Um…” Ouch. “Not sure if that’s going to work out. And I’m not too happy about it.”

  “Oh honey.” There’s genuine sympathy in her voice. “I’m sorry. Why not?”

  The waitress drops off my food, and I take a moment to thank her. “So,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. I’m alone and outside, which is why I answered my phone in the first place. “Here’s something that will crack you right up.” I need to tell someone. And Holly will keep my secret. She’s a good friend.

  “What?”

  “My mystery woman? There isn’t one. I was seeing a guy.”

  There is deep silence for a moment. “Really?” She sounds incredulous.

  “Really. Apparently I’m, um…” I’ve never said it out loud before. “Bisexual.” There. That really wasn’t so hard.

  “I’m… Wow,” Holly says. “I didn’t see that coming.”

  “Me neither.” I laugh. “It’s been a really interesting summer.”

  “Who is he? Wait—that friend from the hotel! And the rink in Lake Placid! Ryan somebody.”

  Well, fuck. I forgot that women are so weirdly intuitive. “Holly, you can’t tell anyone. It doesn’t matter so much to me, but it could really hurt him.”

  Her sigh is loud in my ear. “I won’t tell a soul. But…he dumped you? I’ll kill him.”

  Now she has me smiling. “You are the best. Have I ever told you that?”

  “Eh,” she sighs. “I have my moments. Hey, now I can stop trying to figure out what sort of girl you’d fallen for. Wondering what she had that I don’t was really taking up a lot of my free time. Now at least I know the answer—a dick.”

  I burst out laughing. “Damn, Holly. It’s good to talk to you.”

  “Likewise.”

  When we hang up, there’s still a smile on my face. I eat my lunch thinking of all the crazy things I’ve done these past six weeks.

  And one memory in particular solves the problem of finding Wes.

  I flag down the waitress and pull out my phone. I have an app to download.

  37

  Wes

  My first practice is brutal, but that’s how I like it. Coach Harvey starts us off with a crossover drill designed to strengthen our ability to accelerate on curves, and it only takes five seconds for me to fully grasp that I’m in the big leagues now. Nope, you’re not in college anymore, Dorothy.

  This is a whole new level of intensity, and I’m sweating my balls off as I weave in and out of traffic, changing directions on Coach’s whim. Pushing myself to keep up with players who’ve trained together for much longer than the five minutes I’ve been with them.

  And it just picks up in intensity from there, but I’m cool with that. This is all I have. This is the choice I’ve made. Playing the best hockey I can will be the focus of my life for the next several years.

  By the time we�
�re done, I’m so sweaty there’s steam rising from the inside of my helmet when I finally pull it off. My legs are like jelly as I walk down the chute into the locker room.

  “Good hustle out there¸ man. You’re gonna make a good addition,” my teammate Tomkins says. He’s three seasons in and doing well, so I’m pleased to hear him say it.

  “Thanks. I’m happy to be here.”

  And I am. Mostly.

  After a shower, I get dressed and leave the rink. I’m tired, and I don’t need to be social anyway, because there’s a team dinner starting in two hours.

  I check my phone for calls, but there aren’t any. The Brandr app has a new notification, though. That’s weird, because I haven’t messaged a soul since I came to Toronto. I’ve been a good boy. In fact, I should really just delete the fucking app. Lead me not into temptation, and all that.

  But I read the notification anyway, just in case it’s from someone I actually know. There’s a message from a brand new profile, with a thumbnail picture I don’t recognize. My thumb hovers over the delete button when the sender’s name sinks in.

  The message is from PurpleSkittle. And when I open it, his location is clocked at 3.3 km away.

  There’s an instant shimmy in my chest. Jamie Canning is in Toronto.

  I steel myself as I open the message, because he’s got to be so angry at me. But it’s for the best.

  Wes—I need fifteen minutes of your time. I’m going to take this coaching job, and there’s something I want to say. We’re going to share a city. It’s a big one, but still. Tell me where we can meet. I don’t care where—Starbucks or whatever the Canadian equivalent is.

  Do me this favor.

  J.

  I am responding before I even think it through. I tell him yes. Not because it’s the right thing to do, but because I’m powerless to say no. A coffee shop isn’t the best idea, though. Too public. So I ask him to meet me at the empty apartment I’ve agreed to rent.

  The real estate agent had asked me if I wanted to get in there to take measurements. That’s a thing, apparently. I’d told her yes, and she’d left me a key at the front desk.

  Now I’m racing there.

  The concierge gives me the key and I tell him I’m expecting someone to look at the place with me. He promises to send him right up.

  I ride the elevator with a hammering heart, and when I open the door to the apartment, I look at it with new eyes. It’s too much space for one guy. I should have looked for a one-bedroom. Jamie is going to look at this place and think I walked away from him so that I could have a big NHL lifestyle. As if I give a fuck about the perks.

  But the granite countertop and the cherry wood floors laugh at me. This is what you wanted.

  I’m supposed to be here taking measurements, but I haven’t even brought a measuring tape. And it’s not the apartment I need to measure—it’s the size of my balls. Jamie is on his way here to tell me I’m a fearful asshole, and I really can’t argue the point.

  When the knock comes, I’m not ready.

  But I man up and open the door, and he walks through in a fucking suit and tie, looking hot enough to scorch me. I back up instinctively, because I cannot touch him. I’ve never had any willpower where Jamie Canning is concerned. And I’m done sending him mixed signals. I can’t do that to him anymore.

  “Hi,” he says cautiously. “Nice place.”

  I shrug because my mouth is too dry to speak. His big brown eyes take in the room, which gives me a minute to admire this man I love, maybe for the last time. His face is tan, and his hair has been trimmed. I know exactly how soft it feels sifting through my fingers. And I know it’s really a million different colors up close.

  My ass hits the kitchen counter, and I almost stumble.

  “You okay there?” he asks.

  I nod, helpless. This is so hard. But I brought it on myself. I rest a hand on the granite countertop, and its cool temperature steadies me.

  “Well, there’s something I came here to say, even though I know you don’t want to hear it.”

  Jamie’s eyes search me, but I don’t know for what. I’m done being a jerk to him, and I can’t show him how I really feel. That leaves me mute. That’s the best I can do.

  “I don’t know what you think happened this summer,” he continues, fitting his hands into his trouser pockets. If this coaching thing doesn’t work out, he should try becoming the CEO of a company somewhere. Because he really rocks the look. “In fact, I’m sure you’ve invented a lot of bullshit in that stubborn head of yours. You think you’ve corrupted me, or manipulated me, or some shit.”

  My face is hot now. Because I do think that.

  “You think that I was just playing around. Taking a walk on the wild side. You think I’m just going to—” He brushes his hands together as if dusting them off. “—go back to girls. Chalk this up as an experiment.”

  Yeah, I think that, too.

  “That’s not what happened, Ryan. Not for me. What happened is that I got my best friend back for a little while, and I also fell for him.” His voice thickens. “I’m not just saying that. I fucking love you, and I know that’s inconvenient. But I didn’t get a chance to tell you in Lake Placid, so I’m telling you right now. Just in case we can ever get more than a summer. I love you, and I wish things were different.”

  There’s pressure in my ears, and the world goes a little blurry. I find myself sinking down toward the floor, my back sliding along the expensive wood cabinet, my ass hitting polished cherry. My eyes are wet, so I look out the window. I see blue. That fucking view. It’s beautiful, and I just don’t care.

  Because nothing is as beautiful as the man who just told me he loves my fucked-up self.

  “Wes.” The voice is soft, and it’s coming closer. I hear the rustle of a suit jacket being removed. A few seconds later, Jamie seats himself on the floor beside me.

  In my peripheral vision I see muscular forearms jutting from rolled-up shirtsleeves. He links his hands around his knees and sighs. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says quietly. “But it needed to be said.”

  He’s right there. The clean scent of his shampoo and the warmth of his elbow against mine are overwhelming. I’ve missed him. So fucking much I’ve been walking around with a hollow chasm in my chest where my heart used to be.

  But that gaping hole is full again. My heart is back, because Jamie is here.

  And he fucking loves me.

  My next breath escapes as a shudder. “I can’t choose,” I grind out.

  “You’ve already chosen, and I understand why…”

  I give my head a violent shake. “No. I mean it—I can’t choose. I won’t choose between you and hockey. I want both. Even if it’s a disaster.” I look at Jamie again, finally, just in time to see him wince.

  “I do not want to be the reason your NHL career doesn’t work out,” he says vehemently. “I get it, Wes. I really do.”

  There’s a tear running down my face and I don’t even care. I scoop Jamie’s hand off his knee and kiss it. He feels so fucking good.

  “Sorry,” I choke out. “We’re going to have to work something out. I love you, goddamn it.”

  His breath hitches. “Yeah?”

  “Fuck yeah. And I’m not letting you walk out of here.”

  “Ever?” he teases, squeezing my hand. “That’s one way to prevent gossip.”

  I sigh. “We need a strategy. I have to stay out of the newspapers as long as I can.”

  “But, see, that’s why—”

  “Quiet, baby,” I murmur. “Let me think for a second.”

  We can’t lie forever to save my career—that isn’t fair to Jamie. Maybe he hasn’t thought it through, but I’ve been gay a long time and I know how much the closet sucks.

  “I need to be sneaky until next June,” I finally decide. “But that’s it. And that’s only if Toronto gets pretty far in the playoffs. Just one season.”

  “And then what?”

  I shrug. “Then
you can be my date at the next team barbecue or what-the-fuck-ever.”

  Jamie chuckles, but I’m dead serious. It only took one look at him today to realize I can’t keep the parts of myself in separate drawers. It was never going to work.

  “What if something happens before June? I mean…” He sighs again. “I can’t lie to my family. I can ask them to be discreet, and they’ll try. But I’m not kidding when I say that I don’t want to be your downfall. Think hard about how much risk you’re willing to take.”

  “You’re worth it,” I whisper. Fuck, I’m worth it. My change of heart isn’t pure generosity. If Jamie is brave enough to walk in here and tell me he loves me, I’ve got to take some chances, too. “I’m going to have a talk with the PR department. I’m going to warn them.”

  His hand tightens on mine. “You can’t be serious.”

  I turn my head against the little wooden wall where we’re sitting. “I’m dead serious. It’s my life, and yours. I’ve loved you for years, babe. If the NHL can’t deal with it, then that’s just the way it is.”

  Jamie’s expression softens. “That will be a really bad day, though.”

  “No. A bad day is you giving up on me.” I rake one hand through my hair, and he suddenly captures my wrist, his brown eyes narrowing.

  “When did you get this done?”

  He’s looking at my new tat, and I feel sheepish as I answer, “Couple days after I left camp.”

  Rough fingertips skim the line of black ink. “What are these coordinates for?” I’m not surprised he’s figured it out. My man is smart.

  “Lake Placid,” I tell him.

  His eyes lock with mine. “I see.” He clears his throat, but when he speaks again, his voice is still lined with gravel. “You really do love me, huh?”

  “Always have.” I swallow hard. “Always will.”

  It’s not clear who moves first. But a second later our lips brush, then press together. I moan even before Jamie’s tongue parts my lips. I kiss him hard, and he gives as good as he gets.