“You’re so sure that’s what will happen that you won’t entertain any other possibility,” Saint said.
“And you are convinced true love exists, that you’ve found it and therefore I will too,” Felix shot back.
Saint stiffened. “Are you saying—”
“No. No, Saint, I believe what you and Caz have is real. But just because you do have it doesn’t mean I ever will. Love like that, a bond like that, it’s—” He shook his head. “Rare.”
“People find it every day,” Saint said, mouth set in a stubborn line.
“People think they find it every day,” Felix countered. “Until the cheating, or the lying, or the abuse. Until it all falls apart.”
“You know what that’s called?” Saint snapped. “That’s called a self-fulfilling prophecy. You’ve convinced yourself that love’s a myth and no one will ever live up to your expectations, and you set your expectations so high that when they’re human and they fail, you point to it and you say ‘see? I told you!’ Well, that’s bullshit.” He was glaring now, fire sparking in his brown eyes. “People fuck up, Felix. Everyone does. It’s what you do after the fuckup that matters.”
“Like you’d know,” Felix snarled. “You and Carmine are sickeningly perfect, aren’t you? What do you know of fighting, or hurting each other?”
Saint gaped at him. “You think we don’t fight? Felix, how stupid are you? Have you met us? I’m a neurotic asshole and he’s the most stubborn bastard I’ve ever met. We fight all the time. Just last week, we couldn’t decide on a movie to watch and we were both tired and in bad moods and instead of just turning it off and going to bed, we yelled at each other about it for twenty minutes and then slept in separate rooms.”
“You did not.”
“Hand to God,” Saint said. “Neither of us wanted to admit we’d been wrong. We went to practice that day still not speaking to each other, and you had no idea, did you? Wednesday of last week.”
Felix thought back. “I remember you seemed a little tense, but… you spoke to him. Played the scrimmage with him.”
“Because we know how to make it work even when we’re mad at each other. And by then, I was just mad at him being so stubborn and I wanted him to admit he was wrong.”
“What happened?” Felix asked, fascinated in spite of himself.
Saint laughed quietly. “I think we both realized how stupid we were being at the same time. I looked at him and he was looking at me, and I remembered how much I loved him, how he pushes me and challenges me and never lets me back down from anything, how he makes me better in every way. The little stuff doesn’t matter, Fee. Not when you have the right foundation.”
“Not being able to agree on a movie is one thing,” Felix said. “What Paul did—”
“Paul is a twisted sick fuck who gaslit you and emotionally manipulated you because he knew how to wrap you around his little finger. Which isn’t your fault at all, by the way, he’s also a charming asshole and I thought he was great for a long time, until I saw how you were changing.”
“How did I change?” Felix whispered, crossing his arms over his stomach.
“You got suspicious, angrier.” Saint looked sad again. “Like you were suspecting things weren’t right, but you hated yourself for thinking it. You lashed out a lot more, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Felix managed. “For all of it, for believing him, for letting it happen, for not seeing sooner—” He swallowed back the tears, blinking hard, as Saint put a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ll say it as many times as I have to,” he said, his eyes steady. “It wasn’t your fault. But you have to figure out what you’re going to do about it. Are you going to be bitter and cynical the rest of your life? Never let anyone else in? Just assume everyone will be like Paul?”
“It’s safe. I have you. I have Caz. The team. Why do I need more?”
“It may be safe but it’s not what you truly want.” Saint ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, and Felix blinked, thrown.
“What?”
“I’m telling you what you want, what you have to do. I’m not letting you make up your own mind.”
“You’re worried about me,” Felix said. “Because you don’t want to see me get hurt again. But I’m doing this so I don’t get hurt again, Saint, can’t you see?”
“Yeah,” Saint said softly. “I’m just really afraid you’re getting in too deep. You’re halfway to in love with him—don’t look at me like that, I’ve seen the way you go soft when you talk about him—and you’re fighting it so hard you’re tying yourself all in knots. You’re convinced it won’t work, while at the same time you’re literally falling in love with him, and the whole thing’s going to blow up in your face because those two things? They can’t coexist, Fee.”
“But it won’t work,” Felix whispered.
Saint’s focus sharpened. “Why do you sound so sure?”
“Because I am. Because I haven’t… told you everything.”
Saint waited without moving as Felix tried to find the next words.
“Not long after we started… things, he was making me dinner, and—he’d had glitter in his hair earlier.”
Saint blinked, momentarily diverted. “Wait, glitter?”
“Exactly,” Felix said. “I was curious. Of course I was. So I asked.”
“Did he tell you?”
“No,” Felix admitted, scowling briefly. “But I made a few guesses at what he maybe did for a living that would cause glitter to be in his hair, and then he said I’d guessed so he got some guesses too. He didn’t—he didn’t get it right,” he said hurriedly at the expression on Saint’s face. “But after we joked about it, he said….” He swallowed around the remembered hurt. “He said, ‘as long as you’re not a professional athlete.’”
Saint’s mouth fell open. “Felix.”
“He had an ex,” Felix continued. “A long time ago. But he was hurt, and badly. And he hates all sports, but especially hockey. He… blames it. That’s when I knew—” He drew a shaky breath. “I knew it wouldn’t work. It would never truly work, even if I found the courage to tell him, to trust him.”
“Felix,” Saint said, and didn’t continue, mouth working.
“It’s okay.” Felix patted his hand. “I wish… I do wish it would work. I think I could love him, Saint, so very easily. But I won’t let myself, because I can’t have that.”
“It has to end,” Saint said, looking miserable at having to say the words. “You’re a grown man, I’m not trying to give you an ultimatum. If you want to keep doing this, you know I’ll be there to help you heal after it blows up, just like I did with Paul. But Fee—I know you. I know you inside and out. I know what you need and what you want, and I know you’re gonna get your heart broken if you don’t figure this shit out. And for your sake, not mine, I don’t want that. Because you didn’t deserve it the first time, and if it happens again, I may have to kill someone.”
Felix nodded. “You’re right,” he said after a minute. “I’ll end it. Soon. I promise.”
Saint squeezed his hand. “Caz,” he called, and Carmine poked his head around the seats a few rows ahead. “Come tell Felix about that fight we had last week.”
Kasha gasped. “You had fight? Caz, no. You’re not fight with Saint!”
“Stay out of it,” Carmine ordered, on his way down the aisle, and Kasha scowled.
“Saint is best,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “Stupid Caz.”
Saint winked at Felix and stood so Carmine could take the seat.
“So Saint doesn’t like action movies,” he began, and glanced up at Saint, still standing in the aisle. “Go away, I’m telling a story.”
“Fine,” Saint said, putting his nose in the air. “I’ll go sit with Kasha. He appreciates me.”
He sat down beside a visibly delighted Kasha and began talking to him in a low voice as Carmine watched him, a smile playing on his mouth.
&nb
sp; “I’ve never met anyone with such a capacity for love before,” he said to Felix.
“We are very, very lucky,” Felix agreed. “So tell me about this fight.”
* * *
Saint was right. Felix knew that. But he didn’t want to stop. Not yet. It wasn’t just the sex, either. It was the feeling of being someone other than a professional hockey player with his name in the papers after every game, with speculation and gossip swirling around him like a cloud of stinging gnats. With Fisher, Felix didn’t have to perform, stay professional, watch what he said with laser awareness so his words weren’t twisted out of context.
With Fisher, he could relax. Stop being observed and simply… exist.
Felix wasn’t ready to give that up just yet. He’d promised Saint, so he’d keep his word, but… not yet.
They lost to the Kingfishers in shootouts and returned to Portland exhausted. Felix checked his phone but Fisher hadn’t texted.
What would he say, Felix wondered, if he told him? If he admitted he played the sport Fisher hated, that it meant more to him than anything else?
Would his eyes go cold, his mouth flatten? Would there be anger, betrayal, in his eyes? Or would he be disappointed, hurt that Felix had never told him? Would he tell Felix to go to hell? Or would he accept it, because Felix meant that much to him?
As the plane began its descent into Portland, Felix leaned his head back against the seat and entertained himself with a fantasy where he told Fisher the truth and Fisher had known for months, had memorized his game schedule, attended every home game in Felix’s jersey to cheer for him.
The thought of Fisher wearing his name made Felix shiver, heat pulling low in his gut.
The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac and he opened his eyes with a regretful sigh. It wouldn’t happen. Fisher had said as much, made it very clear how he felt about hockey. There was no getting out of this with a happy ending. But that didn’t mean it had to end immediately. He still had time, he could enjoy Fisher’s company a little longer before he stopped things. He was delaying the inevitable, but was that a crime? He didn’t think so, not if it meant Fisher kissed him again, held him again.
Still, maybe a little distance wasn’t a bad thing. When he was home, bag unpacked and laundry started, he sent Fisher a text.
Just got back. Early day tomorrow, and I have chores I’ve been putting off. Not sure yet when I’ll be free.
Fisher’s reply took awhile. Finally the message came through. Are you regretting it already?
Felix chewed on his lip, trying to figure out how to respond.
I’m sorry, Fisher sent before he could.
Felix hit the call button before he changed his mind and Fisher picked up on the first ring.
“I’m so sorry, that was uncalled for.” He sounded miserable.
“No, it was a justifiable reaction,” Felix said. “And understandable, that you assume I’m panicking.”
“Are you? Panicking?” Fisher’s voice was as deep and warm as always, but Felix could hear the nerves underneath.
“I was, a bit,” he admitted. “At first.”
“And now?”
“Not… as much. I’ve had some time to think about it, and I think… maybe you are not like my ex.”
“Oh sweetheart,” Fisher breathed. “I’m so proud of you. That couldn’t have been easy to say.”
Felix covered his face with an elbow and didn’t reply. His heart was hammering in his chest like he’d been bagskated.
“If you ever want to tell me about him,” Fisher continued, “I promise to listen without judgment. But right now I just really want to kiss you.”
“That would be nice,” Felix whispered. “I really am busy tomorrow, but maybe I can see you Wednesday if you’re free.”
“I don’t have plans,” Fisher said. “Come over when you’re ready; you know what time I get home. But right now… where are you?”
“In bed,” Felix said. “Henry is off doing cat things, so I’m alone.”
“What are you wearing?” Fisher asked, and Felix caught his breath.
“Oh—soft pants, a T-shirt. Not very sexy, sorry.”
“They are if you’re wearing them.”
Felix shivered. “Are we doing this?”
“Do you want to?” Fisher countered.
“Very much,” Felix admitted. “If you do.”
“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve jerked off to the thought of your voice?” Fisher asked, and Felix smothered a laugh.
“As many as I have to yours, perhaps,” he suggested.
“Glad it’s mutual,” Fisher said, sounding amused. “Take your shirt off.”
Felix caught his breath and sat up enough to drag his shirt off over his head. His skin pebbled in the cool room and he shivered again, flattening his free hand on his stomach.
“You too,” he managed.
He heard rustling, and then Fisher was back.
“Okay. Are you hard?”
Felix laughed. “You haven’t even said anything dirty yet.” He was getting hard, the sheer anticipation making his heart beat faster, but there was no reason to let Fisher win that easily.
“I am,” Fisher admitted, and Felix’s laughter cut off. “Just thinking about you gets me so hard. I want you so much.”
Felix groaned, sliding his hand down to cup himself.
“Getting there?” Fisher asked, sounding smug.
“Like you’re—ah—not,” Felix shot back. “Where are you?”
“Like on a scale of how aroused I am, or physically?”
Felix rolled his eyes. “You’re not aroused enough if you can make stupid jokes.”
“That’s my superpower, baby,” Fisher said, and Felix’s brain stuttered briefly on the nickname, missing what he said next.
“Ah—what?”
One of the things that made Fisher so overwhelmingly attractive to Felix was just how perceptive he could be. When he was tuned in, Felix sometimes felt so seen, so understood to his core, that there was often no need for words.
It was no different now.
Fisher’s voice deepened, sliding into a lower register that pulled at something deep in Felix’s gut. “You liked that. I said I can always make stupid jokes, but I think you were too hung up on what I just called you to hear me. Weren’t you?”
Felix blew out a breath that did nothing to slow his heart rate.
“Are you touching yourself?” Fisher asked.
“Through my pants,” Felix managed. He was embarrassingly close to the edge already, skin so sensitive he thought a breeze might push him over.
“Take them off,” Fisher said. “That’s what I’m doing.”
Felix struggled to obey, moaning softly as his erection slapped his belly and he curled his fist in the blanket beneath him. “Fuck, Fisher—”
“Your accent gets stronger when you’re turned on,” Fisher said, low and dark in his ear. “‘Feesher.’ I love it. Are you touching yourself yet?”
Felix worked moisture into his mouth. “N-no.”
“Why not?”
“Waiting. For, um. You.”
Fisher made a wounded sound. “Touch yourself, baby. Stroke your cock for me and think about me doing that to you next time, making you feel so good, there you go—”
Felix groaned, hips jerking as he stroked himself, eyes closed, imagining it was Fisher’s hand on him, taking him apart slowly but surely, until nothing else existed except Fisher’s touch, driving him out of his mind.
Fisher was still talking but Felix couldn’t quite make out the words. He didn’t need to to know he wasn’t going to be able to hold on much longer.
“I’m close,” Fisher gasped. “French, baby, I’m gonna—”
Felix sobbed as he came over his fist, hot spurts all over his belly as the bliss broke free. He dropped the phone somewhere in there, and it took a few minutes to come back to himself, the room slowly resolving into blurry shapes around him.
It was anoth
er minute of blinking at the ceiling before he realized Fisher was calling for him.
“French? Did I break you?”
Felix fumbled for the phone, dropped in the bedding, and got it to his ear.
“Hey,” Fisher said, and his voice was so soft it made Felix’s chest ache. “Doing okay?”
“Yeah,” Felix managed.
“Feel better?”
“Mm.” Felix draped an arm over his eyes with a sigh. “I hope I can see you on Wednesday.”
“Me too,” Fisher said gently. “Go to sleep.”
“Bonne nuit,” Felix said through a yawn, and stayed awake just long enough to pull a blanket up over himself before he fell asleep.
22
October crept toward November. The trees lost more leaves, the weather turning crisp and stinging and more rain blowing in.
The Seabirds kept inching their way up the standings, creeping toward clinching a playoff spot, but it was slow and halting. Kasha hit a hot streak in late October, racking up eight goals and five assists in six games, and the team rode the crest of that wave through Halloween and into November.
Felix still hadn’t ended things with Fisher. Soon, he kept telling himself, but then Fisher would touch him, or just look at him, his dark eyes so warm, and Felix would find a reason to put it off a little longer.
Saint held his tongue, although Felix didn’t miss the looks he threw at him when he thought Felix wasn’t paying attention.
There was a fragile peace in the air as Thanksgiving approached. Fisher was hosting at his house for his friends who didn’t have families to go home to, and he dragged Felix back to the farmer’s market the weekend before to stock up on everything he needed, which included fresh cranberries that he apparently planned to jelly himself.
Felix played mule again, carrying the packages Fisher couldn’t, following him up and down the aisles and watching the way Fisher’s eyes sparkled as he described the menu and the guest list.
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