by Rachel Reid
“It totally was,” Vanessa agreed. “Remember that time you fell down?”
“I did not fall down! I stumbled. And recovered. And you are awful.”
They all laughed. Fabian scheduled in the night out at Force on his phone. He could really use a night of dancing. It had been an age.
“You should bring your hockey boyfriend,” Marcus teased.
“I’m gonna bring your dad.”
“You should. My dad is a smoke show.”
“ABC,” Tarek said. “Anyone. But. Claude.”
That caused Vanessa to howl with laugher, and Fabian couldn’t help but join in.
“ABC,” he agreed. “Definitely.”
Chapter Eight
“Got big plans for the day off?” Wyatt nudged Ryan playfully as they were getting ready to leave the arena after another win at home.
Ryan laughed. “Yeah. I got an IKEA delivery this afternoon. Gonna put it all together tomorrow.”
“Wow. That’s a fun day.”
Ryan smiled sheepishly. “My apartment is pretty empty. I thought I might try to make it more of a home, y’know?”
Wyatt looked like he was about to make a joke, but instead said, “You need a hand with putting that shit together? I’ve assembled a few Billy bookshelves in my day. Or maybe you could ask Anders. He should be an expert, right?”
The idea of asking Anders Nilsson, Toronto’s star goalie and only Swedish player, to help Ryan assemble IKEA furniture was unimaginable. Nilsson had said maybe four words to Ryan all season. “I should be all right.”
Wyatt nodded. “Okay, well. See you in a couple of days then.”
He turned to leave, and Ryan cringed at himself. This was exactly the sort of opportunity his therapist would want him to seize. He ignored the knot in his stomach and said, “Hey, uh, Hazy?”
Wyatt turned back, probably just as surprised as Ryan was.
“If... I mean, if you aren’t doing anything, and you really don’t mind, it would be nice to have some help tomorrow.”
Why the fuck was that so hard?
Ryan waited, stomach churning, and was about to tell him to forget it when Wyatt smiled and said, “You buy the beer.”
Ryan nearly slumped forward with relief. God, he was pathetic.
“Deal.”
* * *
“Okay, so we’ve got some work to do.” Wyatt stood in front of the mountain of boxes of flat-packed furniture that Ryan had piled in his living room.
“Yeah,” Ryan said, running a hand anxiously over his beard. “I basically just have a bed, and the stools at my kitchen counter. Everything else is in these boxes.”
“I can see that. Where the hell have you been sitting?”
“The stools.”
Wyatt shook his head. “Well, let’s start with the couch, and then the coffee table.” He grinned. “And speaking of coffee...”
Ryan flushed. Why hadn’t he offered some as soon as Wyatt came in the door? “Of course. I’ll just... I made some. I can make a fresh pot, if you—”
“I’m not fancy,” Wyatt said easily. He was crouched in front of the boxes, head tilted as he read the labels. “I’ll drink your leftovers.”
“Okay.” Ryan rushed off to the kitchen. He hated how jittery he was. Through all his years in the NHL, and all the teams and all the apartments, he had very rarely invited anyone into his home. But he liked Wyatt, and he really did need help with this furniture. Plus, he wanted to be the kind of guy who could invite a friend over without completely falling apart.
He pulled one of the matching navy blue mugs he’d bought at the dollar store down the street out of the cupboard. He started to pour the coffee, then realized he had no idea how Wyatt took it.
He poked his head out of the kitchen. “Hey, um, do you want milk or sugar or...?”
“Cream if you have it,” Wyatt called back.
Oh god. Ryan did not have it. “I, um... I can go get some. Sorry. I didn’t even think—”
“Fuck’s sake, Pricey. It’s fine. Milk is great. Make it a good splash, though.”
“All right.” Ryan fetched the milk, which he thankfully had plenty of, from the fridge. That wasn’t so bad. You didn’t have cream and it was fine.
“Sorry,” Ryan said as he handed Wyatt the mug.
“For what? Free coffee?” Wyatt smiled at him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Relax!”
“Sorry,” Ryan said again. If only he could obey that command.
“How about we do the coffee table first so I have somewhere to put this mug?” Wyatt suggested.
Ryan nodded, probably too enthusiastically. “Sounds good.”
They worked together for about an hour. Wyatt did most of the talking, but Ryan enjoyed listening to him. He was funny, and he told great stories. At the end of the hour they had the coffee table, the sofa, and an armchair built.
“So,” Wyatt said, grunting the word as he sat down hard on Ryan’s new sofa, “I noticed that your choice of neighborhood is...unusual.”
“Oh.” Ryan sat in the armchair that faced Wyatt across the coffee table. “Yeah, well. I just thought I would give it a try. It might...be a good fit for me.” He forced himself to hold Wyatt’s gaze. He wouldn’t look at the floor as he braced himself for Wyatt’s reaction.
But Wyatt just nodded. “I think you’ll like it. My sister moved to the Village after college. She said it changed her life. Well.” He gave Ryan a sad smile. “Saved her life, is what she said.”
“Is she still here?”
“No. She’s in Vancouver now. Her wife works in the film industry. Production design. Here, just a sec.” Wyatt snatched his phone off the coffee table and thumbed through it for a few seconds before turning the screen toward Ryan. “Here they are. That’s Kristy, my sister, and her wife, Eve. And this little guy is their son, Isaac.”
Ryan smiled at the chubby-cheeked toddler in Kristy’s arms. “You’re an uncle!”
“Best uncle in the world,” Wyatt said proudly. “I visit every time we play in Vancouver. And in the summers.”
“That’s awesome.”
“And that,” Wyatt set his phone back on the table, “is my way of telling you that I am totally cool with you being...whatever.”
Ryan couldn’t help teasing him a bit. “So cool you can’t even say it.”
Wyatt looked outraged. “I can say whatever word you want! I just wasn’t sure which one you preferred. This is me being sensitive and knowledgeable.”
Ryan laughed, and then said, “Gay. And thank you for...” He was suddenly at a loss. He’d played on eight NHL teams before this one, and exactly zero of his teammates had openly accepted his sexuality. In fact, most of them had ignored any hint that Ryan may have given them. “It means a lot,” he finished.
“I’m a, whatchacallit, an ally!” Wyatt said, beaming. “So if anyone wants to fight you about it, they gotta come through me.”
They both laughed, because Ryan had roughly eighty pounds and nine inches on Wyatt.
This burgeoning friendship with Wyatt was, without question, the best thing about playing for the Guardians. It was always hard for Ryan to feel enthusiastic about hockey when he didn’t like his coach, and after a couple of months playing for Bruce Cooper, Ryan was pretty sure he didn’t like his coach. He embodied a lot of Ryan’s least favorite things about hockey culture: he was short-tempered, used a lot of tired sexist and homophobic adages, motivated his players by using fear and threats, and generally made Ryan uncomfortable. Frankly, Ryan was long past the point of wanting to sit straighter and bark “Yes, Coach!” whenever an aggressive man holding a white board was tearing a strip off him. These days, he kind of felt more like walking out of the room. Maybe just keep walking until he was back home in Nova Scotia.
It was tempting.
There had bee
n a time, he was sure, that he had loved being a part of a team, of helping that team win games and championships. But he couldn’t quite recall that feeling. Even his memories of winning the Stanley Cup with Boston weren’t as golden as he would have thought they’d be when he’d been a kid.
For most of his NHL career, hockey had just been a thing he did because he didn’t have anything else. And because he’d made it, when so many others hadn’t. Every boy he’d grown up with had dreamed of making the NHL one day, and Ryan was the only one who had. It would be pretty fucking stupid of him to throw that away.
It wasn’t until most of an hour had passed, and the two men were finishing up a dresser, that Wyatt asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
There wasn’t a trace of scorn in the question, but Ryan flushed anyway. “No,” he said quietly.
“Has there ever been one?”
Ryan smoothed a hand over the top of the dresser, and followed its path with his eyes. “Not for a while now, but yeah. A couple.” He glanced up to meet Wyatt’s eyes. “Why? You have someone in mind?”
Wyatt’s face split into a huge grin. “Is that flirting? Are you flirting with me, Pricey?”
“No! Jeez! It was just a joke, and I didn’t mean—”
Wyatt punched Ryan’s arm. “I know. I was kidding. And I’m sure you’ll do just fine here in Toronto. Guy like you,” he stood back to eye Ryan critically, “tall, huge arms, got the whole rugged Viking thing going on. Plus the hockey butt. And the NHL salary. And...” He waved his hand around at Ryan’s living room. “The luxury apartment in the middle of the Gay Village. Do you have a Grindr account?”
“Oh my god,” Ryan grumbled, bending to open the next furniture box, not even looking to see what it was.
“You must, right? I mean, there’s gotta be a billion guys here looking to score with you!”
Ryan slid the contents of the box onto the floor. It appeared to be a bookshelf. “I doubt it.”
“Fuck that. You’re a giant, orange teddy bear with deep pockets! And, I couldn’t help but notice, you’re hung like a—”
“All right. Enough,” Ryan mumbled. “Let’s build this thing.”
Chapter Nine
It turned out that Fabian’s music was available online. Ryan had discovered this on the Thursday after Fabian’s show, and he’d immediately purchased and downloaded everything he could find. He’d spent most of that day listening to all of it. When he’d decided, late in the afternoon, that he really needed to get some groceries for dinner, he brought his earbuds so he could continue to listen as he walked to the store.
He focused on the intricacies of Fabian’s music, which was providing a nice soundtrack for the beautiful autumn day in Toronto. Since the end of the game he’d played last night, Ryan had been slipping pretty steadily into preflight panic mode. The flight to Ottawa would barely be anything—they would be landing almost as soon as they hit cruising altitude—but it still involved a takeoff, a landing, and way too much space between the plane and the ground. Which was exactly the sort of thing he should not be thinking about. He tried to appreciate the cheerful rainbow flags that decorated almost every business on this section of Church Street, and the attractive men who were just everywhere around him. Men who were openly and fearlessly holding hands and, yes, this was a good place. Ryan felt at least a little bit at ease here.
Of course, the idea of actually talking to one of the many attractive men—or god help him, flirting with them—made Ryan want to curl into a ball. Except that ball would still be enormous and, no doubt, noticeable on the busy sidewalk.
Good things. Focus on good things.
Tea was a good thing. An iced chai latte was an even better thing, so Ryan decided to stop into the fancy-looking coffee shop that he’d almost passed by.
There were two people in line in front of him, so Ryan stared up at the menu, confirming that they had iced chai lattes. He mentally rehearsed placing his order. Ordering food was always one of his most embarrassing problem areas; he tended to stammer, and sometimes ordered the wrong thing, or the first thing he saw. If a server suggested something to him, he would order it even if he didn’t want it. But surely even he could order a fucking latte.
When he got to the counter, the cute barista smiled at him. “Hello. How are you today?”
“Chai—I mean, good. I’m good.” Come on, Ryan.
“What can I get you?”
“Uh. The, um, chai latte. But with ice.”
“An iced chai latte? What size?”
“Oh.” Ryan glanced back up at the board, where there were two prices listed next to iced chai latte but no actual sizes. “The, um...”
The barista helpfully held up two different sized plastic cups. “Regular and large.”
Ryan pointed to the larger one. “Large. Thanks.”
He paid by tapping his bank card because he loved the tap feature. He loved anything that ended a transaction faster. He selected the highest suggested tip amount, as usual.
“You can wait at the end of the counter there. It will just be a minute. Thank you!”
Ryan was grateful for the instruction. He hated not knowing where to stand. He found a spot where he wouldn’t be too in the way and waited.
“Ryan?”
Ryan looked first at the counter, thinking his drink had been made already. But he hadn’t given them his name, so that was dumb. Then he turned toward the tables in the café and saw Fabian.
“I thought that was you!” Fabian beamed at him.
“Yup. Hi.” Jesus, what are the odds?
“Large iced chai latte?” someone called from the counter. Ryan turned and accepted his drink. When he turned back to Fabian, Fabian gestured him over.
“Come sit. Unless you’re rushing off somewhere.”
Ryan maneuvered himself through the narrow spaces between tables until he got to Fabian. There was a notebook open in front of him on the table, the pages full of words scribbled in pencil. There were also loose pages of handwritten sheet music. Fabian tidied everything into a neat stack as Ryan sat in the chair across from him.
“Good choice,” Fabian said, nodding at the drink.
Ryan didn’t reply. He was completely distracted by Fabian’s face. Unlike the other two times Ryan had seen him, Fabian wasn’t wearing any makeup today. At least, none that Ryan noticed. His hair was tucked under a black toque, and he had dark stubble on his jaw. He looked so different, but no less beautiful. His dark brown eyes were still fringed by the same long, full lashes that had fascinated Ryan as a teenager. His plush lips were quirked up in a playful little smile. Probably because Ryan was staring at him.
“Sorry,” Ryan said. “What?”
Fabian waved his hand dismissively, and Ryan noticed the dark blue polish on his nails. “Nothing. What are you up to today?”
“I was heading to the grocery store. Just to get something for dinner.”
“Ah. I should probably do that myself.”
“What’s all this?” Ryan asked, gesturing to the stack of papers. It was weird to be talking to the person whose music he had just been enjoying.
“Oh, I’m just working on something. I was struck by inspiration today, but I needed a change of scenery. As you saw, my apartment is a little grim.”
“I liked it,” Ryan said, remembering the red-painted walls, the deep plum bedspread and curtains, and the eclectic pile of cheerful pillows. “It was...colorful.”
Fabian pressed his lips together, then said, “Mm. I’ll give you the complete tour next time. You may not have seen all four corners.”
Next time. “I just mean, it looked like you, y’know?”
Fabian rested his chin in his palm, obviously amused. “You know me already, do you? And here I thought I was complex.”
“You are!” Oh god. “I mean, I don’t know you. You’re right
. Not really.” Ryan’s face burned like the sun.
Fabian laughed. “It’s okay. I wouldn’t exactly say we’re strangers, would you?”
Ryan smiled shyly back. “No.”
He took a sip of his latte, and Fabian asked, “So, you...played a hockey game last night?”
That made Ryan laugh. “I did. Yes.”
“Did you win? Sorry I didn’t ask about it before.”
“It’s okay. We did win.”
“Hey! Good for you! Go Guardians.” He waved his hands in the air what Ryan assumed was supposed to be a celebratory manner.
“You’re mocking me.”
“Never. I am nothing if not a sports fan.”
“Do you know where the arena is?”
“Yes.” Fabian mocked offense. “I saw Beyoncé there, so...”
Ryan laughed, and then said, “I saw her in Boston.”
Fabian’s eyes went wide. “You’re a fan?”
“Isn’t everyone? And I’m not sure what part of I’m gay you didn’t understand.”
“Honestly?” Fabian said. “All parts of it. I’m afraid I’ve developed a bit of a prejudice against hockey players, and it may have caused me to make some false assumptions.”
“That we’re all super-straight aggressive jocks?”
“Well, yes.”
“You don’t have to be straight to be an aggressive jock. Believe me.”
Fabian seemed to consider this as Ryan took another sip of latte. “You’re not. An aggressive jock, I mean. You never were.”
Ryan felt a pleasant warmth bubble inside him at Fabian’s kind assessment, but he had to be honest. “I know you don’t follow hockey, but do have any idea what my job is?”
“Playing...hockey?”
“Yeah. But my job on the team—on every team—is being, ah, intimidating. I’m a fighter, mostly.” Ryan kept his eyes on his drink. “So aggressive jock might be a good description for me, actually.”
He glanced up, and Fabian looked sad. “Do you like it? The fighting?”
Ryan sighed. “It’s hard to explain.”