9. Hayden
Chapter 9
Hayden
It’s just after nine on a non-game night when a clanging sound travels from somewhere down the hall to my AT room. I’m used to dealing with loud noises throughout my day, a hazard of working in a place full of rowdy hockey players and clunky gear. It’s enough to give me a headache most days. Those noises usually stop within an hour after a practice or game though, and it’s been nearly four hours since today’s practice commenced. It could be the cleaning crew, but they’d be a few hours early. It could just be a player that forgot something in his locker or stall and came to retrieve it.
Or it could be Ethan Pope appearing for his first night skate since I tried once again to get him to tell me his secrets.
The first few days after I’d sent that message, he’d avoided me at all costs. I tried not to let it get me down, considering he could have easily been chewing me out instead of ignoring his request to leave him alone just hours after he’d made it. It still bothered me, though. I was almost relieved when his wrist was hurt in our away game, knowing I’d have an excuse to talk to him. To set my eyes on him up close. I told myself it was because I wanted more clues to his mystery, but it felt like a half-truth. My desire to be around him isn’t about the mystery anymore. Not only the mystery, at least.
Something had seemed to thaw between us when I checked his wrist though. There was this moment where he looked at me with such openness in his eyes that it stole my breath. I couldn’t determine what was in his thoughts, but I could see something there. Something he seems to spend all of his time trying to hide from the world. Maybe even from himself.
I fiddle with the cap of my water bottle, trying to decide if it’s worth the risk of going to see if the noise was him. On one hand, I could get more time with him out of it. On the other, I could end up pissing him off.
Pope ends up making the decision for me. I don’t even hear him enter the room, only noticing I’m not alone when he clears his throat. I startle, thankfully managing not to make an embarrassing noise or knock anything over, and look up to find him standing in the doorway. He’s leaning a shoulder against the frame, one ankle lazily crossed over the other, his right hand in his pocket. He’s dressed in low-hanging sweatpants and a slightly too tight sweatshirt with his college’s logo across the chest. His favorite cap is pulled over his head, facing backward. I can see a few wet curls of hair peeking out from the front, letting me know he’s actually at the end of his skate and already showered. My stomach swoops at the thought of him standing naked under a stream of water, all soapy and slick.
No, no, none of that. Be a fucking professional, Hayden.
I clear my throat. Twice. “Hey.”
“Hey.” He lets his eyes wander the room before settling back on me. His eyebrows pull together, almost like he’s worried. “Working pretty late.”
“I could say the same about you.”
“My night skating isn’t work,” he admits. And that’s what it is—an admission. A piece of him he would have never given me a week ago. It sits warm in my chest, heavy with importance. He waves a hand at me. “ This is work.”
“Fair enough.” I lean back in my chair, fighting the ridiculous urge to do something like adjust my clothes or fix my hair. He’s just a player. He will only ever be a fucking player. Off-limits. “I don’t like to talk poorly about my professional peers, but the man who held this job before me was…”
“A complete fucking asshole?” he finishes, startling a laugh from me.
“I can’t speak to that since I never met him, but his record keeping was spotty at best. He either didn’t follow up with a lot of things, or followed up but didn’t think they were worth documenting. I’ve been working to try to fill in all the gaps and come up with plans for everyone.”
He tsks, shaking his head. “Sounds about right. When Knut’s groin went, it took him three days before he was even willing to talk to Knut about it, and even then, he wasn’t willing to help.”
The words piss me off all over again. “That’s unacceptable. I’m glad Ian— Coach— got rid of him.”
He tilts his head, seeming to consider something. “That’s twice now.”
I frown. “Twice?”
“Twice, you’ve called Coach Ian .” He shifts his weight until he’s standing without the help of the doorframe, now at full height with his broad shoulders filling all that empty space. It’s a little hard to focus on his words until he asks, “Are you two friends? Like, more than just colleagues?”
“The bear hug he gave me on my first day didn’t give it away?”
“I wasn’t looking.”
I tilt my head, finding that hard to believe. I had felt the whole team’s eyes on us at that moment. At least, I thought I had. Was he not at practice? If he wasn’t, why? If he was, why not look at the spectacle everyone else was watching?
I want to ask, but the way he’s looking at me like he’s bracing for a hit makes me pause. He doesn’t want to tell me why. I won’t make him. It isn’t a secret I’m willing to fight him for. Not when he has so many others.
“We’re best friends,” I explain. “Brothers, really. We grew up together down in Louisiana.”
His lips quirk toward a possible smile. “They got ice down in Louisiana?”
“I mean, not naturally, but they have arenas.”
“Mm.” He lifts his cap off his head, using his other hand to ruffle his hair a little, then replaces it. I’ve watched him enough to know it’s a nervous gesture. His green eyes are full of pain when he lifts them to look at me. “So, that shit about keeping my secrets. That was bullshit then?”
“What?”
“I mean, he’s your best friend. Your fucking brother .” His lips twist into a sneer. I quickly realize I really don’t like him directing that look at me. It feels like acid in my chest. “You expect me to believe you’ll keep a secret from him?”
I stand up and start walking around my desk, but stop the moment he takes a step back. My heart sinks as the progress we’ve made seems to dissolve right in front of me. “Pope, you can trust me.”
“I can trust you,” he echoes, each word heavy with disbelief. “I can trust you to keep my secrets, even from Coach? Even from the man you call your brother?”
“Yes.” I say it easily. Too easily, probably. When I take the moment to consider it though, I don’t find myself feeling any differently. “Yes, Pope— Ethan . You can trust me to keep your secrets. Even from him.”
His eyes stray down the hall toward the exit, hand coming back to fiddle with his hat some more. After a few seconds that feel much longer, he nods once.
I want to ask what that nod means, but I don’t want to push my luck. Especially when he suddenly meets my eyes, his lips pulling into a lopsided smile. “If I stay and keep you company while you work, will you make me drink that cherry juice?”
My heart does a sort of skip in my chest. I ignore it. Just a player. Probably a straight player. Even if he’s not straight, still just a player. Will. Only. Ever. Be. A. Player . “Only if you help me.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Help you with what?”
“Well.” I look around the room, knowing I can’t stick him with confidential files. “How do you feel about folding towels?”
“No! Oh my fucking—the audacity! The—the—how dare you!” Pope tosses a towel at my head, his frown deepening when all I do is catch it and laugh. “Vanilla ice cream is not the best ice cream!”
“Yes it is! It’s so versatile!”
“Because it’s so fucking bland! ”
I toss the towel back at him, making him laugh. I wish I could bottle up that pretty laugh of his. Yeah, it’s pretty, really fucking pretty, and I’ll go back to pretending it’s not tomorrow when I’m not in close quarters with him at nearly two in the morning, his sweatshirt tossed onto the counter to reveal his undershirt that’s cut off at the shoulders and dips down far enough to show me that it’s not just his right arm that’s covered in tattoos, his hat hooked on a handle of one of my cabinets and his hair a complete mess from having dried beneath it, his green eyes bright in the warm lighting, his smile wide enough to show off his deep fucking dimples, and I’m weak, okay, I’m so fucking weak for this beautiful goddamn man, so tonight I’m calling his laugh pretty—call all of him pretty—and tomorrow I’ll just forget about it. “Vanilla is a flavor . You add it to cookies, cake, pancakes. And you can taste the difference, trust me.”
“Who the fuck adds vanilla to their pancakes?”
“To the batter,” I explain, frowning when he just stares at me. “You don’t add vanilla to your pancake batter?”
“Uh… I add milk to the powder from the box. Or water if I’m out.” He shrugs. “Sometimes, if it was on sale, my dad would splurge and get the stuff that requires an egg too. That shit is good.”
“You poor, depraved man. You need more vanilla in your life. Even if you’re just adding it to your boxed pancake batter.”
“Yes. Out of all the shit I’ve dealt with in my life, it’s the lack of vanilla that we should really feel sad about.” The words are said teasingly, his tone and body language flippant, but I catalogue them for another time. “Even if vanilla is a fucking flavor, I still refuse the notion that it’s the best one.”
“And yours is? Cookie Monster shouldn’t even count. What even is that?”
“I told you, it’s blue moon ice cream with cookie dough bits and crushed Oreos.”
“I do not believe you that blue moon ice cream is a thing.”
“But it is! Oh my god, it so is. And it’s wicked fucking good, man.”
I shake my head, turning to hide my smile as I fold another towel. “I’m sorry. I’ve heard of chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, Neapolitan, cookie dough, cookies and cream, mint chocolate chip, even pistachio. Probably a ton of others I’m forgetting. But not blue moon, Ethan. Are you sure this wasn’t a dream or something?”
“I’m telling you—I never saw it back home, never heard of it either, but they sell it at a shop here. Maybe it’s just a Michigan flavor? Fuck if I know. Jules introduced me to it. All I know is it was the best fucking thing I’d ever tasted and easily replaced my original love of cookies and cream. It’s a fucking orgasm in your mouth.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Squeeze the towel in my hands too. Orgasm in your mouth? Is he trying to fucking kill me?
“Maybe we should move on to a less controversial topic,” I say, hoping my voice is only strained to my own ears.
“You’re completely right.” He moves up behind me. I can feel his height. Can feel the weight of his existence, so damn close to mine. Can feel him breathing on my neck. “How do you feel about pineapple on pizza?”