“Just one picture?” one of the women cajoled.
“I—yeah, of course,” Saint said.
Both women immediately converged on him, plastering themselves up on either side of him and one of them lifting her phone.
Carmine hesitated. Should he step in? Saint caught his eye and shook his head just a fraction, then widened his smile for the camera. The shutter clicked, and Saint tried to step away, but the women tightened their grip on him.
“One more with my phone!”
The shutter clicked, then again, the women giggling over the results and still pressing up against Saint, their arms around his waist, and Carmine couldn’t take it anymore. He cleared his throat and stepped up to the counter next to the nearest woman, leaning over it to see the shopkeeper.
“Excuse me,” he said loudly. “The toilet in the back flooded. Like you wouldn’t believe, man. It’s all over the floor, and it’s coming this way. I think it’s on my shoes.” He gave the women a huge grin as they grimaced and let go of Saint to sidle away, and shook a foot in their direction. “Seriously, it’s a biohazard back there.”
The women took another step backward, lips curled in disgust, then turned as one and scuttled out the door.
Carmine dusted his hands off ceremoniously. “Works every time. Can we go now?”
Saint stared at him, lips twitching. That was fine—Carmine could handle being laughed at. What he didn’t want to see was the panic that had been in Saint’s eyes, and he was relieved to find it had faded, his color returning to normal as the shopkeeper swore and rushed for the back.
“I already paid,” Saint said when they were alone.
“What are we waiting for? Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Outside, Carmine tilted his face up to the sun’s rays and pushed his hands into his pockets. “Nice day,” he remarked. “Guess Oregon’s not so bad.”
“Not as good as Boston though, huh?”
“Well,” Carmine said. “Not sure anywhere’s as good as where you grow up, right? All that nostalgia and shit. What about you, where did you grow up?”
“Outside of Montreal, a small town about an hour north.”
“Habs fan?”
“Naturally. Were you born in Boston?”
“Nah, man, northern Washington. But Boston signed me right out of college. I really did grow up there.”
“I’m sorry.”
Carmine glanced at him. Saint was staring at the pavement as they walked, sunglasses firmly back in place.
“You should stop apologizing for stuff that’s not your fault.”
Saint’s mouth twisted. “You’re here because of me. It kind of is my fault.”
“I’m here because there wasn’t a place in Boston for me anymore,” Carmine said flatly, and ignored the knife that twisted in his heart at the memory of the GM sitting him down to tell him that. “Because I’m getting older and I’m slowing down and they don’t need an aging goon anymore.”
Saint jerked his head up, looking stricken. “That’s—that’s not true at all.”
Somehow, Carmine was able to summon a smile for him. “Sure it is, kid. Do your homework, it’s all there.”
Saint stopped walking. “We wanted you here. I did do my homework. I talked to the GM today while you were off with Roddy and Felix. He says we need you here. And after our practice this morning, I think he might be right.”
Carmine studied him for a minute. Saint’s mouth was set in a stubborn line but his eyes pleaded with Carmine to believe him, shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets again.
“Besides,” he continued. “You’re not old.”
“I know,” Carmine said, and his smile was genuine, somewhat to his own surprise. “But I am aging, and my best years are behind me.”
“No they’re not,” Saint said, chin jutting. “You’re what, twenty-seven?”
“Nearly thirty,” Carmine said dryly.
“Gordie Howe played until he was fifty-two,” Saint pointed out, and started walking again.
“Alas, I’m no Gordie,” Carmine sighed, falling into step beside him. “Or Jagr, for that matter. Although I could probably rock a mullet. What do you think?”
Saint’s lips twitched. “Listen, about back there—thank you.”
“Sure thing, kid,” Carmine said easily. “Some people don’t know what boundaries are.”
“It’s part of my job.” Saint’s voice was soft, low enough that Carmine had to strain to hear him. “I just—”
“Yeah, I know.” Carmine thought he was beginning to get it, somewhat—why Saint was so neurotic. He’d been able to control so little throughout his life, it made sense he’d cling desperately to what he could. If routines and rituals made him more comfortable, brought out those dimples Carmine had only seen a few times, and if keeping fans from overwhelming him helped, then he was a little startled at his own willingness to step up and help. “I’m hungry. Do you want to go to the store or a restaurant? My treat.”
Saint snorted a laugh, sidestepping a slower pedestrian. “Pretty sure I make more than you. I can pay.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” Carmine protested. “Besides, you don’t know where I was gonna take you.” He shot him a grin and headed for the nearest food truck. Behind him, Saint groaned but followed.
He ignored Saint’s protests and bought gyros for them both, overtipping the vendor with a wink, and they resumed their walk. Carmine unwrapped the top part of his gyro and took a huge bite, moaning happily at the mingled flavors of spiced lamb and tzatziki sauce on his tongue.
“‘Kay, the food’s not bad,” he said through his mouthful.
Beside him, Saint was eating in a much more restrained fashion, eyeing him with amusement.
“You just—go for it, don’t you?”
Carmine swallowed and wiped his mouth. “What do you mean?”
Saint lifted a shoulder and tore off a piece of flatbread, rolling it between his fingers. “You want something, you go for it. You see a problem, you say something. You don’t care what others think.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Carmine objected.
“Okay but….” Saint sighed and took a dainty bite, chewing and swallowing before he spoke again. “You still just do it. I don’t—” There went his shoulders again, up around his ears.
“You try being raised by two lesbians who were at every major political protest in the country and not being outspoken.” Carmine shrugged and took another bite. “My mouth gets me in trouble,” he said, garbling the words and enjoying Saint’s wince at his manners. “Maybe I should be more like you.”
“No.” Saint’s voice was sharp and final. “You don’t want that.” He lengthened his stride and Carmine hurried to catch up, swearing at himself for his blunder.
Saint was tense the rest of the way to the grocery store, but by the time they were inside, his posture was easing again. He grabbed a basket and raised his eyebrows at Carmine.
“Find you after?”
“Sounds good. No peanuts.” Carmine grinned at him, took a cart, and headed for the produce aisle.
He had some ideas about what he could cook, and he was pleased to find an excellent selection of fruits and vegetables. He took his time, browsing them all thoroughly before selecting the best ones. Then he moved on to the bakery section.
He saw Saint a few times as they worked their way around the store, but they didn’t stop to speak, although Carmine didn’t miss the dubious glances Saint threw at his basket every time they passed each other. Carmine just grinned and kept going.
They met up at the checkout as promised, and Saint leaned over Carmine’s basket to fish out a small bottle.
“Seriously,” he said, “what is this?”
“That, you cretin—” Carmine swiped the bottle from his hand. “— Is truffle oil, and I can’t believe you don’t even know what it is.”
“Well, what’s it for?”
Carmine rolled his eyes. “It. Tastes. Good,�
�� he said slowly and clearly, and Saint huffed a startled laugh and pushed his shoulder. Carmine barely even swayed, but he couldn’t help his smile as Saint turned to unpack the contents of his own basket onto the conveyor belt.
They opted for a car home, neither wanting to lug their bags onto public transit, but Carmine was dismayed to see that the driver recognized Saint. Sure enough, he launched into questions about the upcoming season before he’d pulled away from the curb, and Carmine watched helplessly as Saint’s shoulders notched higher and higher, even as he smiled and answered every question with gentle grace.
Halfway back to the house, Carmine couldn’t take it anymore, and he pulled out his phone. One quick text and two minutes later, Saint’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, murmuring an apology to the driver, and frowned at the display.
“You should answer it,” Carmine said. “Might be important.”
Saint shot him an unreadable look and hit the button. “Hello?” His eyebrows shot up and he turned away, looking out the window. “Um. Hi… Mom? Yeah… yeah. How are you?”
Carmine gazed out his own window, hiding his smile. Beside him, Saint asked questions and gave answers, keeping his voice low, until they got to the gates of the house.
Then he hung up and leaned forward to address the driver. “We can take it from here.”
The driver pouted—he’d clearly been hoping to get a look at Saint’s house—but parked in front and waited while Saint and Carmine unloaded the bags from the trunk and lugged them through the gates.
“We couldn’t have let him drive the extra hundred feet?” Carmine huffed as he struggled to balance everything.
“No one comes inside unless I know them,” Saint managed. His cheeks were bright red and he was out of breath.
Carmine rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.
“So,” Saint said as they put away groceries, “care to explain who exactly that was on the phone, the one claiming to be my mother?”
Carmine, head in the fridge, barked a laugh. “What’d she say?”
“She had some very interesting gardening tips for me.” Saint cocked a hip against the counter and raised an eyebrow. “So?”
“That was Lavender,” Carmine said, grinning. “And chances are you’ve been adopted.”
“You bailed me out,” Saint said. “Again.”
Carmine shrugged and took the salmon steaks out of the bag. They went in the meat drawer, on top of the chicken. The asparagus, celery, and turnips went into the vegetable drawer, and then he straightened, turning to face Saint, who was still watching him with dark eyes across the kitchen.
“It’s not a big deal,” Carmine said. “I saw a way to help, so I took it. Is that—” He hesitated. “Should I not have—”
“No, it was good,” Saint said. He worried at his lower lip. “I’m just… not used to it.”
“Felix and Roddy don’t step in?”
“They do,” Saint said hurriedly. “But no one’s ever thought to fake a phone call to get me out of talking to strangers. So… thank you.”
“No worries,” Carmine said. He picked up the rest of his groceries. “So I’m gonna put these away in my fridge, but I’ll make dinner for us if you want?”
Saint nodded, one side of his mouth tucking up into a smile. “See you then.”
5
He spent the rest of the afternoon watching game tape, curled up on the overstuffed sofa in his bland living room. He could hear Carmine moving around in his wing, doors opening and closing, but he didn’t come out. Saint reached for his phone several times, on the verge of asking if he wanted to join him, but stopped himself each time.
He doesn’t want to be here any more than you want him here, he told himself. He sure doesn’t want to spend more time with you.
Finally he shoved the phone between the cushions and focused on the television.
He was still there when Carmine emerged from his wing and padded into the living room, pausing to knock on the doorframe with a knuckle.
“I’m gonna start dinner,” he said. His eyes were sleepy and there was a crease in his cheek, like he’d been napping. He looked rumpled and soft, and Saint felt a tug of something he couldn’t identify, deep in his gut. “Are you busy or do you want to keep me company? You can help me chop veggies or something.”
Saint opened and closed his mouth. Carmine looked friendly and curious, as if he wasn’t upending Saint’s world by actively seeking out his company for something other than hockey.
“I’m not a very good cook,” he finally said.
“Can’t really fuck up chopping vegetables, unless you cut off a finger,” Carmine said, shrugging. “Come on.”
In the kitchen, Carmine pulled out his phone. Saint gave him the password and Carmine made short work of connecting the phone to the speakers. When the first notes sounded, Saint raised an eyebrow.
“Taylor Swift? Really?”
“Be nice,” Carmine said, unperturbed. He lifted the chopping board off its hook and set it on the counter beside Saint, then selected a knife from the block next to the sink. “She’s got good music and you can’t tell me you don’t sing along when you hear her on the radio.”
Saint glowered but said nothing.
Carmine snickered and retrieved the turnips from the fridge. “Peel these and then chop them into one to two inch chunks for me.”
They got to work in silence, Saint stealing glances at Carmine as he peeled. He moved with comfort and ease, at home in the space like he’d always lived there, even though he didn’t know where anything was.
“Big pot?” he asked.
Saint pointed with his knife and Carmine grunted thanks, pulling out Saint’s biggest stockpot.
“You said you don’t cook?” he asked as he filled it with water.
“I just never really understood the point, I guess,” Saint admitted. “I inevitably burn something or forget to set the timer or whatever, and I never know when things are done—you know how some people just sort of instinctively know?”
Carmine hummed, busy chopping potatoes.
“Well, I don’t have that. So it’s either underdone or dried to a husk. I eventually stopped trying because it’s not like I can’t afford to have food delivered.”
“You know what I’ve always wanted to try?” Carmine said abruptly. “One of those daily meal prep services. They deliver all the ingredients and all you have to do is put them together. Fresh, delicious, gourmet meals, and you don’t even have to go to the store.”
“They do that?” Saint peeled the last strip off the turnip and set it on the chopping block.
“Yeah, it’s pretty fucking convenient. Say what you want about this world, it’s nice to have options like that.” Carmine’s phone rang, interrupting the music, and he growled, setting down his knife. He hit answer with one knuckle and then speaker, raising a quick eyebrow at Saint, who nodded. “Hello?”
“Hello, my darling,” said a familiar voice. Saint knew that voice. She’d given him gardening tips for nearly ten minutes earlier that day. “How is my beautiful boy?”
“Mom,” Carmine said, sounding pained. “I’m nearly twenty-nine years old. Can you please stop talking to me like I’m nine?”
“Never,” Lavender said. “Am I on speaker?”
“Yes, and Saint is here,” Carmine said.
“Um, hi,” Saint said awkwardly.
“Saint, darling!” Lavender said. “How are you?”
“Not much different from when we talked two hours ago,” Saint said, amused. “Thank you for that, by the way.”
“Well, you’re certainly welcome, although I don’t know why it was necessary.”
“People think they’re all entitled to a piece of him,” Carmine interrupted. He was back to chopping potatoes and tossing them in the pot. “You saved him from a stressful conversation.”
“Then I’m very glad I could help. Carmine, love, when can we bring Steel to you and see your new city?”
C
armine raised his eyebrows at Saint.
“Oh,” Saint said, gathering his wits. “Um. Anytime? Carmine has a key.”
“Just a second, Mom.” Carmine rounded the counter and leaned in close. “You sure you’re okay with them being here?” he whispered, just low enough for Saint to hear.
It took Saint a minute to gather his thoughts.
He nodded, swallowing. “Yeah.” He kept his voice low. “I mean, they’re your parents. Of course it’s okay.”
Carmine’s eyes crinkled and Saint looked away, clearing his throat.
“This weekend, Mom?” Carmine asked, lifting his voice.
“Sounds good,” Lavender said. “Di’s got honey for you and we have housewarming gifts. I can’t wait to see you!”
“Tell Ma I love her,” Carmine said. A few more rounds of goodbyes and Carmine finally hung up. “Sorry about that.”
“For what, having a mother—two mothers—who love you?” Saint focused on getting the turnip cut just right. “You should never apologize for that.”
“Where are your parents?” Carmine asked.
“They have a farm outside Montreal,” Saint said.
“Do you get to see them a lot?”
“They come down for games when they can.” Drop it, Saint thought, and chopped the next turnip a little too aggressively.
Carmine didn’t seem to notice. “They must be proud of you.”
“Oh sure,” Saint said.
“Supported your hockey?”
“Of course,” Saint said, staring at the turnips. His throat was tight. Five years old, begging to be allowed to go inside where it was warm, his legs so tired they were shaking. His father folding his arms, that familiar forbidding scowl in place. “Run the drill again. Unless you don’t want to play in the NHL.”
Saint’s knife slipped and he swore, dropping it. He watched in slow motion as blood welled from his thumb and dripped onto the turnips.
Then Carmine was there, grabbing his wrist. “What happened?”
Roughing Page 5