Him

by Sarina Bowen

  Well, fuck. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. It sounds inadequate. To both of us, I’m sure.

  Jamie kicks a trashcan. “I need a shower.”

  My traitorous dick volunteers to join him, but I keep my big trap shut as we walk the last block and climb the stairs. This had not gone the way I’d anticipated. My worst-case scenario had involved Jamie recoiling in horror at my gayness and accusing me of manipulating him into fooling around.

  I’ve spent four years riddled with shame over what I’d done, and now it turns out I should’ve felt ashamed about something entirely different. Jamie didn’t care that I’d blown him. He cared that I’d abandoned him. And knowing I’d hurt my best friend much more deeply than I’d realized twists me up in knots.

  I hesitate at the top of the steps, calling out to his rigid back. “Um, Canning?”

  “What?” he mutters without turning around.

  “Am I finding somewhere else to sleep tonight?”

  He sighs. “No, jackass.”

  10

  Jamie

  Twenty-two seems too old to be giving someone the silent treatment. Not that I played those sorts of games when I was younger. I’ve always been a talk-it-out guy. Face your problems head on, don’t freeze the other person out.

  That’s Wes’s specialty, freezing someone out.

  Can anyone say “still bitter?”

  The two of us haven’t really spoken since we went running. At dinner, he’d sat with Pat, catching up on the last few years. Then Pat banged his spoon on a water glass and introduced Wes to the campers. “Frozen Four champion…” and “number two in the nation for points scored,” and “guaranteed to see some ice time in Toronto next year.”

  The eyes of the boys around me grew wider and wider. They’d hung on every word. Meanwhile, Wes had sat there cracking half an “aw, shucks” smile, looking cocky and carefree.

  Maybe he’s not as carefree as he looks, my conscience suggests.

  Fuck off, conscience! I’m busy being mad here.

  Now we’re in our respective beds, but neither of us is sleeping. I still wear my anger around me like the bedsheet that covers me. But it’s a thin layer.

  I hear him sigh from the other bed, and I stare up at the ceiling, wondering if I should just get over it already.

  His husky voice breaks the silence. “I was afraid.”

  There’s a rustling sound, and from the corner of my eye I see that he’s rolled over on his side, watching me in the darkness.

  “You?” I ask. “Didn’t know that was possible.”

  “Not often,” he concedes, and I snort.

  There’s more silence, but I finally give in. “Afraid of what?”

  “That I’d used you. And that you’d hate me for it.”

  A sigh rises in my chest. I shift onto my side too, but it’s hard to make out his expression in the shadows.

  “I could never hate you, dumbass.” I consider it. “Well, unless you did something hate-worthy, like run my mom over with a car on purpose or something. But hate you for being gay? Or for giving me a BJ without telling me you were gay?” Fuck, I’m still resentful as hell that he thought I was capable of being so narrow-minded.

  “But I wasn’t ready to tell you the truth,” he admits. “I’m not sure I was ready to tell myself. But deep down I knew, and I felt like such a shit afterward. I felt like, I dunno, I took advantage of you.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Dude, it’s not like you tied me to the bed and forced yourself on me. I don’t know if you remember, but I came like a motherfucker that night.” Aw shit. I don’t know why I said that. And the flash of heat that travels down to my dick is equally perplexing.

  Thinking about that night is something I rarely let myself do. It was easily the hottest sexual experience eighteen-year-old Jamie Canning had ever had. But remembering it always confuses me, because I associate it with getting banished from the friendship I valued most.

  “Oh, I remember everything about that night.” His voice thickens, and the stirring down below grows stronger.

  I quickly initiate an emergency subject change, because talking about BJs seems to be confusing my body. “So are you out now? Like officially? Do your folks know?”

  His answering breath is heavy. “Yeah, they know.”

  I wait for him to continue. He doesn’t. Which isn’t much of a surprise, since Wes never liked talking about his family. I know his father is some bigshot investment banker and his mother sits on a bunch of charity committees. And the one time Wes’s dad had driven him to camp, I remember shaking the man’s hand and thinking he was the coldest person I’d ever met.

  I’m so curious to hear what they think about having a gay son, but I know he won’t answer if I ask. The thing with Wes is, everything is always on his terms.

  “What about your teammates?” I try. “Toronto?”

  “With the Northern Mass guys, I had a don’t-ask-don’t-tell thing going on. I didn’t hide it, but I didn’t talk about it, either. They left it alone. But Toronto—” He groans. “Not sure how that’s going to work. My plan is just to duck the question as long as I can. I guess I’m slipping back into the closet for a while until I feel like I know those guys. Until I’m so valuable to them they won’t care who I screw in my spare time. That should only take three, four years tops.”

  That sounds unbelievably rough. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I'm sorry. I’m sorry I fucked up our friendship, Jamie.”

  Shit, he called me Jamie. He only does that when he’s actually being serious, earnest. Regret radiates from his body and rolls toward me in palpable waves, and I feel my anger crumbling like a sandcastle in high tide. I can’t stay mad at this guy. Even when I thought he’d thrown our friendship away like a piece of trash, I still hadn’t been able to hate him.

  I swallow. “Water under the bridge, man.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Letting out a slow breath, I crook my arm under my head and glance over at him. “So what’s been going on with you? Catch me up on the last four years.”

  He snickers. “Four years’ worth of Ryan Wesley shenanigans? That’ll take all night, dude.” Then he pauses, his tone going awkward. “I’d rather hear about you, anyway. How’s the Canning clan? Still chaos central over there?”

  I smile in the darkness. “Always. Mom sold her art gallery and opened up one of those pottery places where you come in and spend the day making vases and ashtrays and shit.”

  “How many times do you think she’s caught people acting out that scene from Ghost?” he cracks.

  “At least once daily,” I answer solemnly. “No joke.” I think about what else has happened, but it’s hard to sift through four years of events. “Oh, my sister Tammy had a baby, so I’m an uncle now… Um, what else… Joe—that’s my oldest brother—he got a divorce.”

  “No shit.” Wes sounds genuinely upset. “Weren’t you best man at their wedding?” He suddenly laughs. “Hey, remember that bowtie I sent you to wear for the ceremony?”

  I stifle a groan. “You mean the bright red one with pink cocks all over it? Yeah, I remember. And fuck you very much, by the way. Joe was in the room when I opened the box, and he almost had a heart attack when he thought that’s what I was wearing.”

  “So you let my gift go to waste? Asshole.”

  “Nope, I wore it at the bachelor party.”

  We both snicker, and something hot and familiar clenches in my chest. I’ve missed this. Talking to Wes. Laughing with Wes.

  “The wedding was fun,” I add. “Me and Scott and Brady were the best men, Tammy was one of Samantha’s bridesmaids, and my sister Jess got ordained and performed the ceremony. She was hilarious up there.”

  Wes chuckles. “How have you not gone insane yet, dude? I don’t think I’d survive having five siblings.”

  “Naah, I love it. Besides, I’m the youngest—by the time I came around, my parents just let me do whatever I wanted. They were exhausted from all that dis
ciplining they had to do with my brothers and sisters.”

  He falls silent, and I can feel the tension in the air again, as if he wants to say something but is too afraid to say it.

  “Just spit it out,” I order when his silence continues to drag.

  He sighs. “Are we good?”

  “Yeah, Wes, we’re good.” And I mean it. It took us four years to get back to this point, but we’re here now and I’m happy.

  I have my best friend back, at least for the next six weeks.

  11

  Wes

  So this coaching thing? It’s harder than it looks.

  At the start of the morning session, it feels easy. I set up some drills for the youngest offensive players and run ’em like crazy. There’s a whistle around my neck, and they have to do whatever I tell them. Easy money, right?

  Not so fast.

  When I take on a scrimmage for the older teens, all the wheels fall off. It’s not that the kids are no good. Their skill levels vary from awesome to virtuosic. But they don’t work in sync like a college team. They’re headstrong and irrational. They listen to what I say, and then they go do the opposite.

  They’re teenagers. And after ten minutes of play I’m basically beating my head against the plexi, praying for my own death.

  “Pat,” I beg. “Please tell me I wasn’t like this.”

  “You weren’t,” he says with a shake of his head. “You were three times worse.” Then that traitor has the balls to exit the building, leaving me in charge of thirty sweating hormone-crazed teenage hockey punks.

  I blow my whistle for the millionth time. “Offsides! Again. Seriously?” I ask Shen, an arrogant D-man who’s been torturing the goalie for my whole session. The two of them have some kind of vendetta against each other, and it isn’t helping the general chaos. “Faceoff.”

  Play starts again when I drop the puck. I look up to see Canning walking down the chute to assist me with the scrimmage. Thank Christ. His calm face is like a cool drink of water.

  I skate over and hop the wall to greet him. “Why didn’t you tell me this job was hard?”

  He grins, and my heart melts a little in the usual way. “What’s hard? You’re not even sweating.”

  I am, though. Because even as I turn my head to watch my players, Shen goes sliding backward into the goalie he’s been taunting, knocking him over. It looks intentional, and Canning must have thought so too, because we’re both scissoring over the wall to get over there.

  “What the—” starts Killfeather, the goalie.

  Shen smirks. “Sorry.”

  “Fucking chink,” Killfeather swears.

  “Faggot,” Shen returns.

  My whistle is so loud that Canning claps his hands over his ears. “Two minute penalties!” I roar. “Both of you.”

  “What?” Killfeather yelps. “I didn’t touch his ass.”

  “For your mouth,” I snarl. “On my ice you don’t use a slur of any kind.” I point toward the sin bin. “Get.”

  But Killfeather doesn’t move. “You don’t get to make new rules.” His sneer is as big as the banner advertisements lining the boards.

  All the players are listening, so I can’t do this wrong. “Ladies, it is a rule. Two minute bench minor for unsportsmanlike conduct. If you’d kept your trap shut after he hit you, your team would have a power play right now. I’m doing this for your own good.”

  “Sure you are.”

  In spite of that parting shot, both my troublemakers finally aim their bodies toward the penalty boxes. So I issue my parting shot, and I make sure that everyone can hear. “By the way—science has proven the correlation between calling someone a faggot and having a really small penis. You do not want to advertise that. Think about it.”

  Canning doesn’t say anything. But he skates off, too. I see him take a seat off to the side and then bend over as if he’s retying his skates. Whatever, right? But then I see his back shaking.

  At least somebody gets my jokes.

  The rest of the scrimmage lasts about a decade. When we finally break for lunch, Jamie catches up to me on the way to the locker rooms. “Science has proven?” He chuckles.

  “I do science on the side.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m thinking of skipping the dining hall today and grabbing a burger at the pub in town. You down?”

  “Fuck yeah,” I answer. Then I wince and glance around to make sure none of the kids are lurking around. I don’t know if I’m cut out to be an authority figure. I’ve spent four years surrounded by Northern Mass hockey players who drop F-bombs in every sentence, and I keep forgetting I need to censor myself while I’m at Elites. The teenagers here swear like sailors—at least when Pat and the other coaches aren’t around—but I refuse to corrupt the younger ones with my filthy mouth.

  “Fudge yeah,” I correct.

  Canning gestures at the emptiness around us. “We’re the only ones here. You can say fuck, dumbass. You can say anything, really.” With a grin, he unleashes a string of expletives. “Fuck, shit, cock, pussy—”

  “For the love of Christ!” a loud voice booms from behind us. “Do I need to wash your mouth out with soap, Canning?”

  I choke down my laughter as Pat appears. He shakes his head in disbelief as he stares at Jamie, then narrows his eyes and turns to me. “Actually, what am I saying? Canning wouldn’t even know those words if it weren’t for you, Wesley. Shame on you.”

  I flash Pat an innocent smile. “I’m pure as the driven snow, Coach. Canning was the one who corrupted me.”

  They both snort. Pat claps me on the shoulder and stalks past us. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that, kid,” he says over his shoulder. “And both of you, watch your mouths around the campers or I’ll kick your motherfucking asses.”

  Jamie and I are still laughing as we duck into the locker room to ditch our skates and change into our sneakers. When we exit the building a few minutes later, I feel like I’ve just left an icy pool and stepped into a sauna. The humidity in the air is stifling, causing sweat to roll down my back. My T-shirt sticks to my chest like plastic wrap.

  Shrugging, I yank it over my head and tuck the fabric in the waistband of my gym shorts. The atmosphere in Lake Placid is as casual as it gets—nobody’s gonna care if I walk through town rocking a bare chest.

  Canning keeps his shirt on. I think I might prefer it that way, because his shirt is paper-thin and doing the same clinging thing mine had done, which gives me a decadent view of every hard ripple on his broad chest. Fuck, I’m yet again jealous of his shirt. I want to be the one plastered to his chest, and the ache I feel for him brings a spark of guilt.

  We’re good now. We’re friends again. So why can’t my traitorous body just be cool with it? Why can’t I look at him without imagining all the dirty, dirty things I want to do to him?

  “So what’s the deal with you and that girl?” I hear myself ask. I don’t particularly want to hear the answer, but I need the wake-up call it’ll bring, the reminder that lusting over this guy is a disaster waiting to happen.

  “Holly?” He shrugs. “Nothing, really. We just hook up. Or rather, we used to hook up. I don’t think I’ll be seeing much of her now that we’ve graduated.”

  I arch a brow. “Just a hook-up? Since when are you into a friends-with-bennies arrangement?”

  Another shrug. “It was convenient. Fun. I don’t know. I’m just not looking to settle down with anyone right now. Holly understood that.” His voice takes on a note of challenge. “What, you disapprove?”

  “Nah, I’m all about fuck buddies.”

  We pass the toy store and duck out of the way of two moms pushing strollers. Both women swivel their heads in my direction and stare at my tats. Not with contempt, but intrigue. It happens again on the next block when a group of teenage girls stop in their tracks at the sight of me. The words “tattooed hottie” tickle our backs as we walk past.

  Jamie chuckles. “You sure you don’t want to go the bisexual path? ’Cause I’m pretty
sure you won’t have any trouble in the chick department.”

  “S’all good. Wouldn’t be fair to the straight guys if I threw my hat in the pussy ring. They wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  His expression turns thoughtful. “I’ve seen you fool around with girls before. You seemed interested.”

  I know he’s thinking about all those nights we snuck into town and flirted with the locals. But we were fifteen, maybe sixteen then, and I was still experimenting, figuring things out.

  “Were you just pretending to enjoy it?” he asks curiously.

  “Not so much pretending as trying to enjoy it,” I admit. “And it wasn’t awful. I didn’t go home afterward and scour my skin off in the shower. Making out with those girls was… I don’t know…it just was. I did it, it was all right, but it’s not like I was dying to rip their clothes off and get inside them.”

  The way I’m dying to rip your clothes off and get inside you.

  I clench my teeth, annoyed with myself. Christ, enough. It’s not going to happen with Canning. I need to stop this.

  “Got it.” He nods, then tips his head. “Who does it for you, then? Like, what’s your type, looks-wise?”

  You. “Ah, I’m not picky.”

  We reach the corner pub, but he doesn’t make a move to open the door. He just lingers on the sidewalk and chuckles. “Really. So you’ll just stick your dick in anyone?”

  “No,” I concede. It feels so fucking weird discussing this with him. “I’m not crazy about twinks, I guess. I don’t like the whole scrawny, young boy vibe.”

  “So you like ’em big.” A broad grin fills his face as he winks at me. “So to speak.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, big’s a nice bonus. Tall, athletic, not too hairy—” That makes him snicker. “—and, I don’t know…” I start to laugh. “You seriously want to hear all this?”

  His eyes flash with hurt. “Why, because you’re talking about guys instead of girls? I already told you, I’m not some uptight prude who—”