That Time We Faked It (Time On The Ice #3)

16. CAL

CAL

Puked On, Late, and Barely Holding It Together

I sat on the edge of my bed, pressing the ice pack hard against my ankle, cursing myself and my poor life choices. I knew better than to try that jump, especially with my body still recovering from that awful cold. My muscles felt sluggish, and I’d pushed myself hard anyway, like some sort of twisted challenge to prove I wasn’t going soft. But now my Achilles was throbbing, a hot, angry ache that had me gritting my teeth and faking it for the trainers, hoping they wouldn’t notice the way I was just one sharp move from face-planting off the ice.

Thank god it was the engagement-party weekend, and I’d already committed to no training. Days off weren’t exactly something I got often. Skating’s not a job you can just clock out of, not when you’re self-employed and racking up expenses that only get paid back in applause. So, there I was, on the edge of my bed, staring at the chaos of my room—an open bag with clothes strewn everywhere. Yet nothing screamed, polished, put-together boyfriend. Please love me, even though I’ll disappear from your lives after the wedding.

Because that was the crux of it. Somehow, in the midst of countless calls, FaceTimes, and texts that felt like they carried more honesty than most of my life, I’d fallen for them—Jack’s brother and his soon-to-be brother-in-law. I knew the ins and outs of their love story, the fear that cancer had almost cost them everything, the long, dark nights filled with tear-soaked calls and whispered prayers. It wasn’t that I’d lost anyone to cancer personally, but I knew what it did to the people I loved, to Tyler and others who wore that grief like a second skin. And somehow, that made it worse, that I was only on the sidelines while this beautiful story unfolded. I loved my found family more than anything else in the world, and now, my heart wanted them in it.

I could picture the whole future laid out—dinners with the family, laughing as Jack griped on about one thing or another, talking about their jobs, the possible future kids, more dogs. But it was all an illusion. This fake world I’d built felt better than my own life, and I was in so deep I didn’t know how to climb out.

I sighed, feeling the cold water from the melted ice soaking into my sheets. Lost in my head, I hadn’t even noticed. With a groan, I got up, hissing as my ankle twinged. This isn’t real, I told myself, meeting my own tired reflection in the mirror. You’re not hurt. You’re just tired. Rest this weekend and get back to it. But my gaze slipped to the clock, and my stomach dropped. 8:30 a.m. I was going to be late.

In a frenzy, I started shoving clothes into the bag—anything that looked halfway decent—until I glanced down and realized I was still in sweats and a hoodie. I sighed, hearing my own bitter voice echo in my head.

“God, Johnson, get it together. This is why you’ll always be alone.” I forced down the familiar sting at my own words, blinking back the heat building in my eyes. Of course, my “nice” clothes were in the bag already, and all I had left in the closet was workout gear and some sheer tops from nights out.

There was no way in hell I’d meet his family in a sheer top. Not happening. Nope- Nope and Nope with a party hat on top.

I ran out of my room regretting it instantly. Once again the house was empty, Shane was on an away trip, Eli—God knew where, Tyler and Hunter were off, living their dream. With that in mind, I slipped into Shane and Eli’s room. Eli was the closest to my build, and I prayed he wouldn’t mind me borrowing something in my hour of desperation. I rummaged through his closet and thanked the fashion gods for Tom Ford. Biting my lip, I murmured to Eli’s absent form, “I’m sorry, I have to borrow this, but I promise I’ll have it dry cleaned.”

I grabbed the suit and bolted to the bathroom, mentally cursing the clock. I didn’t have time for a shower, not even close, but I was not about to show up looking like I’d just rolled out of bed. After way too long wrangling my stubborn hair into something halfway decent and applying just enough makeup to give my cheeks some color, I finally looked at myself in the mirror and decided I could pass as “put together.”

Suitcase in hand, I grabbed my phone, which—of course—was at a laughable five percent. I saw the long list of missed calls from Jack, the last one lingering on the screen, his tone more resigned than I’d expected:

Jack : Well, I guess you’re not coming—which I understand, but I hope it’s more that you don’t want to deal with me and not my family… Or, worst case, that something happened on the way here. Okay, please just text me to say you’re alive, at least. If you change your mind, when you get to Boston, ask a cab to take you to Rossler Flats, west side of Castle Road

I took a steadying breath, fighting off the pang of guilt twisting in my stomach. I’d told myself this was all just an act, a part I was playing to be his “boyfriend” for a weekend, nothing more. But that message? It felt like a punch to the gut. I fired off a quick text before I lost my nerve.

I’m on my way. I’ll be at the airport soon.

Planes were not designed to be fashion’s friend—unless you were flying business or were Taylor Swift with your own jet. But alas, I was a middle-class, rent-free freeloader living off the generosity of hockey jocks, with a savings account I guarded fiercely but knew wouldn’t get me anywhere close to a house.

So, there I was, squashed in a coach next to a screaming baby who, to add to my misery, projectile-vomited right onto Eli’s precious Tom Ford suit. I spent the next five minutes in the airplane’s shoebox-sized bathroom, desperately trying to salvage the jacket. But my “cleaning” attempt only led to toilet paper sticking to the fabric in a papery mess. I muttered to myself, Baby puke doesn’t stain, right?

I stared at the spot on the jacket and took a deep breath, biting the inside of my cheek. “You will not cry, Cal Johnson. Do not wreck your makeup. Not on top of everything else.” My tears obeyed, and I marched back to my seat.

Where a rather large man awaited. Now, size I could handle—personal space violations I could not, especially since this man apparently had a particular passion for garlic and no particular passion for showers. So, there I was, marinated in baby puke and pungent body odor, trying to distract myself by watching the little red airplane on the screen inching closer to Boston. Almost there , I told myself.

Then, like fate hadn’t had enough fun with me, a chubby little hand reached out, grabbing a fistful of my hair with a force that had me questioning whether this kid had been bitten by a radioactive spider. My head jerked forward into the lap of the mother next to me, who gasped, panicked apologies tumbling from her mouth as she tried to pry her adorable but terrifying toddler’s grip from my hair.

I breathed in deeply, counting down the minutes to Boston, and whispered to myself, “You’re gonna make it. You’re almost there.”

Eventually, the flight landed, and I stepped off the plane feeling like a crumpled mess—puked on, disheveled, and carrying the unmistakable aroma of an unshowered man who had polished off two sides of garlic bread before boarding.

Every part of me resisted the urge to look in the mirror. I debated rifling through my bag for something else to wear or some spray to mask the stench, but time was against me. My original plan was to leave at nine a.m. Vancouver time and land in Boston by six p.m. their time. But with me running late it had dissolved into the chaos of flight delays and an agonizing eight-hour journey. In moments like this, I couldn’t help but wonder why we hadn’t chosen Toronto instead of Vancouver, considering Boston was home.

With my inner monologue wreaking havoc on my already shaky emotions, I hustled past a mirror, ignoring the reflection that would surely haunt me later, and made my way to the taxi stand. Of course, it was peak hour in Boston. Just my luck. I spotted a cab pulling up and, out of the corner of my eye, noticed a sharply dressed man making a beeline for it. Not on my watch. I sprinted toward the cab, my suitcase wheels wobbling beneath me.

But then disaster struck. My feet hit a patch of ice, and my ankle buckled again. I stumbled, feeling a rush of indignation surge through me as I looked up at the sky and cursed my luck. Is this a sign? Should I just turn around and let Jack and his family forget I ever existed?

The suited man glanced my way, his eyes darting between me and the cab.

“Sorry, man, I’m on a deadline,” he muttered, sliding into the backseat without a second thought.

“Flaming hellhound of sweaty glitter-covered fuckery!” I swore, which only to be met with a disapproving glare from a mother strolling past with her two small children.

“Well, you try falling on your ass, lady! Let’s see if you keep your mouth clean!” I yelled, fully aware that I sounded like a lunatic. The crowd around me instinctively stepped back, likely sharing the same thought: this guy was at rock bottom.

With a shaky sigh, I picked myself up and joined the throng of waiting passengers, cursing myself for forgetting my charger. I sighed in defeat; without my phone, I couldn’t order an Uber or message Jack to let him know I’d landed. I was, as always, alone, left to navigate this mess of life on my own.

Forty minutes later, I finally managed to snag a cab. It was a quarter to nine, and as I listed the address to the driver, I watched him type it into his GPS. My stomach sank when I saw the estimated time: at least an hour and a half, especially with the winter chill lingering late into February. Spring showed no signs of making an appearance. I settled back into the seat, trying to ignore the twitch of the driver’s nose at the smell I knew clung to me.

Biting down harder on my gum, I fell back on my familiar mantra: You will not cry, you will not cry. You will not cry . Each repetition was a tether to my resolve, even as the world around me felt increasingly chaotic. I focused on the city passing by outside the window, hoping to distract myself from the mounting anxiety.