For a second, I think he’s gonna stonewall me, but then he straightens his shoulders and looks me in the eye. “You and Johnny. I heard you guys were close, and seeing you together… I misinterpreted things. My bad.”
Ah. O…kay. So he thinks… he thought me and Johnny… what, now it’s obvious that I’ve been thinking about my best friend that way?
Suddenly, I’m wishing I hadn’t pushed quite so hard, because yeah… yep. Yes, fine, I will admit in the privacy of my own head that there are certain… thoughts there. And I’ve even thought about maybe sharing those thoughts with Johnny at some point. I’ve just… well, guess I’ve just continued to chicken the fuck out, even after he blew my mind by kicking the ass of his own biggest fear with that jump.
But since then, things have just been so good with the three of us that I haven’t wanted to rock the boat.
Haven’t wanted to risk it.
That whole “what’s the best that can happen” scenario I was on fire with a few weeks ago? Somehow that voice got quieter the longer I waited, and now what’s the worst that can happen is back, loud and proud and telling me daily that the worst that could happen would be really, really bad.
The worst is why I backed off the first ten thousand times it could have come up.
The worst is losing Johnny, and I just… I can’t.
Asher’s still looking at me, all cautious-like, waiting for me to rip his head off for daring to assume I might not be as straight as I’ve always thought I was.
I clear my throat. “Me and Johnny… we’ve known each other forever.”
“Okay,” he says, clearly still on high alert, looking at me like I’m a cornered animal or some bullshit.
“We’re best friends.”
“Yep, I got that,” Asher says.
But he doesn’t, because I’m not saying it right. Of course Johnny’s my best friend, but he’s a hell of a lot more than that, too.
“We’ve lived together since forever. I mean, he was always over anyway, growing up, and then as soon as we moved out after high school, it was me and him. Him and me. The two of us. We’re roommates. Always have been.”
Asher nods.
“And this job, you know, we went through the Academy together. Been on the job together since day one.”
“Okay,” Asher repeats, irritating the fuck out of me for some reason.
It’s like he keeps agreeing with what I’m saying, but something about the way he’s looking at me makes it feel like he’s just humoring me, if that makes any sense.
Which no, it does not, which is probably why it’s pissing me the fuck off all of a sudden.
“Me and Johnny, we get each other is what I’m saying,” I tell him. “Whatever you think you see, it’s because we are close. Like family. He’s like—”
Jesus, suddenly I’m sweating. That phrase he’s like a brother to me sounds so fitting, right?
Except it’s not.
I can’t make myself say it.
I’m not… not thinking of him like a brother. Not lately.
I clear my throat. “The thing is, you’re right about us being close,” I tell Asher, suddenly feeling like I’m repeating myself. Did I already say that? But for some reason, I need to make him understand. “It’s just that we’re… we’re—”
Asher holds up his hand, and I snap my mouth closed gratefully.
“Really, it’s okay,” he says, lowering his voice.
And what the actual fuck? Now he’s actually looking at me like maybe he’s… what? Pitying me? Sorry for me? Some kind of sympathy, anyway.
“I’ll leave it alone, Lopez,” he says, and now we’re back to that? Wasn’t I just Matt a second ago? “I’m not going to ou—not going to say anything, okay? It’s not my business. I shouldn’t have pushed.”
I open my mouth. There’s nothing to say is what I mean to tell him. Instead, what comes out is—
“Maybe I need a push.”
Asher’s eyebrows shoot straight up to his hairline.
Oshit. Why the hell did I say that? Well, I mean, other than the fact that it’s one hundred percent true. Because, what, I’m just supposed to… supposed to have all these feelings and go the rest of my entire fucking life hiding them from Johnny and everyone else? How’s that gonna work out?
Not very well, is my guess.
Pretty fucking miserable, might be another way to say it.
Oh, Jesus, I’m fucked, amirite?
“You mentioned, um, a girlfriend,” Asher says after a minute, sounding like he’s picking and choosing every word carefully. “And I don’t know how that will, um, affect things—”
“It won’t be a problem.”
“O…kay. Well, uh, then I guess, if you’re looking for, um, a push…?”
“Asher, Jesus, just spit it out. You’re killing me here.”
He laughs, running a hand through his hair as some of the tension eases out of him. “Okay, well, look Matt, I don’t really know you, but can I just say that gaydar is a real thing?”
“Oh Christ. It is genetic.”
He gives me an odd look. “I don’t know about that, but all I meant is that you and Johnny… I just don’t think it’s going to be a problem, from what I’ve seen. Assuming we’re talking about the same thing, and it’s him that you—”
“It’s him.”
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, did I actually just say that out loud?
Asher grins, and you know what? The world fails to end. My chest even feels lighter, like the tight band of pressure that was building and building when I was trying to explain me and Johnny to him without just coming out and saying what’s real has suddenly disappeared.
“It’s him,” I say again, grinning like a fucking fool. “Not sure when that happened, or, uh, you know, why, but yeah. It’s… I want that. Johnny. I want Johnny like… like that.”
Eloquent I am not, but it still feels kinda awesome. A little bit terrifying, but mostly awesome.
Asher laughs, face lighting up from the inside out like he’s feeling the awesome too—even though I don’t know why he’d care about me and mine—and then I’m laughing right along with him. Not funny-laughing so much as just… relief.
Happiness.
Butterflies in my fucking stomach over Johnny, which is both the dumbest and truest thing I’ve ever felt.
Weird that this moment is with Asher, a virtual stranger, but also… nice. It feels good to finally share this thing I’ve been wrestling with out loud with someone. And on the heels of that thought? Guess it’s obvious, yeah? It’s probably time to stop being such a pussy—
Uh, chicken. I mean stop being such a chicken, because fine, given what I’m admitting about myself and also who I… who I love, maybe I shouldn’t use that word as a put-down any more than gay, amirite?
Anyway, point being, it’s time to man up and tell the right someone.
And pray like hell that Asher is right.
19
Johnny
I love overnight shifts. I fucking love them. I don’t know why—maybe it’s just that need to be on for a full twenty-four, it suits me, you know? And yeah, yeah, of course we sleep, but even sleeping is with a sort of underlying awareness that we might have to be up operating at full throttle at any moment.
But right now?
Matty and I are twenty hours into what has got to be hands down the deadest, dullest, most profoundly boring 24-hour shift of my entire life. Nothing is happening, has happened, or looks like it will happen.
Nada.
Zip.
Zilch.
It’s driving me out of my fucking mind.
“For the love of God, go to sleep, Johnson,” Jimmy says for the five-hundredth time, rolling over in his crash bed and stuffing a pillow over his head.
“I am sleeping, bro,” I remind him, folding my hands under my head and staring up into the darkness. “Like I was saying, it’s un-fucking-believable that Chara’s in his forties. He’s gotta be, what, twice a
s old as half the squad? But get him on the ice—”
A pillow lands on my face, thrown by I don’t know who, and someone mutters something blasphemous about not giving two shits about the Bruins.
I remove the pillow from my face. “I’m just saying, there’s a reason he’s the captain, you know? And after Tampa Bay—”
“Shut up, Johnny.” I think that one’s Bill. “If you can’t turn it off, go hit the weights again.”
“Dude, it’s the middle of the night,” I say, sitting up on the crash bed. And for real, normally? No one would be trying to sleep during a twenty-four. There’s a reason we’ve got a big-screen TV in the break room. Tonight, though, between the unrelenting heat outside and the mind-numbing quietude of this shift, the guys are all acting like they’re actually trying to, you know, rest.
“Come on, bro,” Matty says, rolling out of the bed next to me and tugging at my arm. “Let’s leave these puss—uh, these guys in peace, yeah?”
“Sure,” I say, following him out and thanking God yet again for having blessed me with the good fortune to get Matty for a best friend instead of one of those knuckleheads. And of course thinking of Matty makes me think of Eden, because come on now, you wanna talk about blessed? Not sure how I ended up with these two people to come home to every night, but it makes life pretty close to perfect, you know? Of course, thinking of Eden also makes me horny, and since there’s nothing to be done about that for another few hours, that’s a little less than perfect, but hey, no complaints.
Well, maybe one complaint.
Matty’s walking ahead of me in the darkened hallway, and fuck… me. Even in the dark, or maybe especially in the dark, he gets to me.
Don’t get me wrong, I love all Eden’s softness and lush curves. Like, really love them. But there’s something about the hard lines and thick muscles of a man’s body—okay, who am I trying to fool here? of Matty’s body—that gets me going just as hard.
Can’t do anything about that complaint though, either.
All signs have been pointing to a total shutdown from Matty, despite the hope I had a few weeks ago that things might go a different direction between us, and am I disappointed? Fuck yeah, I am. And am I still fantasizing about just grabbing him and showing him how good we could be pretty much every other waking moment? Affirmative the Second. But am I that fucking stupid that I’d actually act on that fantasy after making it through my whole damn life up until this point by keeping that shit in check? No, I am not, thank you very much, so looks like once again, I’ll just have to channel this particular brand of excess energy in another direction.
I grab Matty’s arm, swinging him around to face me and jerking my head in the direction of the weight room. “Come on, bro.”
And yeah, yeah, I know I’ve already hit it twice this shift and muscles need rest and all, but I’m so wired that I figure it will be the lesser of evils, you know?
“Oh, hell no,” Matt says, the white of his teeth flashing at me in the dark as he grins. “You trying to kill me, Eugene?” He holds up his right arm—sad, skinny little thing that it’s become—and even though I can’t see him all that well, I’ll bet anything I’ve got that he’s giving me that wheedling puppy-dog look of his. “I’ve already put in my time there today. What happened to oh, but I just can’t lift any more heavy weights with my big manly muscles, Bill, because it’s the middle of the night and I need my beauty sleep to stay so beautifullllllllll?”
I raise one eyebrow and cross my arms.
Really? Was that supposed to be me, or a Disney Princess on crack?
Matty’s muffling his laugh behind his hand and ignoring my stink-eye, apparently under the impression that he’s hilarious, so I finally drop the pose and just roll my eyes, restraining myself from pointing out that his skills do not lie in comedic impressions.
You see how much I love the guy?
“Fine, but I’m not binge watching any more American Chopper,” I tell him, putting my foot down. “I don’t know how Bill got you hooked on that shit—”
“I was stuck at home for two months,” he interjects, whining like the big baby he secretly is under that hot-as-fuck exterior.
“You were stuck at home with Eden,” I remind him, wrapping my hand around the back of his neck and pressing our foreheads together. “And dude, with her there? I’d think you’d want to have put in a little more time on the chill side of the Netflix-and-Chill equation, you know?”
“Oh, I put in my time,” he says, laughing low and dirty. “I’m the king of… chill.”
Of course my cock sits up and takes notice when he sounds like that, so I let go of him quick and scramble for something to say that won’t make me think about sex. I come up with—
“Besides, you were only laid up for seven weeks, not two months.”
“July and August. Count ’em and weep.”
“August ain’t over.”
“Closer to done than started.”
“It’s the twentieth.”
“You’re making my point for me.”
“Your point was two months, which I’m pointing out is an exaggeration.”
I wait, but he’s got nothing, because I’m right.
“Fuck you,” he finally says, proving my point.
See? Nothing. I grin. Because please, fuck you? Those two words might as well be a big-ass neon sign that reads Johnny Just Owned My Ass.
We’ve both been keeping our voices down out of respect for Sleeping Beauty and her entourage back there, and suddenly—like him and me are some kind of hive mind or something—we’re both laughing, the kind that hurts. The kind that wants to bust out and fill the room, but which you’ve gotta keep in check out of, like I said, respect for those kindergartners who think four a.m. should be nap time.
All that laughter gets stifled inside, and it’s like one of those contained explosions, like the ab workout from hell, like a hockey fight inside your body, complete with sticks.
Matty pokes a finger into my ribs to torture me, and I snort and then choke as I try not to be too loud… which just makes him laugh harder… which hurts my fucking abs even more, because he’s doing it almost silently and looks hilarious, like anyone who didn’t know what was going on would consider giving him the Heimlich, you know?
“Quit it,” I gasp out, which makes him go from silent to full-volume before he gets it under control again.
“You—” he wheezes, leaning on me, “—quit… it.”
I’m trying, but oh my God, he’s gonna give me a cramp.
Every time he snickers it sets me off again, and I finally get proactive and slap my hand over his mouth.
“Shut up, Matty,” I manage, which hurts like a bitch to even get out, because my abs are now on fire.
“You shut up,” he says… which I only know because I can feel his lips move and know every single retort he will ever make.
I mean, not that the majority of them are all that original, but I’m just saying, it’s not like something’s going to suddenly come out of Matty’s mouth at this point that shocks me after all these years; not like whatever he’s mumbling behind my hand is some kind of huge reveal, where the heavens part and choirs of angels play those long-ass trumpets to announce A New Revelation while a shaft of golden light spears down and spotlights him like some kind of Ice Capades solo act or whatever.
And yes, I occasionally watch old Ice Capades shows on cable, so sue me.
I’m about to make a comment about that in reference to the Bruins’ season, because hello, they both involve skating and yes, I can tie them together, but then suddenly I’m still trying not to laugh and Matty’s just flat-out not laughing, and my eyes are well enough adjusted to the dark now that I can tell he’s giving me a really weird look over the top of my hand, too, so I table the Ice Capades reference for later, drop my hand, and back off, my pulse suddenly racing with nerves that I will never in a million years admit to.
Guess I don’t always know what he’s about to say,
because I missed the bit where we went from having fun to whatever’s making him suddenly get all still and quiet-like.
“What?” I whisper, my heart rate still in overdrive for no good reason that I can point to.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head and making this weird little sound that I shit you not, I feel. I don’t even know what to call that sound, but I feel it in my chest, and fuck the dark. I mean, I can see him well enough to like, make out general humanoid features, but not enough to see him, you know?
Not enough to have a single fucking clue what that weird-ass sound actually meant.
“Oh, shit,” I say, my heart shriveling up and dying in a single instant as it hits me. “Matty. All that weirdness when you… when you came back from that appointment with Doc Holloway a few weeks ago. Did he give you bad news? Do you… do you have a brain tumor? Did he confirm it when he took your cast off?”
I can’t believe Matty wouldn’t have fucking just told me.
How could he have kept it from me?
From me? I fucking love him.
“What the fuck?” Matty says, clutching himself around the middle as he busts out laughing again. “Of course I don’t have a brain tumor. What the hell, Johnny? How would… like, if I did, how would Doc Holloway even have caught it from x-raying my arm?”
That one stops me in my tracks, and it’s actually a very good point. My poor, dead, shriveled heart re-animates, but not in a disgusting Walking Dead way, and I punch Matt in the shoulder, hard.
“Well, quit it then. Jesus, Matty, you scared the shit out of me.”
He goes for wide-eyed and innocent. “What did I do?”
“You got weird.”
“You got weird.”
“I was—”
Before I can defend myself, because hello, that had totally been him, not me, Jimmy pops his head out into the hall.
“Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the Saints who are right now at this very moment turning over in their beds because they can’t fucking sleep with you two yapping at each other,” Jimmy whisper-yells at us. “Will you two please get the fuck away from this doorway so the rest of us can get some fucking sleep?”
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