by Amy Aislin
Mitch was grinning like a moron, but in short order, the smile slipped off his face and his eyes pinched with concern. “I always thought he was straight.”
“Yeah,” Cody said on a sigh. “I think he might not be, but . . . I don’t know.”
“How are you going to figure it out?”
“No fucking clue.”
Cotton had wanted Italian wedding soup. His face had lit up like Roman was handing him the Stanley Cup instead of a Tupperware container when Roman had passed it to him before their event this evening. And then Zanetti had asked for roasted red pepper. Roman had no idea what his expression had said in answer, but Zanetti had taken two steps back with a muttered “Never mind” and fled to the other side of the locker room.
Jesus. So sensitive, these guys. Every step forward with them was matched with what felt like a zillion steps back. Truth was, he was happy to make anybody any kind of soup. He liked cooking. But apparently surprise registered across his face as a firm hell no.
Reaching both arms over his head, he grabbed a fistful of his green Trailblazers-branded hoodie and pulled it over his head before flinging it into his cubby in the locker room of the Sport U Arena. Then he sat on the bench, left foot planted on the seat next to him, drew up the leg of his trousers, and scratched at the nagging, persistent itch that made him want to claw his skin off.
“Hey, man.” Honeybun, still not looking quite one hundred percent but leaps and bounds better than when he’d fallen off a stationary bicycle, sat next to him.
Roman squinted at him. “Are you wearing concealer?”
Honeybun poked at the skin under his eyes. “You should see my bags, man. I could fucking sleep in them. Miranda wouldn’t let me in front of the cameras without makeup.” Miranda was one of their media relations coordinators. Honeybun pitched his voice higher. “‘You look like a zombie; you’ll scare the children.’”
Tonight’s event had been in support of the local women’s shelter, and many of the women had kids, which the team’s engagement coordinators had anticipated. They’d had kids’ ice skates in various sizes ready, as well as kid-sized hockey sticks, helmets, and padding, and they’d skated around pylons, learned a few basic stickhandling moves, and taken turns shooting the puck into the net. Roman and his team had signed autographs, given away swag, taken selfies, interviewed for the many television stations in attendance, and taught little kids how to keep the puck from getting away from them.
Given that the Trailblazers were still such a new team—and that they were last in the conference—Roman was surprised by the media turnout. Grateful, though, for the spotlight on the shelter.
“How are you feeling?” he asked Honeybun. “You look a little less like a corpse.”
“Heh. You’re a riot, Kinsey.” Honeybun was smiling as he said it. “I’m better, thanks. My lungs aren’t rattling anymore, but the cough is lingering and I’m tired all the time. It’s nice to get out of the house, though. Anyway. I wanted to say thanks for the soup. It’s the only thing I’ve eaten for the past few days.”
“Didn’t even leave me any,” Ritz grumbled, walking past them to sit on Honeybun’s other side.
Honeybun’s grin held no shame. “It was fucking awesome soup. There was lemon in there, wasn’t there?”
“Yup,” Roman said.
“What are you doing?” Honeybun finally seemed to have caught on to the fact that Roman had scratched angry welts into his shin.
“This fucking state.” With one last scratch, he lowered his pant leg and set his foot on the ground. “It’s so damn dry that everything itches.” Even his damn asscheeks itched, especially for the hour after getting out of the shower.
“Here.” Rising, Honeybun went to his own cubby not far from Roman’s, reached onto the top shelf, grabbed something, and threw it underhand to Roman. “This’ll help.”
“What is it?” Far as Roman could tell, it was a small, clear glass jar, like the type found at beauty counters in department stores. Whatever was inside it was a milky white.
“Body lotion. Put it on when you get out of the shower. It’ll help with the dryness and itchiness.”
“He makes it,” Ritz piped in absentmindedly from where he sat in front of his own cubby, cell phone in hand.
Roman blinked up at Honeybun. “You made this?”
“Sure,” Honeybun said with a shrug. He removed his own hoodie and hung it in his cubby, leaving him in charcoal trousers and a lavender dress shirt. “I also make soaps and cleansers and other moisturizers. Shampoo too. I’m gonna try toners next.”
“The fuck is toner?”
“Give him your card,” Ritz said.
“Oh, right.” Honeybun went fishing for something else in his cubby. A second later, he was thrusting a business card in Roman’s direction. Nature’s Honey, the card read, and below that, All-natural skincare. There was a website listed, but nothing else.
Impressed, Roman eyed Honeybun over the card. “You sell your stuff online?”
“Yeah. Not a lot, though. Natural skincare is a pretty competitive market, but I sell enough to keep me busy.”
“Nature’s Honey,” Roman murmured.
“I wanted to call it Honey For Your Money, but Ritz vetoed it.”
“It was a little too on the ball,” Ritz said, a smile in his voice as he put his phone away and started dressing in his winter gear.
Roman twisted the lid off the jar and gave the lotion a sniff. “Smells like a candy cane.” He wasn’t sure how he felt about smelling like a holiday confection, but if it helped with the itchiness, he’d swim in the damn thing.
“Yeah, Ritz got me a bunch of essential oils for Christmas and I’ve been experimenting with the scents. Is it too strong? I’ve got some unscented stuff at home.”
“Nah, this is great. Thanks, man.” He brought his foot onto the bench again and pulled the leg of his pants up, slathering lotion onto his shin.
“Cold water helps too,” Honeybun threw over his shoulder as he headed out the door behind Ritz.
“Huh?”
Honeybun turned to walk backward, pulling a toque—seven years in America and Roman still couldn’t call it a beanie—out of his pocket at the same time. “If you splash cold water on the itch, it helps soothe it.”
“Huh. Life hacks by Honeybun.”
Honeybun was cackling on his way out until that cackle turned into a wet cough. Roman flinched at the sound as Honeybun paused in the doorway to cough into his elbow. Soon, that cough turned dry and rough, and he bent at the waist, bracing his other hand against his knee. Ritz rematerialized from where he’d presumably wandered off down the hallway. He rubbed soothing circles against Honeybun’s lower back, lips pinched and concerned lines marring the corners of his eyes.
“I swear to fuck, Billy Bee,” Kabaikina said when Honeybun finally stopped coughing, his Russian accent faint. “If you give us all pneumonia, I’m going to beat you bloody.”
Honeybun rose and took a deep breath. “I’d like to see you try.” His voice was wrecked.
“The doc says he’s past the contagious stage,” Ritz informed them.
Kabaikina didn’t appear convinced. “I want that in writing.”
Rolling his eyes, Ritz trailed Honeybun out the door. Cotton followed, hugging Tupperware to his chest. He waved at Roman. “Thanks again for the soup, Kinsey!” And then he was gone too.
“Soup?” On the other end of the locker room, Jacoba’s head popped up. “How come the rest of the class didn’t get soup?”
Which was how Roman found himself taking soup orders from the remaining guys, everything from minestrone to butternut squash to corn chowder to Zanetti’s roasted red pepper. It’d keep him busy, but hey, it wasn’t like he had a natural skincare company to keep him occupied.
As he navigated Sport U Arena’s back hallways to the parking garage, decked out in his new peacoat and Cody’s royal blue and forest green-patterned scarf, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and found a text fro
m Cody.
Cody, who of course he thought about every time he wore the scarf. And every time he didn’t wear the scarf.
Hope you’re having more fun than me, Cody’s text said. There was a photo attachment of what Roman assumed was the attic of the Glen Hill Public Library: a large, gloomy, sloped-ceiling room piled high with boxes and assorted book piles everywhere. The text had come in three hours ago when tonight’s event was just starting. Roman quickly typed out a message in response and hit Send. You’re surrounded by books. How can that be bad?
Cody’s reply came only seconds later: It’s like the lost damn world of books in here. Also a spider just ran over my foot.
Roman was cringing at the image that brought forth as he stepped into the parking garage. Cold swept over his exposed face and he tucked his chin and nose into his scarf, inhaling a scent he associated with Cody: something vaguely spring-like that reminded him of grass after a rainstorm, mixed with the crisp smell of winter. Rubbing a hand over his cheek where Cody had kissed him, he slipped into his SUV, mulling that kiss over. Thinking about how the quiet peck had made him feel breathless and euphoric yet weighed down by the past, all at the same time.
Did he want to kiss Cody for real? Fuck yes.
Was he afraid of where it could lead? Double fuck yes.
Was he willing to take the chance?
The fact that he couldn’t answer that one said a lot about his mental state. Cody was a psych major; what would he tell Roman? Maybe that he was afraid of history repeating itself?
With no solid answers, Roman drove home.
On Saturday morning, Cody dropped Mitch off on campus so he could catch the team bus to Amherst for tonight’s game against the University of Massachusetts, then headed to Burlington to hang out with his dad for the day.
Yeah. The day. He’d thought his dad would fly in mid-afternoon and they’d have dinner together and maybe breakfast tomorrow before saying goodbye. Instead, his dad was landing late morning and Cody was scheduled to meet him for lunch at one of the Church Street Marketplace restaurants, after which they’d do . . . something . . . before having an early dinner and then catching the University of Vermont men’s hockey game.
Mitch had laughed and laughed when Cody had told him that his dad had gotten them tickets to see the Glen Hill Mountaineers’ archnemesis play hockey.
“It’s actually kinda nice when you think about it,” Mitch had finally said. “He doesn’t watch hockey, yet he got these tickets for you guys.”
It was nice, Cody could admit once he stopped looking at himself as the child who got left behind and started thinking of himself as an adult who needed answers. It was like Roman had said—change your attitude.
Too bad the Vermont Trailblazers weren’t playing tonight. Now there was a game Cody would love to see live.
When he reached Burlington, he navigated to the parking garage he always used, parked, donned a scarf and gloves, and headed out. Snow wasn’t in the forecast for today, but it was overcast, the clouds hanging low in the sky, making everything seem dull and muted. The gentle wind was crisp and bitter. When he hit the streets, he pointed himself in the direction of City Hall Park, choosing a bench at random to wait for his dad. He people watched for a few minutes. Eventually, he rose to pace to ward off the chill, eyeing the buildings across the street. Roman had mentioned that his apartment overlooked the marketplace. Was he in one of these?
Unsurprised to find himself yet again thinking about Roman, he tilted his head back and groaned up at the sky. Despite not feeling sexual attraction until he had an emotional connection to someone, romantic attraction wasn’t the same, and he was very much, one hundred percent, all-in, romantically attracted to Roman. He wanted to talk to him all the time. To know everything about him. To cuddle while watching a movie. To take him on a date. God, he wanted to treat Roman to a date so damn badly, ply him with food and wine and so much attention Roman would be riding a high for weeks. Roman deserved all that, and more.
And he wanted a kiss. A real kiss. He didn’t know why, but he had a feeling Roman would be an exceptional kisser.
He didn’t want to have sex with Roman—not yet, possibly not ever. It was hard to say. But the kissing thing? Yes, please. He wanted to be kissed to high heaven.
“Cody.”
Jarred out of his thoughts, he spotted his dad coming toward him up the paved walkway. Oh good. Kissing fantasy interrupted by his dad. How utterly . . . normal.
“Dad. Hi.”
Peter Evans was a couple of inches shorter than Cody’s five foot ten; where he didn’t meet Cody in height, he outdid him in width and bulk. Whereas Cody was tall and skinny with what Mitch had once called a yoga bod, his dad was average height with wide shoulders, a barrel chest, and muscled . . . everything. The only physical attribute Cody had inherited was his dad’s hair and eyes.
His dad stuck out a gloved hand. “It’s good to see you, kid.” The other hand punched Cody’s shoulder in what was likely supposed to be a gentle love tap but that almost bowled Cody over. “Look at you! You’re taller than me.”
Cody shook his dad’s hand and stayed silent. What was he supposed to say to that? To this relative stranger he’d been taller than since his growth spurt in high school. To this man who knew Cody was taller because his dad had said the exact same thing when they’d seen each other a couple summers ago while Cody was home to visit his mom.
Reclaiming his hand, Cody said, “Lunch?”
The cold kept him numb from feeling anything as they walked along Church Street in search of a restaurant, finally settling on one that served what the restaurant’s slogan called “American fare.” Cody took that to mean a little bit of everything, and he was proven right when they were seated and he read through the menu. Fish and chips, chicken and waffles, macaroni and cheese.
Sitting back in his chair, he regarded his dad. His hair was grayer than Cody remembered, especially around the temples. Lines bracketed the corners of his eyes and mouth and striped his forehead. Pale sun spots crested the tops of both cheeks.
Cody often went long periods of time without seeing his mom, and when they saw each other again, it was like no time at all had passed as they picked up where they’d left off.
Such was not the feeling he got when confronted with his father. It didn’t feel like he was sitting with a stranger, exactly. More like his dad was an acquaintance Cody knew would judge him for whatever came out of his mouth.
He could just imagine bumping into Mitch in the middle of the street after some time apart, or his mom or even Roman, and the million little things he’d have to tell them. With his dad? He had nothing.
Once they’d ordered and their server had deposited glasses of water onto their table, his dad sat back and steepled his fingers together over his stomach. He wore a long-sleeved, muted green T-shirt tucked into a pair of well-worn jeans. To anyone else, he might’ve looked casual, but Cody knew his dad was aware of everything, including the hair and eye color of everyone in the restaurant—customers and staff included—the location of every exit, who sat behind him, and even the tiny drop of what could be dried mustard on one corner of the tablecloth. “Comes with the job,” he’d once told Cody.
“How’s school?” he asked now.
“Good,” Cody said. When the silence went on for a moment too long, he added, “Got a couple of tests this week.”
“Spring break next month, right? Got plans for that?”
“No?” Cody had never understood those students who headed south for spring break. Where did they get the money to spend on flights and hotels and booze? Mommy and daddy, probably. But Cody’s parents, like Mitch’s, were of the if you want it, you have to earn it variety, and so they’d spent every spring break making a daily drive to Montpelier to watch the movies at the theater they’d missed out on over the last couple of months.
“I was thinking of coming back to visit in the spring. Maybe after your exams?” his dad said, and Cody was so shocked he
froze with his water glass halfway to his lips.
Two visits in one year?
“Um. Are you sure you’ll be able to get the vacation time?”
“Well.” Clearing his throat, his dad leaned his elbows on the table. “That’s something I wanted to talk to you about. Why I came here today.”
Cody braced himself, stomach reworking itself into knots. He just knew he was about to find out that his dad was getting shipped to freakin’ Germany or something, as if Texas wasn’t already far enough.
“I’m retiring.”
His head whipped around. “What?”
“I’m retiring.” His dad rubbed his palms together, a nervous gesture Cody hadn’t seen from him in a long time. “Put my papers in a little while ago.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. It’s time.”
Cody didn’t buy that it’s time bullshit. “What brought this on?”
“The short answer? Like I said, it’s time. Yes, I know, you’re unimpressed by that answer,” his dad added with a small chuckle in response to Cody’s disbelieving expression. “The long answer?” He turned serious, amusement disappearing from his face. “The long answer is that I’m fifty-three, and in the twenty-eight years I’ve been a husband and the almost twenty-two years I’ve been a father, I’ve lived in a different state than my wife and son. I’ve given the army a lot of myself, but it’s time for me to do something else. To get to know my family again.”
Elation and trepidation warring in equal measure, Cody fell against the back of his chair. “Wow. That’s . . .” Amazing? Unexpected? “Does Mom know?”
“I told her while I was there.”
“What will you do with yourself now?”
“Job-wise? I’m not sure.” His dad sat back too, fiddling with his knife on the table. “What I’d really like to do is go back to school.”
“Really? But you already have a degree.” In biology of all things, with a concentration in amphibians. How that had helped his army career, Cody couldn’t begin to guess.