“The ward is ready for you,” she said.
The day passed quickly as they went from ward to ward, visiting each child. Saint loved and hated this—hated seeing children like this, but loved knowing he could bring a smile to their faces, brighten their day and leave them with gifts of signed shirts, hats, and assorted memorabilia for them to treasure.
He was especially taken by a little girl in the third wing they visited. Her mother introduced her as Lacy.
“Sickle cell leukemia,” she said quietly, and tried to smile through the exhaustion clearly dragging her down.
Saint squeezed her hand once. “Why don’t you go get some coffee? Maybe a pastry or something. I’ll sit with Lacy a little while.”
She obeyed, casting a hesitant glance at Lacy in the bed before slipping out the door.
Saint took his time sitting down and getting comfortable. Lacy was tiny, dark-skinned with jet-black eyes, her bald scalp gleaming under the room lights. She watched him silently but didn’t speak.
“Hi,” Saint said, smiling at her. “I’m Saint Levesque.”
Lacy rolled her eyes.
“Oh, hockey fan, huh?” Saint said, settling in. “You know who I am?”
Lacy nodded. “Seabirds,” she said in a soft, husky voice. “You’re captain.”
“How long have you been a hockey fan?” Saint asked.
“All my life.”
“How old are you?”
“Twelve,” Lacy said. “You’re a good player.”
“You think so? Anywhere I need to get better?”
“Your edgework’s pretty good but your faceoffs get sloppy when you’re stressed,” Lacy said immediately, and Saint’s eyebrows shot up.
“Is that so? Tell me more.”
They talked for nearly an hour, trading hockey tips and Saint listening intently to the stories Lacy told him of being enrolled in the midget league before she got too sick to skate. When her mother finally put her head back inside, Saint twitched, startled.
“I lost track of time.” He stood, holding out a hand to Lacy. “Listen, do you think you can come to a game this season?”
Lacy flicked her gaze to her mother, who pressed her mouth together as if to hide emotion but nodded.
“I’ll leave tickets for you if you can tell me what dates work best,” Saint told her. “Velvet will get the details to you. If you’ll let me know you’re coming, I’ll come by and say hello to Lacy after the game.”
Lacy’s mother nodded again, lips wobbling briefly. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Saint smiled at her. “Your daughter knows more about hockey than I do, I think. It was a pleasure talking to her.”
He emerged into the hallway to find most of the group still going through the ward, talking to various children. Saint did a quick head-count, frowning when he realized David was missing.
Felix gave him a shrug when Saint caught his eye but Roddy motioned toward the door leading to the stairs.
David was standing in the hall, his back to the door and tension running through his bulky frame. “No,” he said, sounding frustrated. “I didn’t mean—” He stopped and sighed. “No, look, I just—”
Saint cleared his throat before he overheard anything incriminating, and David whirled. He frowned at the sight of him, and Saint raised a brow.
Kids? He mouthed the word, pointing back at the ward, and David scowled.
“I’ll call you back,” he said into the phone, and the other person spoke. David’s scowl grew thunderous. “Yes I fucking will,” he snapped, and hung up with a vicious stab of his finger.
“Uh,” Saint said. “Everything okay?”
“How much longer do we have to do this?” David said, pushing past him into the ward.
“Until we’ve visited every ward expecting us,” Saint replied, right behind him. “If there’s anything you need—”
David curled his lip. “Yeah, I don’t think so. Let’s just get this over with.”
“Hey, you volunteered,” Saint pointed out. “This wasn’t mandatory.”
“My agent said I need to improve my image,” David said flatly. He tugged on his leather jacket. “He said I’ve got a reputation for being an asshole, and things like this will help.”
Saint stared at him. “You’re—you seriously came here for a PR bump, not because of the kids?”
“God, I hate kids,” David sighed. He jerked on the jacket’s lapel. “Something’s always leaking from somewhere, they’re loud and obnoxious and never shut up, always asking question after question, yada yada yada—”
“Go home,” Saint interrupted through lips tight with fury. “I allowed you to come because I thought you wanted this, but you’re only here for your image, so just. Go.”
David rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Captain.” He was already dialing a number as he sauntered away, whistling to himself. Saint stood still until the urge to chase after him and punch him had faded somewhat, and then he rejoined the others.
“Where’s Stahlsy?” Jason asked, perched next to a little girl’s bed. She had plastic ponies parading across the table over the bed, and they seemed to be reenacting a scene from the show.
“Had something to do,” Saint said shortly, and turned to find the next child to talk to.
It was late afternoon before they were done. They stopped to pose with the reporter who’d come out to cover the story, and Saint stayed to talk to her, discussing their odds in the upcoming game against Vancouver. When he was finally free, Carmine was waiting for him by his car, hands in his pockets.
“Sorry,” Saint said, and Carmine’s smile flashed in the gathering gloom.
“Part of the captain’s job,” he said easily. “Doesn’t bother me.”
Saint folded himself into the car and leaned his head back. Fuck, he was tired. Tired of dealing with David, tired of not knowing how to confront his feelings about Carmine, tired in general.
“So do you have a costume ready for the team’s Halloween party?” Carmine inquired, merging onto the highway.
“I’ll just wear this one again,” Saint said. He smoothed a palm over the blue spandex.
“You wouldn’t,” Carmine said. He sounded genuinely horrified, and Saint lifted his head to peer at him.
“Why not?”
“That’s… that’s like… wearing white after Labor Day,” Carmine sputtered. “It’s like socks with sandals. Or crocs in general. It’s a fashion faux pas, Saint, you can’t wear the same outfit twice!”
Saint frowned. “Seems wasteful.”
“So donate that one somewhere,” Carmine said, changing lanes. “You can’t wear it again, it’s tacky.”
Saint let his head fall back as the laughter bubbled up, bright and cleansing. Carmine looked briefly startled, but then his lips twitched.
“Fine, mock me. I’m still right.”
“I can’t believe you are advising me on fashion,” Saint gasped finally. “You never wear anything but ripped jeans and Henleys unless forced!”
“Just because I choose to embrace a signature look doesn’t mean I’m blind to other options,” Carmine said. The chill in his voice was belied by the dimple that appeared in his cheek, getting deeper with every word. “Anyway that’s not the point. The point is—”
“I got it, I got it. No repeat costumes.” Saint stretched languidly, wishing they were home already. “I’ll have to think about it. I still have a couple of weeks.” When he glanced over again, Carmine’s eyes were fixed firmly on the road, hands tight on the steering wheel. “We could, um, match?” Saint offered before he thought better of the idea.
Carmine whipped his head around to stare at him. “You… want to wear matching Halloween costumes?”
“We kinda already did today,” Saint pointed out. “And the kids seemed to love it. Hey, we could be minions!”
Carmine’s shudder was violent. “Don’t you ever suggest such a cursed thing again.”
“But… they’re cute?”
“If you’re demented, maybe.” Carmine exited the freeway as Saint watched his profile.
“I don’t get you,” he finally admitted.
Carmine sent him a smile. “Welcome to the club. You’re still doing better than most.”
“So you’re okay with matching costumes, as long as it’s not minions?”
“Or anything from Elsa. Frozen? If I hear that goddamn snowman song one more time I’m going to McFreaking lose it.”
Laughter fizzed in Saint’s chest again. He liked this weird, unpredictable, funny man so much more than he’d ever expected. “Deal,” he said.
16
Two Weeks Later
Saint showed Carmine his phone when he stumbled into the kitchen, bleary and yawning. Carmine stopped, blinking, and struggled to focus on the screen.
“Jase got your good side,” Saint said dryly.
Carmine squinted until the picture came into view. He was grinning at the camera, his baseball cap askew and jean jacket hanging off one shoulder. He had his arm slung around Saint’s waist, cheeks flushed with alcohol as he grinned at the camera. Saint was nearly drowned in his Pikachu onesie, but he was laughing, leaning into Carmine’s side, eyes sparkling.
“Every side is my good side,” Carmine said through a yawn and handed the phone back. “That on Instagram?”
“Yeah. How’s your hangover?”
“Nonexistent,” Carmine said. He shuffled to the coffee pot and filled a mug. “That was a good party—Felix knows how to host a banger.”
“You suck,” Saint muttered.
Carmine squinted at him. “You’re looking a little green around the gills, bud. Everything okay there?”
“Shut up,” Saint mumbled. “God, this is why I don’t drink.”
“Aw, poor baby.” Carmine sat down and stretched his legs out under the table, nudging Saint’s foot companionably. “Need some Advil?”
Saint put his face down on his arms. “Stop existing,” he said, voice muffled.
“No can do, buddy,” Carmine said. He was feeling much more cheerful as the caffeine filtered through his system. “Afraid you’re stuck with me.”
“Ugh,” Saint told his bicep.
Carmine snickered and bumped his foot again. “I’ll make us some greasy food, will that help?”
“Game day. I left you some oatmeal, but you can make yourself something.”
“Oh that’s right,” Carmine said. He got up and turned on the stove to make some bacon. “We’re playing the Wolverines tonight.”
“Yep.” Saint smothered a yawn. “I got Adam’s number. We’re meeting after the game.”
“Nice!” Carmine retrieved the bacon from the refrigerator. “That’ll be good.”
“Will you—do you still want to come with me?”
Carmine turned to watch him. Saint’s head was down, silky hair falling in his face as he fiddled with the hem of his shirt.
“If you want me to,” Carmine said.
“Yeah.” Saint looked up. There was fear in his eyes but also determination. “I think… it would help.”
Carmine resisted the urge to tease him again and just turned back to the stove. “You know where we’re going yet?”
“Andina,” Saint said. “Peruvian food. I’ve already made the reservation.”
They fell to the Wolverines, a bloody, exhausting battle that went to overtime. Adam and Saint had faced off for the first puck drop, and Adam had given Saint a wide grin. He was one of the most handsome men Saint had ever seen, dark hair curling out from under his helmet and bright blue eyes that sparkled with eagerness at the fight ahead.
He was also a damn good hockey player, which Saint realized quickly after Adam won the puck drop.
It was a hard-fought game, everyone throwing their weight into it, but the puck bounces favored the Wolverines. One slipped past Felix, then another, and despite the Seabirds’ best efforts, the Wolverines eked out a 4-3 win off Adam’s between the legs shot, slotted neatly in under Felix’s elbow.
After press, Saint did his usual captainly duties, circulating the room and assessing everyone’s spirits, giving encouragement where it was needed and praise where it was due. Finally he was able to shower and change.
Carmine was waiting at his locker when he emerged, reading something on his phone. He stood and arched an eyebrow at Saint.
“He’s meeting us there,” Saint said, adjusting his jacket.
“No being seen fraternizing with the enemy,” Carmine said, nodding and following him out. “Smart.”
“I just figured it would be… sensible,” Saint said. He slid into the car and buckled, trying and failing to stop fidgeting. He jumped when Carmine laid a big hand on his knee.
“It’s gonna be fine,” Carmine said gently. His palm was warm and solid, eyes soft in the dark car.
Saint chewed his lip. “What if it’s not? What if he figures out why I’m so interested and outs me? What if someone sees us and starts talking? What if—”
Carmine caught his chin and pulled his head around. “You’re spiraling,” he said sharply. “Stop.”
Saint took a ragged breath, forcing himself not to lean into Carmine’s touch. “Maybe this was a bad idea,” he managed after a minute.
“Nope,” Carmine said. He started the car and put it in gear. “This was a great idea and we’re doing it.”
Saint sat beside him, hands folded in his lap. Every once in a while, Carmine would glance at him, eyes measuring but kind, but he said nothing, humming along to the music.
“Have you had a boyfriend?” Saint asked abruptly. He shook himself. “Stupid question, you don’t have to answer.” His eyes went wide as a thought occurred to him. “Do you have a boyfriend now? Oh my god, why didn’t I ask you before? Were you afraid to tell me about him? Is he back in Boston?”
“Saint!” Carmine was laughing, Saint realized. Surely he wouldn’t be laughing if he was offended. “No boyfriend right now, relax. But yeah, I’ve had them before. Of course I have.”
“Why of course?” Saint asked, bristling in spite of himself. “There’s no of course, just because you know what you want and you don’t care what people think—”
This time Carmine’s hand covered his mouth, making Saint splutter.
“I care,” he said, dropping his hand and turning into the parking lot. “I care a lot, Saint.”
“But you just—” Saint waved a hand vaguely.
“Go charging in like a fucking idiot?” Carmine finished. “That’s not a positive character trait, you know.”
“You’re brave,” Saint said quietly, and Carmine went still. Saint looked up at him, wishing he could find the words. “You’re—you fight for what you want. You don’t care—no, okay, you do care but you don’t let that stop you. I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to tell the world to go fuck itself just because I—” He drew in on himself. “It doesn’t matter.”
Carmine touched his knee as the engine cooled, metal pinging and ticking in the soft Oregon night. “It does matter. What you want matters.”
“I have hockey. That has to be enough.”
“Saint.” Carmine waited until Saint looked at him. “You can want more than one thing. You can have more than one thing.”
Saint shook his head. “Not right now. I—it can wait. It has to.”
Carmine sighed and unbuckled. “I don’t have time to argue with that right now, Adam’s waiting for us.”
Adam was indeed waiting for them, sitting at a table in the back. He popped from his seat when he saw them approaching, hand out to be shaken. Saint accepted it and then took a seat. Carmine sat down next to him, close enough that Saint could feel his body heat, but not quite touching him, and smiled at Adam.
“That was a good game.”
Adam’s grin widened. “You guys didn’t make it easy.”
The server came by and took their drink orders, and Saint perused the menu as Adam and Carmine chatted about the weather and the game and their upcomin
g schedules.
“Thanks for doing this,” he said when a lull fell. “It’s probably not how you wanted to spend your night.”
Adam shrugged. “You kidding? Good food, good company—at least I’ve heard good things about you. Not like I’m gonna turn down a chance to talk hockey with you, or anything else you want to discuss.”
Saint ducked his head, feeling the flush crawl up his cheeks.
“Tenny wanted to be here,” Adam said after they’d placed their orders. “He’s at home dealing with a sprained shoulder but we’re hoping he’ll get called up again soon.”
“Tenny?” Saint asked.
Adam’s dimple deepened. “My boyfriend. Etienne Brideau. He’s playing for the Thunder but he’s filled a spot for us a few times, he meshes well with the team.”
“So… everyone knows about you guys?”
“Anyone with a working pair of eyes, yeah.” Adam’s smile turned fond. “Tenny is more private than me—I’d like to take out a billboard or something, but he prefers we play it a little quieter than that.”
“How did you meet?”
Adam muffled a laugh with his fist. “I—uh… I was out celebrating with the team after I got signed to the Wolverines. Tenny and his team was at the bar we went to. I might have… propositioned him.” His grin turned wicked. “Worked, too.”
Saint glanced at Carmine, who wasn’t even trying to hide his amusement, and back to Adam. “Have you had a lot of blowback?”
“Some, sure,” Adam said. “Most of my team was supportive, but there were a couple of idiots who tried the whole ‘I don’t feel comfortable in a locker room with him’ routine.”
“What happened?”
Adam lifted a shoulder. “You’d have to talk to my captain. All I know is, they were taken aside and spoken to individually, and when they came back, they said they were fine with it after all. There was only one nasty piece of work who just wouldn’t let it go, and he ended up getting traded in February. Can’t prove it had to do with me—the official line was that he just wasn’t gelling with the team—but it’s sure been better with him gone.”
Roughing Page 14
