Shots on Goal (Stick Side Book 3)

by Amy Aislin

  Roman scowled his reply and turned back to Eileen.

  You could tell a lot about a person simply by observing them, and after three and a half years as a psychology major, Cody Evans was very good at reading body language.

  And although he most likely thought otherwise, Roman Kinsey broadcasted his feelings so loudly they might as well have been written in ink.

  He barely glanced up from the book in his lap as he read—uncomfortable.

  He sat in the chair, shoulders curled—defensive.

  He ran a hand over his shaved head when someone spoke to him—nerves.

  He scowled at Cody in response to his friendly smile and wave—disinterest.

  Or, more accurately, feigned disinterest. Cody had caught Roman checking him out. Not in an I-wanna-do-you way; more in a who-the-hell-are-you kind of way.

  And now, as Roman finished up his conversation with Eileen, keeping his part to short one-sentence answers—“Yes, ma’am.” “Yes, I’m enjoying Vermont so far.” “Yes, the climate’s much different.”—his feet pointed toward the exit and he slowly inched his way out of the children’s section. He looked like he needed about twenty-four people-free hours.

  The walls of the children’s section were painted a cheery yellow, and the carpet was a vibrant red. There was a kid-sized table, colorful kid-sized chairs, a rainbow-patterned canopy above foam playmats, and hanging from the ceiling were paper snowflakes the kids had made at the pre-Christmas craft event last month. In the lively space, Roman Kinsey stuck out like a flannel-wearing guest at a black-tie gala.

  Cody knew about Roman Kinsey, of course. He had a few friends on Roman’s old NHL team, and whenever they mentioned him by name, it was followed by “Kinsey’s an asshole.” Cody had never met the guy, though, and he was disinclined to believe his friends until he formed his own opinion.

  Because Roman might look like an asshole with his shaved head, dark stubble, perpetual frown, tattooed right arm, and defensive posture, but what others saw as doesn’t give a shit about anything, Cody recognized as lonely and mistrustful. He had a best friend who’d hid behind a mask for years; he recognized the signs.

  Maybe he was way off the mark, but he was willing to give Roman the benefit of the doubt.

  Eileen led Roman over to him. Cody straightened from his slouch against a bookshelf and grinned, an odd little thrill shooting through his bones when Roman’s eyes—a light olive-green color—squinted in challenge.

  Getting to know Roman Kinsey was going to be all kinds of interesting.

  “Mr. Kinsey, this is Cody Evans,” Eileen said. “Cody’s one of our part-timers and he’ll be running Tiny Tot Storytime on the Tuesdays you’re unable to make it.”

  Roman nodded once. “Thanks.” It was so grudging that Cody’s smile widened.

  Roman’s lips pinched.

  Holding out a hand, Cody said, “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Kinsey.”

  “It’s just Kinsey. Or Roman. Whatever.” His voice was pitched low, almost rough from thirty minutes of reading aloud.

  “Which do you prefer?”

  Something flickered across his face, and his hand jerked in Cody’s before he pulled back. “Roman’s fine.”

  “Let me grab your things from the staff lounge, Mr. Kinsey,” Eileen said with a pat on his arm.

  “Oh no, I can . . .”

  But Eileen was already walking away, her old lady loafers with the buckle on the side silent on the carpet. Leaving Cody alone with Roman Kinsey. He bit the inside of his lip to conceal a grin.

  Roman parked his butt against the hip-high bookshelf and crossed his arms. Silent. So, not one to fill awkward silence with inane chatter then. Cool. Except Cody, for some reason he couldn’t name, itched to get him talking.

  “Good game last night,” he said.

  That startled Roman, surprise crossing his features before he schooled them again. “We lost.”

  “Only by one point, and you guys put up a hell of a fight. And Mr. Hannigan was right, you know.” Cody jerked his chin toward Mr. Hannigan, trailing his twin boys out the door. “Ritz is a left shooting center.” Meaning that on rushes down the ice, he tended to pass to his right winger more often than his left winger. “And you’re now the strongest right winger on the team. You really would be well-matched. Oh, and Mr. Mulligan’s right too—you guys really do need more shots on goal.”

  Surprise crossed Roman’s face again, and this time it stayed there. “You know hockey?”

  Cody shrugged. “Some. My best friend’s a left winger on our college hockey team.” Some was an understatement; he’d been watching Mitch play since first grade and had picked up a thing or two or twenty.

  “His team any good?”

  “They made it to the Frozen Four championship last year but lost to Boston College, 4-3,” Cody said with some pride. His best friend was an amazing player, and that wasn’t bias talking. “Right now they’re second in their division.”

  “Huh.” Roman rubbed his jaw. “I didn’t expect this tiny town’s tiny college to have that much of a claim to fame.”

  “There’s more to Vermont than the lumbersexual.”

  Roman’s cheeks went ruddy as though he had—as Cody suspected—associated Vermont with fall colors, country roads, the Green Mountains, flannel, man buns, and the ubiquitous lumbersexual. Waving a hand at the remaining parents, Roman said, “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  Cody followed his gaze, and yeah, okay, there were a lot of bearded men in plaid.

  Roman’s gaze fell back onto Cody. “You’re the most flamboyant thing in here.”

  “Yeah, well.” Cody smoothed the front of his form-fitting, teal-colored polo shirt. “You know what they say—if you’ve got it, flaunt it.”

  As if he was fighting against a smile, Roman’s lips twitched before they lifted into a grin accompanied by a snort of laughter. Not laughing at Cody, but joining in on the joke. The smile transformed his face, banishing the broody loner and transforming him into an approachable hottie. Cody’s demisexuality meant he wasn’t easily—or often—sexually attracted to others, but he wasn’t blind—he could appreciate a good-looking person and Roman was most definitely that. And then some. Jesus, that smile . . .

  Eileen returned with Roman’s coat—a thin, hip-length windbreaker. “Here you are.”

  Roman accepted it with a closed-mouth smile.

  “You’ll want something heavier than that to make it through the rest of the winter,” Eileen said as Roman shrugged into his coat.

  “Yes,” he said. That was it. No explanation. Although granted—he’d only arrived from Tampa yesterday and had likely been busy doing team . . . stuff. Whatever a newly traded player did other than read to children.

  Roman zipped his coat and stepped away.

  Cody gave him a two-finger salute. “Good to meet you, Roman. Good luck against Montreal tomorrow.”

  Roman nodded once, shoved his hands in his coat pockets, and edged past Cody.

  “Hey, Roman.”

  He paused next to the checkout counter and turned halfway, eyebrow raised in question.

  “My friend’s team has a home game this Friday. If you’re around.”

  “Maybe,” Roman said and was out the door a moment later.

  Eileen turned to Cody. “That went well, I think.”

  “Yeah.” He was still staring at the door, as if he could see Roman’s shape through it, walking down the stairs and along the paved path between the gardens to the parking lot. What was it about Roman Kinsey that made him want to chase after him and invite him for pizza?

  “Come on.” She brushed past him. “I’ll help you in the attic.”

  “What?” Tearing his gaze away from the front door, he caught up to her near the stairwell tucked behind the M-Z non-fiction section. “No, no. I got it.”

  “Are you sure? Am I working you too hard?” Her eyebrows pulled together. “Yesterday you didn’t even come down for your fifteen-minute break.”
r />   Yesterday he’d come across an old Agatha Christie novel and gotten sucked into the story. But he wasn’t paid to read and had stayed an extra hour last night and arrived early this evening to make up for it. “Oh. I was so focused. On my work. Lost track of time.” He shot her a smile. “You know how it is.”

  “I do.” She patted him on the arm. “Don’t forget to eat something today.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  In the attic, there were boxes and boxes and boxes of books that had been donated over the years. Special editions, mass-market paperbacks, classics, books older than him, some that were falling apart, others in perfect condition. His task was to sort through them and compare them against the library’s catalog to determine which ones they should add to their shelves, which ones were so badly damaged they weren’t worth keeping, and which ones could be donated to other libraries, community centers, nursing homes, or schools. Instead of finding it tedious and annoying, Cody found that the work made him feel like he was accomplishing something.

  That, and an organized catalog just made him happy. Organization for the win!

  The attic was dank and smelled like wet wood. Cobwebs decorated the rafters of the old 1870 Victorian. The house had been renovated and converted into a library in the 1980s but had held onto its character. Every time Cody came in the front door, he half expected to see a ghost, but sadly, the library didn’t have a reputation for being haunted. Still, outside of the townhouse he shared with Mitch off campus, the library was his favorite place.

  Taking a seat at the folding table, he booted up the ancient laptop loaded with the library’s catalog that Eileen had loaned him. While he waited, he unfolded the letter that had come in the mail for him today and that he already had mostly memorized.

  Dear Mr. Evans,

  Your application to the Masters in Library and Information Science for September entry has been received. Thank you for choosing . . .

  Blah, blah, blah. He went to the end.

  Please allow six to eight weeks for a decision to be made concerning your application.

  Six to eight weeks of waiting. And, if he was accepted, in two years he’d be equipped to work in any library he wanted as something other than a book sorter or occasional shelver. He’d be surrounded by books to his heart’s content.

  Let the countdown begin.

  At 6:45 the next morning, Cody was contorted into the one-legged pigeon pose II as he finished up his daily morning yoga in the living room. Right knee bent in front of him, the other leg stretched behind him and bent at the knee, perpendicular to the floor, he reached back and grasped his toes, arching his torso backward to bring the crown of his head against the flat of his foot. Inhaling, stretching out his throat, chest, abdomen, and thighs, he tried to clear his mind, but as was the case for many a college student, he was already thinking ahead to the assignments and readings he needed to complete for the end of the week. A major in psychology was no laughing matter; if he wasn’t buried in course reading, he was writing an assignment, and if he wasn’t doing that, he was conducting research for one.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs seconds before his best friend and roommate trotted into the kitchen attached to the living room, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, his curly brown hair in every direction.

  “Hey,” Mitch said, heading for the fridge.

  “Hey. Missed you last night.” Mitch had been mysteriously absent when Cody arrived home from the library and still hadn’t returned by the time he went to bed.

  “Yeah. One of the freshmen on the team needed calculus tutoring.”

  Cody grunted and let his leg fall onto the mat, then repositioned himself into downward dog, listening to the sounds of Mitch gathering ingredients for their morning smoothies. “You won’t believe who I met yesterday.”

  “One of the Teletubbies?”

  Unexpected laughter burst out of Cody’s chest. “Try again.”

  “A unicorn of the sea?”

  “A . . . what?”

  “A narwhal. They’re known as the unicorns of the sea.”

  The fuck was a narwhal? “No, I didn’t meet a sea creature in the middle of Vermont, you weirdo.”

  “Who then?”

  “Roman Kinsey.”

  “What?” A thud and then, “Fuck,” and Cody twisted his head, spotting the tub of peanut butter rolling toward him before Mitch picked it up. “How? Where? Why?”

  “Roman Kinsey. In the library. With the books!”

  “Okay, Colonel Mustard. Why was he actually there?”

  “He’s volunteering for Tiny Tot Storytime.”

  “Kinsey? Volunteering?”

  Cody lifted an arm to stare at his best friend. “Why do you say that like he’s never volunteered before? Didn’t he volunteer to help fix up the community center that got hit by the hurricane in Tampa in ’09?”

  “Well, sure, but . . .” Mitch trailed off and added raspberries to the blender. “Why’s he in Glen Hill, though? Aren’t there any libraries in Burlington that would take him?”

  “Dunno. Didn’t ask.” Lowering himself onto his knees, Cody sat his butt on his ankles and curled forward into child’s pose.

  “You do know he’s an asshole?”

  “I’m not sure that’s true. I think you guys just haven’t bothered to look below the surface. And really, you should know better.”

  The sound of the blender whirring answered Cody, Mitch’s attempt to buy himself a minute to respond. Mitch knew what it was like to hide behind a carefully constructed mask, only letting in a few carefully vetted people. Cody recognized that same mask on Roman, that same reticence to trust, and that same desire to keep everyone at arm’s length. They went about it differently—Mitch by pretending to be everyone’s genial best friend and Roman by retreating into himself. But maybe that was what made Cody want to know him better. He was certain there was more to Roman Kinsey than he’s an asshole.

  Cody lifted an arm and searched for Mitch, finding him leaning back against the counter while the blender worked. He had his phone in hand, thumbs moving, a goofy smile on his face. It was the same goofy smile that Cody had loved from the moment he’d punched a bully for Mitch in kindergarten, the moment that had cemented their friendship. No doubt he was currently texting with his boyfriend. Fiancé, actually—Alex had proposed over Christmas.

  The blender stopped at the same time as the toaster popped up with a click. Mitch put his phone away to deal with their breakfast and still didn’t respond, so Cody resumed child’s pose and said, “You know, the only person who doesn’t call Roman an asshole is your brother.” Mitch’s brother, Dan, was dating one of Roman’s former teammates.

  Mitch made a sound like air escaping through pursed lips. “Dan’s an idiot.” He said it with brotherly affection.

  “Not arguing. But he’s as picky with his friends as you are, and if he considers Roman one of them, there’s gotta be a reason for that.”

  “Maybe.” Mitch’s footsteps came closer; a few seconds later, the sound of items being deposited onto the coffee table next to Cody—his morning smoothie and toast with Cheez Whiz.

  “Thanks, man.”

  Mitch gave him a friendly nudge with his foot. “I got peanut butter on the counter.”

  “No worries, I got it.” They’d had the same routine for three and a half years—Mitch made them breakfast before practice and Cody cleaned up after him.

  “I’m heading to practice. Be back at eight thirty to pick you up for class.”

  “Cool. Have a good one.”

  A rustle behind him—Mitch pulling on his winter gear and grabbing his equipment bag—a clink of keys, and he was gone, the door shutting quietly behind him.

  Cody stayed in child’s pose and contemplated his yoga mat in the ensuing silence. Contemplated Mitch’s goofy grin. It reminded him of his mom’s when she was on the phone or texting with his dad.

  Mitch and Alex’s long-distance relationship of two years was nothing compared to Cody’s
parents. His mom was a manager at a spa resort on Long Island; his dad was career military and had been stationed at one army post after another throughout Cody’s entire life, most recently in Texas. Cody knew his father about as well as he knew his advanced research in psychology professor—not at all. To hear his mother talk, his parents were happily married despite living across the country from each other and much money spent on flights back and forth for brief visits. But what Cody saw was a mom whose smile dimmed and who obsessively checked her phone when his dad went too long with no contact. Tentative peeks out the window whenever a car came up their driveway. Anxious middle of the night cleaning when his dad was deployed. A porch light that was always on in case he showed up in the middle of the night.

  She’d tried to hide it. To put on a too-wide everything’s-fine smile Cody had always seen through, until he’d asked her to please stop lying to him. She must have deemed him old enough at the wise age of ten because she’d said, “I’m worried because your daddy isn’t someplace safe right now.” And so her fear had become Cody’s, and until his dad had put in enough years that he was no longer deployed, they’d worried for his safety together, Cody struggling to reconcile the fact that his dad was out there trying to keep other people safe but couldn’t make time to visit him for Christmas.

  It was a selfish thought, the self-indulgence of youth. What it came down to now was that Cody and his dad barely knew each other.

  Peter Evans had an important job; Cody had always known that. But that didn’t mean he’d never felt like his dad wasn’t leaving him behind for something more important.

  Roman stood outside the doors of the workout room in Burlington’s spiffy new Sport U Arena and blew out a puff of air. Team spirit. He could do this. Just because his so-called friends on his major junior team had dumped him after he’d been outed didn’t mean these guys would too. Nevertheless, he’d keep his sexuality to himself, just in case. There was safety in secrets. Outing himself meant losing everything, and he wasn’t going down that path again.