Shots on Goal (Stick Side Book 3)

by Amy Aislin

  “Not really. It just requires a conversation.”

  “You make that sound so easy.”

  “You and I talk about everything,” Mitch pointed out with narrowed eyes.

  “Yeah, but I know you’re not going to leave me.”

  Oh. He hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t known the thought was in his head until the words were out there, tumbling between them.

  Arms falling to his sides, Mitch straightened. “Cody . . .”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  Mitch placed his hands on Cody’s shoulders. “I have two things to say to that,” he said, ignoring Cody completely. “First, Roman Kinsey is not your father.”

  “That’s not . . .” Except of course that was where that fear stemmed from.

  “Second, if Roman leaves you for starting a conversation about where you stand, then he’s not worth your time.”

  Cody blew out a long breath. “I don’t think he will.”

  “No. I don’t think he will either.”

  “Thanks,” Cody said with a pat to Mitch’s hard stomach.

  After a final squeeze of the shoulders, Mitch released him. “You done here?”

  “Yeah. Just need to thank Ms. Hamilton.”

  “Cool. Pizza?”

  Cody’s stomach whined. “God, yes.”

  “I’ll go warm up the car.” Picking up the coat draped over the shelf he’d been leaning on, Mitch shrugged into it and pulled a beanie out of one of the pockets.

  “Thanks,” Cody said, walking backward toward where he’d last seen Lydia Hamilton. “I’ll only be a few minutes. And hey.”

  Mitch’s eyes caught his.

  “We’re never gonna be rivals.”

  Mitch’s toothy grin was devilish and confident. “Damn straight.”

  The apple turnovers were a hit.

  Ritz and Honeybun grabbed two each, and a few of the other guys—including Kas, Cotton, and Zanetti— happily and enthusiastically dug into their own share. As expected, some of the other guys, although they took an offered turnover, did so with looks that said they weren’t fooled by Roman’s sudden turnaround.

  Roman did the only thing he could, and he started with Ritz and Honeybun. Closing the lid to his Tupperware—in which only crumbs and a lone chunk of apple remained—he tucked the container under his arm and approached them, steps heavy. Ritz wore worn jeans and a T-shirt, but Honeybun still stood in his towel, hair wet, water droplets clinging to his shoulders from his after-practice shower, abandoned jar of candy cane-scented lotion open on the shelf in his locker as he gobbled his apple turnovers like he knew it was going to be his last meal.

  He caught Roman slinking up to them and said, “Got any more?”

  “No. Sorry.” Roman moved the container to his other arm. “Um. I’m having a little get together this weekend. To watch the game,” he said as if he already had RSVPs. “If you’re interested.”

  “Cool,” Ritz said, sitting on the bench and pulling on a pair of thick boots. “Who’s playing Saturday?”

  Fuck. Why hadn’t he looked that up before embarking on this foolish quest to make friends?

  “Buffalo versus Washington,” Honeybun said. He’d stepped into briefs and was now tugging on a pair of loose sweatpants.

  Roman nodded. “Yes. That game.”

  “Cool,” Ritz repeated. “What time?”

  “Six-thirty. Oh, and it’s a potluck.”

  Why, why, why beat in time with his pulse. But Ritz’s face lit up and Honeybun rubbed his palms together.

  “I’ll bring chips.”

  He scowled at Honeybun. “No.” As much as the idea of a potluck hadn’t intrigued him at first, if he was going to do it, he was going to do it right. “Bring real food.”

  “Hmm.” Honeybun tapped his lip. “I’ll put some thought into it.”

  In short order, Roman had invited the entire team. He received a few distrusting expressions; everyone else seemed oddly enthusiastic about a potluck. He’d have to remember to tell Cody that he was on to something.

  Not everyone could make it, of course. Most of the married guys had prior commitments, and a couple of the ones in college had an assignment to finish for Monday. That was fine with Roman—no way would his apartment fit the entire team.

  The only guy who didn’t get invited was Kas and that was only because Kas received a phone call shortly after he’d gotten dressed and had left the locker room to take it. He hadn’t returned.

  When Roman arrived home, he left his winter gear in his apartment, then headed next door to knock on Kas’s door.

  Kas answered within a few seconds, as if he’d been standing right on the other side of the door. Which he probably was. He was dressed to impress in a navy-blue suit and white shirt topped with a long peacoat and finished with shiny leather gloves.

  “Where you off to so fancy on a Wednesday morning?” Roman’s gaze landed on Kas’s feet. “Those loafers won’t keep your toes warm.”

  Kas stepped out and locked the door. “Says the guy who spent his first two weeks here in a windbreaker.”

  Roman’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you know that?”

  “People talk,” Kas said with a secretive smile. “And to answer your question, my agent’s in town with a potential sponsor. Got a lunch meeting.”

  “They came to some rando town in Vermont to meet you instead of flying you somewhere with high rises and plush offices?”

  “I know, right? It’s gotta be a good sign.” Bypassing the elevator—good man—Kas moved to the staircase and paused at the top. “What’s up?”

  Roman leaned on the banister. “I’m having a get together at my place this Saturday to watch the game.” Was it still called a get together if there were twelve people? “A bunch of the guys from the team are coming. Six-thirty. If you’d like to come.”

  They’d cleared the air between them, and yet, despite living next door, they hadn’t had much interaction outside of that initial conversation except at practices. The part of Roman that desperately missed his best friend wanted to change that. And he had a feeling Kas did too.

  “Sounds fun,” Kas said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “It’s a, uh, potluck.”

  “Ooh.” Kas’s smile widened. “I love potlucks. I’ll bring chips and salsa.”

  “What? No. Kas.” Why did everyone get so excited about the idea of a potluck but then get lazy when it came to what to bring? “Actual food.”

  “Chips are food.”

  “Your mom used to make those amazing sweet and sour meatballs in the pineapple sauce. Bring that.”

  “I don’t know.” Kas started down the stairs slowly. “They take forever to make. Especially for a large group. I’ll be rolling fucking meatballs for hours.”

  “Enlist help from one of the other guys.”

  “Enlist . . .” A gleam entered Kas’s eyes and his smile went secretive. “Good idea. Meatballs it is. Later, man.”

  “Wait,” Roman said, but Kas just waved over his shoulder.

  What was that smile about? Who was Kas enlisting?

  Back inside his apartment, he was making a list of things he’d need for Saturday when his cell beeped. A message from Samantha, the engagement coordinator he’d emailed about Cody’s library fundraiser. He read it over, forwarded it to Cody, and then sent him a text.

  Just forwarded you the email from my club’s engagement coordinator re: your fundraiser.

  Cody’s response only took a minute to arrive. Damn, can’t check it yet. Class is about to start. Can you summarize?

  Roman: They’re on board as long as they can invite reporters to document.

  Cody: Are you kidding?? BRING ALL THE REPORTERS! I get that your club wants them there for the good press, but it’ll put the library front and center too, and that’s not a bad thing! Anything else?

  Roman: The earliest date that might work is three weekends from now. It’s not a lot of time to plan. It’ll be a shotgun fundraiser.

 
; Cody: Damn. That’s after Eileen presents to town council. Okay, we’ll make it work. Thanks for this, Roman. I’ll forward the email to Kate when I get out of class.

  Roman: Kate?

  Cody: The library’s admin assistant. She’ll be the one coordinating with your engagement people. I don’t have the time. Also I’m not an event planner : ) If organizing these talks has taught me anything it’s that I’m damn glad I didn’t go into event planning.

  Roman: Were you going to at one point?

  Cody: Nope : ) But it’s nice to have validation. Gotta go. Class is starting. Can I call you later?

  Roman: Yes please.

  The only reason Cody wasn’t dragging his ass by the end of the week was because the thought of seeing Roman on Friday night gave him a spark of energy he usually got from yoga. Yet even yoga was kicking his ass, as evidenced by this morning’s downward dog turned fallen bug, which was the name he’d given the new pose he’d made up that involved falling over onto his side from downward dog because he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

  He grinned on his way up the stairs to the seventh floor of Roman’s building, exhaustion on the back burner for now. Seconds away from seeing Roman, nothing but pills or a blow to the back of the head would put him to sleep.

  On top of this week’s classes, readings, his shifts at the library, and assignments, he’d spent every night writing and editing and rewriting a brief for Eileen that outlined the speaker series he’d put together. Aside from the dates, times, and speakers’ names and qualifications, the brief also discussed the costs associated (minimal: water came from the taps and the Danishes had been the day-old fifty percent off ones from the café down the street), the number of attendees (over two dozen people were signed up for each of the six events he’d put together, which wasn’t great but didn’t suck. No, he didn’t write that in the brief), attendee feedback (there’d only been three events so far: Lydia Hamilton’s talk to high schoolers on Tuesday, Eileen’s session on library services on Wednesday, and a photography 101 workshop on Thursday; all had been well-received), and anticipated benefits. That last one had been difficult to put into words. He’d struggled with it until Mitch had caught him banging his head against the desk in his bedroom yesterday morning.

  “The number of attendees proves that there’s a need for these kinds of events as well as for a social space in which to have them. Don’t do that.” Mitch had wrestled Cody’s glasses out of his hand, from where he’d been drumming them against the desktop. “You’ll break them. Other than that,” he continued, “why don’t you lean on what you know?”

  Cody had rubbed his eyes. “Meaning?”

  Tapping a finger on one of Cody’s textbooks, Mitch said, “There’s got to be psychological and health benefits to social interaction, right? Write about that.”

  It’d been so obvious, Cody couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it himself. Regardless, the brief had been written and emailed to Eileen, who wanted to look it over before she presented it, as well as the revised budget, to the town in two weeks. Or the town board. Or whoever made the decisions on these sorts of things, Cody had no idea. The only thing he knew was that he wanted to give Eileen all of the tools she’d need to make the best case possible for getting the new budget approved, thus allowing the library to remain open.

  He wasn’t the only one working to save the library. One of the board members had been schmoozing the wealthy and/or influential citizens of Glen Hill for weeks. Another had gathered names for a petition. And one of the moms who brought her kids to storytime every week had taken it upon herself to craft a letter and email template for those who wanted to express their concerns to the town. She was even talking about organizing a protest at town hall if the budget didn’t get approved.

  It was pretty cool the way everyone had come together to help save a small-town library.

  Anything and everything having to do with the library, however, fled his mind when he knocked on Roman’s door.

  “Hey, you.” Roman snagged his wrist and pulled him inside.

  “Hey.” Dropping his backpack by the door, Cody snuggled into him, sticking his face in Roman’s neck and inhaling. Coffee and mint. Although they were more or less the same height, Roman was broader and more muscled; being in his arms was like being encased in bubble wrap. Safe and warm and protected.

  Roman kissed his temple, his cheek, finally finding his mouth. Cody shivered into the hello kiss, bones turning liquid, Roman’s lips warm and clinging, strong yet gentle.

  Pulling back an inch, Cody grinned against his mouth. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” With one last quick kiss, Roman let him go. “Come in. I hope you came hungry.”

  “Oh, I definitely did.” Leaving his boots by the door and his coat in the minuscule hall closet, Cody followed Roman into the kitchen.

  Where, to his utter delight, the counter dividing the kitchen from the living room held an assortment of dishes. Steamed asparagus topped with parmesan cheese, carrots sprinkled with parsley, baked potatoes wrapped in foil with assorted toppings in bowls next to it, and thick slabs of steak that made Cody’s mouth water.

  “Oh man,” he said, salivating. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were gonna feed me.”

  “I don’t joke about food. Here.”

  Cody blindly reached for the plate Roman held out, gaze still on the food, making Roman laugh. “Man, you must love cooking,” Cody said once they’d served themselves and were seated on barstools at the counter; the cozy little apartment didn’t have space for a table. “You sure seem to do a lot of it.”

  Roman swallowed his bite before replying. “I do like it. But more than that I like food itself. There was a time when . . .” Gaze going distant, he trailed off. Took a swallow from his water glass. “There was a time when I couldn’t afford much, including food. When I finally could, I taught myself to make stuff I’d enjoy.”

  Not a lie, just not the whole truth either. Like when Roman had explained about his past with Kasper Kowalski, Cody suspected there was more to the story. And he wanted to know it. It was part of Roman, and Cody wanted to know all of him—past, present, and future. Should he push for answers? Did it mean that Roman didn’t trust him if he wasn’t volunteering the information himself? Or was he ashamed about something? Or maybe he was simply trying to let the past go and move on? Was he waiting for Cody to show interest by asking?

  God. Navigating a new relationship was hard.

  They chatted through dinner, Cody making orgasmic noises as he ate that he hoped to replicate later when they hit the sheets. Assuming they’d do so. He’d brought his toothbrush and spare clothes for tomorrow in case he spent the night.

  He really wanted to spend the night. Had been anticipating it for days. What would his first time with Roman—hell, his first time, period—be like? Lazy sensualness? A passionate whirlwind? Awkward fumbling? Whatever it turned out to be, the fact that it was Roman who would be his first made him sigh dreamily into his steak.

  “How did your other speaker events go this week?” Roman asked an hour later while they cleaned up together in the small kitchen. Cody made it a point to brush up against him every chance he got. Which was often.

  “Good.” Cody rinsed a dish free of soap and set it in the drying rack next to the sink. “Okay. Maybe? I don’t know, to be honest.” His shoulders fell. “People are coming to them, and they ask lots of questions, and the speakers have been great, but . . . I guess part of me expected attendance to be better. I just don’t know if it’s making a difference.”

  “I’m sure every little bit helps.”

  “Yeah. Actually, speaking of the library, I have some bad news.”

  Next to him, Roman went still, dish towel in one hand, dripping serving dish in the other. “The new budget didn’t get approved?”

  “Huh? Oh no. Eileen’s presenting it at the town meeting the first Tuesday in March. I appreciate how concerned you are, though.” Leaning into Roman’s space, Cody kissed
his jaw.

  “What is it then?”

  “I had to cancel your apple turnover demonstration.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, we couldn’t find the kitchen space. The kitchen at the library isn’t big enough, not to mention that it doesn’t have an oven, and none of the restaurants in town could accommodate us on such short notice.”

  “Aw.”

  The feigned disappointment made Cody laugh so hard he had to prop himself up against the counter. “That was the most insincere sounding aw I’ve ever heard.”

  A pause. Then, “Aw?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Still chuckling, Cody nudged Roman in the ribs. “I can tell you’re all cut up about it.”

  Roman grabbed another dish from the drying rack. “Can’t deny that I don’t hate not having to do that one, but I am sorry you’ve got a slot to fill now.”

  “Meh.” Cody scrubbed something sticky off a plate. “I don’t think I’ll bother. I’ve already got three sessions next week. If those plus the ones from this week don’t help convince the town to keep the library open, I don’t think one more will.”

  Dishes clacked behind him as Roman returned them to the cupboard. “I have a suggestion. But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You could ask your dad.”

  “My . . .” Sure he’d misunderstood, Cody placed the final dish in the drying rack, grabbed a spare towel hanging off the fridge door handle, and dried his hands. “What?”

  “Your dad,” Roman said. He leaned against the counter behind him. “He’s been in the army for more than half his life, right? He’s gotta have something to talk about.”

  “I . . .” His dad? There was no way Cody could ask him to do something so last minute. Hell, Cody wouldn’t have asked him months ahead of time. He already knew what the answer would be—the same one he’d been hearing since he was little.

  Sorry, kid, can’t get the time away.

  “Your hands are dry, babe.” Roman tugged the towel out of Cody’s restless hands. Setting it aside, he pulled Cody into him. “Talk to me. What’s going through your head?”