The kid nods. “I do. I can’t decide if I like defense, though, or being a forward.”
“Being a forward,” Ransom says in a stage whisper. “It’s the best. You get to score points.”
I shake my head. “Defense, man. It’s the way to go. You get to stop the other team. And hello, you get to score now and then too.”
The kid shrugs and smiles. “But I also like basketball. Maybe I can play both sports. Thanks, Ransom. Thanks, James.”
He turns to leave, his mom tucking an arm around him as she guides him out of the rink.
“‘Play both sports.’ It all seems so possible,” I say, drifting off for a moment, thinking of other possibilities, never far off in my mind.
“Dude, are you going all philosophical on me right now?”
“What?” I ask, distracted.
Ransom shoots me an exaggerated, wary look. “You sound . . . weirdly contemplative.”
I laugh once, then stop. It’s harder to laugh these days. What the hell? Is that a by-product of falling hard? There ought to be a warning pamphlet for love—side effects include pangs in your heart, a runaway mind, and finding very little funny anymore.
“I feel weirdly contemplative now and then,” I admit.
“There’s only one cure for that.”
The cure is barbecue.
It’s messy and delicious and completely distracting.
Until Ransom finishes his story about what he did this summer—going zip-lining in Costa Rica, followed by cliff diving, then parachuting.
I snap my gaze up from the plate, setting down the rib, then wiping the napkin across my mouth. “You went zip-lining and cliff diving and parachuting? Isn’t that—oh, I don’t know—against your contract?”
“No. My contract allows it,” he says, mocking me.
I flip him the bird. “Asshole.”
“Dude, what is your story? I made all that up to see if you were paying attention. Are you ever going to tell me about your summer vacay and why you’re so fucking distracted all the time?”
I furrow my brow. “I’m not distracted. I’m killing it on the ice. I guess you’re just jealous.” But even that one little word—jealous—reminds me of Dean. The way we teased each other over jealousies. Him saying he’d be jealous over guys hitting on me, and then me busting his chops over the waitress who hit on us.
“You’re fine on the ice, man,” Ransom says. “That’s not even what I’m talking about.”
“Then what are you talking about? Try English. Because you’re making zero sense.”
He arches a brow, pointing his thumb back in the direction of the rink. “That guy who wanted you to sign his jersey? Before the kid?”
“Yeah?”
“He was hitting on you. So was the waiter at the burger joint last night. You didn’t even notice.”
What? This is news to me. “The waiter too? And the guy today?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, like this is a surprise. You get hit on almost as much as I do.”
“More,” I mutter.
“Whatever. But now you’re off in la-la land, and hanging out with you is killing my mojo with the ladies, since you aren’t pairing up anymore.”
“Aww. I’m so sorry you can’t score a date. Have you considered looking in the mirror and maybe getting a face-lift?”
He nods appreciatively, clucking his tongue. “That’s what I’m talking about. That’s the first joke you’ve cracked in a week. What’s the deal? You’re kind of . . . joyless. And that’s on top of how you don’t notice the dudes anymore.”
“Well, hello. The pact?” I say, pointing to the obvious explanation, even though it’s not the reason.
“Yes. Same pact, bro, but I still notice the babes. I might not do anything about it, but I sure as shit notice them.” He shoots me a what’s up stare. “What’s your deal? Did you go to England and fucking fall in love?”
I freeze. Is it that obvious?
Do I say something to my bud? Ransom and I get grub, play ping pong with the guys, and shoot the shit on the team plane, occasionally mentioning a hookup, but we don’t do deep-dive relationship talks. Never have. He hasn’t been in one for as long as I’ve known him. A woman broke his heart once upon a time, and he’s been devoutly single since then.
But now, we’re charting new friendship territory, and I’m not entirely sure how to tread. I’ve only ever talked about Dean to Emma, but she’s a continent away.
I’m not entirely sure what to say to Ransom, so I try to deflect. “Why are you asking?”
“Because you might be a focused Zen master in the rink, but off the ice, you’re kind of lost.” He parks his elbows on the table. “You okay, man?”
I heave a sigh. He’s right. I know he’s right. I might be in the zone physically, but mentally I am elsewhere. I have been since I left London six days ago. Even if Ransom and I haven’t been let’s make a quilt and talk buds, maybe that’s only because we’ve never needed to.
Pretty sure I need to now. “Yeah, I did fall in love,” I say heavily.
His jaw hangs open. He lets out the most shocked whoa in the universe.
“No fucking way!”
“Yes, way.”
“No kidding?”
I hold up a hand like I’m taking an oath. “It’s all true.”
He offers a fist for knocking. “Knock me, bro.”
“Not sure this is a knock-me thing,” I remark, but I knock anyway, since you don’t leave a teammate hanging.
“Fuck yes, it is. The player falls hard.” He leans back in his chair, beckoning me to serve it up. “So, what’s the story? You keeping it wrapped up till our pact ends and then . . .?”
“And then what?” I ask. “He lives in London. I live here. There’s not really much to do.”
The waitress swings by and asks if we need anything, smiling at Ransom. He says no, but when she leaves, he nods in her direction. “And if you’re not going to see this guy again, does that mean you’re gonna get back on the market after the season starts?”
I cringe, shaking my head. “God no.”
“Dude, you have it bad,” he says, and the look he gives me tells me I’m a sorry-ass lovesick bastard right now.
“No shit.”
I know how to follow orders. I take them seriously. I abide by them. So I’m a very good boy at resisting talking to Dean.
At avoiding his photos? Not so much.
That night when I’m alone, I crank up the tunes in my place, take a long, hot shower—during which I entertain all the thoughts of him, because that’s what I do in showers—then dry off and flop down on my bed.
My big, empty bed.
I turn my gaze to the unoccupied side of this vast California king, wishing I could see him sliding up against me.
Or the more likely scenario is me tackle-hugging him and making him snuggle with me after a good, long fuck.
A shudder wracks my body at the thought.
I grab my phone and click on a folder.
If Google could report me for looking at pics, I’d have been handcuffed six million times already.
And I have no regrets.
I click on my favorite—the one at Tower Bridge—first. I smile as the memory shimmies in front of me. That was the day I knew we could sort shit out, because we did that during our first fight.
Then the picture at the Millennium Bridge. That was when I knew I could always have fun with him, because we had a blast.
I slide my thumb over another. It’s the picture I took the last night there, at the sidewalk bar, drinking brews. He gave me the most smoldering look, a look that said I want you so much.
“I feel the same, babe,” I say to the image. “I feel the same.”
Great. This is what I do now. Talk to pics of the guy I wish were my boyfriend.
But it’s not that red-hot desire that makes me flip through the shots again.
It’s the other part. The part that Ransom saw.
The I h
ave it bad part.
Because I absolutely do.
39
Dean
My dad pats the back of the finished chair. “Admit it. I missed my calling in furniture restoration.”
“It’s never too late to start a new career, even in retirement,” I say, but my voice sounds a little hollow.
He gestures to the chair’s new home across from the couch. “Maybe I could be an interior designer. The chair looks good here, doesn’t it?”
I glance around his flat, pointing to the corner by the window. “Better over there. Let’s move it.”
We move the chair by the window, and sunlight streams in over its whitewashed wooden arms, the perfect place to sit.
It’s Wednesday afternoon. We finished the chair last weekend.
That . . . passed the time.
It was . . . somewhat enjoyable.
I just wish someone had given me the memo that missing the man you love sucks.
But I guess some things you have to learn on your own. I stare out the window, watching the traffic trudge by, checking out the passersby on the pavement below.
Plenty of tourists, from the looks of them—white trainers and khaki shorts, some wearing shirts from their favorite sports teams. What’s that one? I peer at a cluster of college students walking by, laughing, taking selfies. A blonde in the group wears a jersey. A hockey jersey. I want to shout at her, Hey, I know someone on that team.
I don’t.
Instead, I pinch the bridge of my nose, riding a wave of self-loathing at the idiocy of feeling connected to a random fan on the street who’s sporting a jersey for some other player on Fitz’s team.
I’ve officially hit a new level of pathetic.
Or maybe I’m pissed at myself for recognizing his team colors, for having checked them out online. What is wrong with me? Turning around, I drag my hand over my face.
My dad stares at me, sympathy in his dark eyes. “Let’s get out of here. Grab a beer.”
The specifics of the beverage suggestion do not go unnoticed. “What? No offer to get a cup of tea, old man?”
“You don’t look like you need a cuppa. You look like you need a drink.”
“A stiff drink.”
“Okay, so maybe not a beer. How about a shot?”
I manage a mirthless laugh. “Getting shots with my dad. So this is how it goes.”
“Could be worse.”
I’m sure it could, but at the moment it’s hard to see how.
We hit a nearby pub, an old-time place that’s so London, I feel like I walked into a movie set. Everything is wood and dark, which seems fitting.
We order a round, and Dad lifts his glass to toast. “Let’s drink to . . .” He pauses, glancing around the pub, and I can tell he’s hunting for something hopeful. Something to cheer up my sorry arse. Perhaps he finds it. “Let’s drink to this pub.”
And it works. I do laugh at the ordinariness of the toast. “And why are we drinking to a pub?”
He scans the joint like he’s studying every angle. “This is very England.”
“Well, we are in England.” Those words taste a little bitter, a little less sweet than they would have a week ago.
“And this place, it feels like home,” he says, lifting his shot glass then knocking it back. I do the same, letting the tequila burn, as tequila does.
I make note of the pub’s pool table in the back, the trivia games too, and all the endless taps. It’s so standard London it’s beyond standard. “Yeah, it feels like home,” I say, echoing his sentiment, wishing that home could comfort me.
When we leave, I’m a little drunker than when I went in. So is my dad.
Okay, we’re buzzed. Let’s just call a spade a spade.
“So, are you going to see your lady friend now?” I ask as night falls over the city.
“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not,” he says, but the grin gives him away.
“You are indeed a scoundrel.” I squeeze his shoulder. “What am I going to do with you? Driving all the ladies crazy at such an old age.”
“Just one lady,” he says.
I shoot him an I gotcha grin. “So you and Penny are a thing?”
He laughs. “Seems we are.”
I wag a finger at him. “It’s about time, old man. It’s about time.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
While we wander down the street, his phone buzzes. He snags it from his pocket, slides open a text, smiles, and taps out a reply.
Jealousy seizes me like a monster, thrashing inside me. I’m envious of my own damn father for texting his lady friend. I draw a deep breath, trying to settle the dragon, trying to be happy for my dad.
Because I am happy for him, just sad for me.
He nods to a side street. “I’m going to take off.”
“To see Penny,” I say, forcing a smile that’s mostly legitimate.
His eyes twinkle. “I am. She makes me happy.” He draws me in for a quick embrace. “Good to see you. Text me tomorrow.”
“I will.” I watch him as he heads down the street.
Is he . . . whistling?
He’s bloody whistling.
My dad is whistling a happy tune, and I am a sorry sack, getting pissed on a Wednesday night and heading home alone.
Once I’m inside my flat, the door groans closed, and the emptiness enrobes me.
I turn to a playlist, but as I flick through a few songs, I decide I hate them all now.
I think, as I flop down on my couch, that I actually hate everything.
Opening my text app, I scroll through the names on my recent threads.
Maeve, telling me about the jukebox she’s been eyeing.
Maeve: I’ll add all your favorite tunes to it!
Then Taron, inviting me to check out a street fair this weekend with him and his boyfriend. I actually groan out loud. Not that I don’t like hanging with him and his guy. But I don’t want to go to a fucking street fair, because nothing could top the last one.
I find a note from Naveen next.
Naveen: This is not a drill. We are going to this new Greek place Sunday. The whole crew. Making rezzies. I know you have the night off. You’re going to be there. No excuses.
Sam’s text is next.
Sam: Round of pool tomorrow?
That’s all for new messages.
None from Fitz—not that I was expecting any.
Still.
With my chest feeling hollow and my apartment sounding far too empty, I stick my finger in the fire. I click on the last note from him, the one he sent me when he got on the plane last week.
A picture of him in his seat.
Fitz: Thought you might enjoy this for your “wank bank.” It’s me in first class. You’d look good in first class, babe. Also, I fucking love you.
As my chest aches, I run my thumb over his words, then the image. I’ve read it ten thousand times. I’ll read it ten thousand more.
Then, my own reply.
Dean: Keeping it. Definitely keeping it. Also, I fucking love you too.
I want to reply, to add a new message, to start this up again. But this is where the thread ends.
I let the phone fall to the floor with a dull thunk.
A WEEK LATER
Also known as the time I figure it out.
40
Fitz
Fourteen days.
I must be made of iron. I’ve lasted fourteen whole days without talking to Dean.
Or texting Dean.
I killed it in training camp. I’m crushing it in the preseason games, and I am feeling good. I tell Ransom as much when we leave through the player’s entrance after our second win.
“Guess it’s working. Our pact,” he says.
“Seems to be,” I add, then tell him I’ll catch him tomorrow, since my agent is waiting for me.
I jog over to Haven, give her a kiss on the cheek, and grab a Lyft across town with her.
“You were on fire tonight,” she remarks.
“That’s my job,” I tell her.
She pats my thigh. “I like it when you do your job.”
I laugh. “Because when I do my job, I make you money.”
She smiles wickedly. “Exactly. But also because it makes you happy. You look happy.”
“Hockey makes me happy,” I say, but it’s not the only thing. Something else does. Rather, someone else, and I wish I were seeing him tonight.
I try to shake off thoughts of Dean so I can stay present. Haven deserves that much.
The Lyft lets us off in Chelsea at a restaurant she picked. “I’ve been dying to try this place. I hear great things about it,” she says as we head into the swank eatery. “The curry is supposed to be amazing.”
That’s all it takes. One stinking mention of a meal I had with Dean, and my mind trots back to London. I picture him there, wondering if he’s out having dinner with friends on a Thursday night, if he’s laughing, smiling, happy.
I hope he is.
But a part of me hopes he’s not.
Which is terrible to say, but honest.
That I would understand because that feels like my life right now.
Not quite happy. A little bit empty.
I should be having fun with Haven. She’s a goddess and a brilliant agent. But all I can see is the calendar. All I can feel is anticipation and the wish that time would accelerate. In one more week, the regular season starts. If we kick ass, I can call Dean. See Dean somehow. Have that something.
“And I thought it’d be perfect for you. Since you always like to try new food,” Haven says as we reach the table.
She might have said something on the way. I have no idea what she’s been talking about.
After we order, I do my best to focus on Haven and the details of the sponsorship deal she inked for me.
A Guy Walks Into My Bar Page 25