10. Pope
Chapter 10
Pope
Without really realizing it, Hayden becomes… a friend. A guy who loves vanilla ice cream and mushrooms on his pizza. A guy who folds his towels hotdog first and then hamburger, instead of the obviously correct way of hamburger, then hotdog. A guy who thinks country music should be reserved for when you’re sad and believes the same for whiskey, because according to his grandma whiskey is meant for the days when your soul needs soothin’— and yeah, he actually said it just like that, all slow and syrupy with an accent that I felt down to my toes.
My depression is taking some much-needed time off right now, so I’m running on good sleep and healthy nutrition, kicking ass on the ice, and even making some more friends on the team. I’ve been flying pretty fucking high the past few days. Adding this new friendship with Hayden is like icing on the cake. But not vanilla icing, I’m not a heathen.
I haven’t been back for a night skate in the days that have passed since the night we spent together—the night where he promised he’d keep my secret, even from Coach—but we’ve still seen each other plenty. I may or may not wander down to the AT room after every single practice, optional skate, and game, even when I don’t need to. He never lets me leave without tart cherry juice, and once he even managed to talk me into another fucking ice bath, but I still keep going back. He’s funny, okay? He makes me laugh. The kind of laugh that makes my cheeks hurt and my stomach sore and my chest light. Not a lot does that these days. Ice baths and cherry juice are worth that.
Tonight is mandatory team-bonding. Coach didn’t want to come along, saying it was better if we didn’t have him looming over us, but he sent Hayden and our social media specialist, Tara, to half-chaperone, half-document the fun times. Superior is a bustling little town with a decent art district, a ton of cool shops and restaurants, and two microbreweries that look out over Lake Superior. Since it’s one of the last nice days of the season before the Upper Peninsula is supposed to be pounded with the first of many major winter storms, we all voted on an outing downtown.
“Okay!” Tara says with a clap of her hands. “There are too many of you to barrel into these businesses, so we’re going to split up by lines. First and second line can stick together, then third and fourth. Knut, you go with the first and second lines since you’re our starting goaltender. Jensen, you’re with the third and fourth line group. Go explore for a while. We’re all going to meet at a bar and grill called The Port at seven. I called ahead, so they’re expecting us. It’s at the end of this road, down the hill, right on the shore of the lake. Please, for the sake of my sanity, do not get lost.”
“Please,” Hayden reiterates, already looking exasperated with us just from our walk two blocks over from the arena. I fight a smile as I take him in. Does he know his sweater is ruffled? I’ve learned he’s a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to his own appearance and the appearance of his AT room. Everything else can be a chaotic mess, but when it comes to the things that are his, he likes them clean and organized. It’s—well, not adorable because he’s a man and men aren’t fucking adorable, but it’s… endearing?
Yeah, endearing.
Endearing as fuck.
“I’m going with the first group and Hayden will go with the second. Everyone take a ton of pictures and videos, but don’t you dare post a single thing! Send them to my email and I’ll pick what works best.”
When none of us say anything, she puts her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes with a look we all know means trouble. It’s a chorus of, “Yes, ma’am,” after that.
We’re set loose, our group going to the left while the other goes to the right. I have the urge to look over my shoulder at Hayden but I fight it. There’s no reason to.
I fall into step next to Jules, the two of us leading the way along with Kirkland. Most of the guys are chatting about the area, a lot of them having been here last season, if not longer. It’s quickly decided that the last stop has to be Superior Scoops , since it’s not only a can’t-miss but it’s also right next to The Port . When we pass a shop with clothing in the window sporting the shape of the U.P. and the numbers 906, we head inside.
“Everyone has to have at least one Yooper item,” Wilson explains. “It’s like a rite of passage.”
“Yooper?”
“U.P. Yoop. Yooper.” Jules waves his hand. “That’s what the people who live here are called. We aren’t allowed to be considered one, we’re just transplants really, but we can still have the touristy shit.”
“A rite of passage,” Wilson repeats.
“That, and jumping into Lake Superior before playoffs start,” Jules adds.
“That sounds cold ,” I murmur as we enter the shop single file. The young woman behind the counter starts to greet us before her voice slowly trails off and her eyes go big. I’m not sure if it’s just the sheer size of all of us or if she recognizes our faces, but she looks ready to pass out with excitement as her eyes stalk us. “Is that a requirement?”
“Jumping into Superior?” I nod. Jules gives me a pitying look. “Yes. You’re tough. You’ll be fine.”
I flip him off, making him laugh before he darts off toward the back where I can see a ton of scented candles. I roll my eyes but can’t exactly argue against it. His lowkey obsession with scented candles is probably the only reason our apartment is bearable to live in. Hockey players fucking smell.
Twenty minutes later—and the poor checkout girl flushed bright red with three phone numbers in her pocket—we all leave the shop bogged down with stuff like shirts, sweatshirts, novelty socks—yeah, don’t judge, they’re fucking delightful—coffee mugs, hats, a few too many scented candles, and jewelry.
We check out a few more shops, walking around a fishing shop like any of us have enough free time in our current lives to fish, walking around a bike shop that is pretty useless for the next ten months—though apparently there are bikes that can be used in the snow, which sounds like a terrible idea to me, but to each their own—and walking around a thrift store where many ridiculous outfits are photographed. We pass a tattoo shop that Jules says did his latest piece, showing all of us the intricate wolf on his forearm that we all ooh and aah over. There’s an art gallery that we pause at, but Tara vetoes the decision to go inside. She claims we would break something in the first minute. She’s probably right, so we don’t argue.
With a little under a half hour left before we’re due at The Port , we finally find ourselves filtering into Superior Scoops . There are twenty hand-dipped flavors as well as a soft serve machine. It’s an old fashioned place where you have to look into the glass-domed display cases to see what flavors they have, since they’re always rotating. I’m squished between Jules and Tara when my eyes land on a tub of bright blue. Oh, fuck yes.
I’m a cocky son of a bitch as I saunter into The Port with two ice cream cones and a shit-eating grin. I left most of the team behind, not willing to risk my treats melting while I stood around waiting. Hayden and his crew have already commandeered half of the bar, sitting around a bunch of high-top tables pushed together. A few of the guys call out to me as I walk past, one even slapping my ass, but I don’t let myself get distracted. It’s not hard to do. The moment Hayden’s gaze locks onto me, it’s like none of the other guys are even here anymore.
Hayden arches an eyebrow at me when I come to stand beside him. I find myself glad I’m holding two ice cream cones because the strangest urge to reach out and trace the curve of his brow with my finger passes over me. What a weird fucking thing to want to do, what the fuck?
“Blue moon ice cream,” I declare, extending one hand out to him. “They mixed in Oreo with it, but didn’t have any cookie dough. It’s close enough. Taste.”
His gaze flickers to the ice cream in my hand before settling back on my face. “I don’t think you understand which one of us is the bossy one in this friendship.”
Something goes hot in my chest. I ignore it. “You can be bossy once you’ve tasted the wonders of blue moon ice cream.”
“Is that so? Forever?”
I frown at him, trying very hard not to give into the ridiculous urge to pout. “Depends. Are you going to use that bossiness to make me drink cherry juice all the fucking time?”
His smile is a dangerous thing. I don’t know how I know that, or why, or what kind of danger it even is, but the sight of it makes something inside of me roll over instinctually. I feel goosebumps rising beneath my sweatshirt, despite the warmth flooding my system. “You’ll drink cherry juice whenever I tell you to because it’s good for you. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I say without even thinking.
I blink.
He blinks back.
I’m not sure which one of us is more surprised.
It makes sense to call him sir, right? He’s technically staff. He’s like a step below Coach. I should respect him. Even if we’re friends, I still need to respect him. That’s all this is. I mean… what else could it even be?
“Please try it?” I eventually ask, needing to redirect our conversation away from things that have me feeling more confused than I’ve ever felt in my damn life.
His tongue slips between his lips for a quick swipe before he nods. “Since you asked so nicely.”
Our fingers brush for a second as I pass the cone to him. He doesn’t look away from my eyes, even as he brings the treat to his mouth. I try to maintain eye contact, but the moment his tongue darts out to taste the blue ice cream, my eyes are locked onto the show. The heat in my chest is back. So is that instinctual danger warning. The goosebumps never even left.
His eyes flutter closed as he hums in approval. When he pulls the cone away, I see blue smeared on his bottom lip. What would it taste like, if I licked it for him? Would it taste just like the blue moon on my own cone, or would his lip add something else to the mix?
It isn’t until he’s licked his lips clean and told me, “Alright, I’ll admit it. That’s pretty good,” that the realization even hits—I just thought about licking a man’s mouth.
What the hell is happening to me?
It’s the ice cream. It has to be. He’s eating an ice cream flavor he’d teased me about and now I’m basking in the glow of the win. Basking in the glow of sharing something I love with a friend. Basking in the glow of finally feeling like I belong among all these people.
It feels really fucking good, that’s all.
What else could it even be?
Jules and I get along well, both at the arena and at home. In our short time together, he’s come to respect that I’m a weird, too-quiet guy that sleeps a lot and acts like an old man instead of the young rookie I am. At the same time, I’ve come to respect that he’s a total goofball with a big heart and an even bigger personality, who is surprisingly good on the ice despite coming off as a slacker. He’s a good friend, as far as I can call him that. He’s a great roommate.
There’s only one thing that’s managed to wedge itself between us—not girls, not feuds on the ice, not even the fact that he has a habit of losing socks in the car we share until they insist on being found due to their reek.
Grocery shopping.
If Jules and I ever come to blows, it will be over fucking groceries.
I’m reminded of this as I stand in the fruit section of the store with the list he made me in hand. Next to the word watermelon , he has put in parentheses, MAKE SURE IT’S A GOOD ONE THIS TIME!!!
His mini-rant about the previous watermelon I purchased when it was my turn to shop was memorable enough for me to not make the same mistake again. Him feeling like he had to remind me on the list is annoying, but the fact that he decided to trace the letters until they appear bold and then underline them and add three fucking exclamation marks at the end is just downright irritating.
I glare at the list.
Then I glare at the oversized bin of watermelons.
A small part of me wants to pull an asshole move and show up with the worst watermelon I can. The rest of me wants to prove to Jules that I can be a goddamn adult and find a good one. Regardless of what part of me I want to listen to, I probably need to actually know how to tell which is good and which is bad to accomplish either.
I do what any adult would do in such a situation—I call my mom.
She doesn’t answer, which is rude. It’s fair—it’s the middle of the day and she has a job, after all—but like… still rude. Parents should exist for us, right? The audacity.
I consider my dad, but then I remember that he’s more helpless than I am when it comes to all things related to the kitchen.
I don’t know why I call the person I do. Truly, it makes little sense. I’m sure it’s an easy enough question to search online. Yet, I find myself with my phone to my ear, heart strangely in my throat as every ring passes.
He answers with a soft, almost surprised, “ Pope .”
“Hey.” I clear my throat. “Um. So. Adulting question?”
“Adulting? Are you not an adult yourself?”
“Sometimes I question it,” I grumble, feeling just pouty enough to not care if he’ll be able to hear it over the phone.
Hayden laughs. “Alright. Let’s hear it, then.”
“How the fuck do I figure out if a watermelon is good or not?”
“Are you seriously grocery shopping right now?”
“Uh… yes?”
He makes a soft sound, somewhere between incredulous and amused. “Alright, well, you want it to be a darker green, not bright. And it should be heavy. Heavier than it looks.”
I eye the selection before pressing the phone between my cheek and shoulder and grabbing one that looks like it could be a match. It’s definitely the right color and also pretty heavy.
Before I can place it in my carriage, he adds, “You should knock on it, too. Just a gentle knock. If it feels mushy, it’s too ripe. The sound it makes should be deep. It shouldn’t sound empty.”
“Are you fucking with me?” I ask, dropping my voice as a mother walks past me with a little boy by her side. “Are you trying to get me to knock on this so people laugh at me?”
“I can be a dick sometimes, but in this scenario, no. You should really knock.”
I eye the mother, who has now stopped at the bin next to me to eye the cantaloupe. I pretend I’m weighing the watermelon in my hands as I watch her. She sniffs her melon. Straight up sniffs it. Then knocks.
Well, damn.
I knock on mine. Sure enough, it’s nice and deep, like the sound of a puck against the boards.
“Are you struggling or did I lose you?” Hayden asks, his voice full of amusement.
“Shut up.” I put the fruit in my carriage, careful not to let it drop. The last thing I need is to split it open or bruise it or something. Jules will never let me live that shit down. “I found one.”
“Thank the Lord. I’ll be able to sleep tonight knowing you have yourself a good watermelon.”
“Don’t worry about me. I can’t taste the fucking difference. Worry about Jules.”
“Jules?”
I start toward the frozen section, taking the phone back in hand. “According to him, I suck at grocery shopping. I’m trying to prove him wrong.”
“Other than buying bad produce, how exactly can someone even suck at grocery shopping?”
“He’s a picky asshole. I forget to pay attention to brands and shit. And expiration dates. Those get me too.”
He laughs again. I find I don’t mind it, even knowing it’s directed at my adulting failures. It’s a nice laugh. Really nice. Deep and warm, with a little of his rare Southern accent somehow in it despite no words being spoken. “Well, I can’t help you with brands, but I’ll remind you before you checkout to look at all the expiration dates.”
“See? This is why I keep you around.”
“For my advice on shopping?”
“For adulting in general. You’re just so in control.” I focus on my list of groceries, thankful he’s not here to see my face going red. It’s a stupid response. “I just mean, I’m still pretty young, can just barely drink now legally, and Jules has a few years on me, but he’s still immature. Then you’re out here, you know, knowing shit and being all… you .”
“Are you calling me old now?”
I smirk. “I mean, you’re a little old.”
“I could hang up on you, you know. No more advice. No expiration date reminders.”
“Okay, I take it back, you’re wicked young.”
He snorts. “Wicked, huh?”
“Hey, don’t be hating on the guy from Boston. I’m feeling bad enough here.”
“He-yah,” he says, echoing here using my damn accent. I scowl. “Would it make you feel better if I told you I’m having a bottle of Moscato and Oreos for my dinner?”
I huff, turning my attention to the boxes of pasta lined up on the wall. I can’t remember if Jules likes the blue or red kind. “I don’t buy that for a second. You’re way too much of a health nut.”
“Yeah?” There’s some rustling on his end of the line before he says, “Check your texts.”
I toss both the blue and red box into the carriage, figuring I’ll just eat whatever kind Jules doesn’t like, and check my messages. There’s a picture from Hayden. Sure enough, there’s a bottle of Moscato, a glass half-filled with wine, and an entire container of Oreos. I tsk when I bring the phone back to my ear. “I’m judging you.”
“What? I thought this was a judgement-free zone. I was so nice to you about your own misgivings!”
“Dude, you’re eating single -stuffed Oreos. Who the fuck does that? In a world with double- and mega-stuffed, no one should settle for single anymore.”
I can practically hear his eyeroll. “It makes me feel better about myself.”
“You’re having Oreos and wine for dinner. How much better can it really make you feel?”
“Watch it or you’re going to be going home with a full box of tart cherry juice next time I see you.”
“Bold of you to assume I’d drink them.”
“You drank the last one like a good boy, did you not?”
My stomach does something strange, like a flip or a twist. I frown at the list in my hand, glad to see I’m nearly done shopping. I must be hungrier than I thought. “I’m pleading the fifth.”
“I was given evidence, Pope. You provided it yourself.”
“Fuck. Forgot about that.” I sigh dramatically, grabbing a mega box of protein pancake mix from the shelf. “Fine. Yeah. I drank the last one.”
I don’t add like a good boy , but the words tease at the corners of my brain like they want to be let out. My face heats as my stomach does the strange thing again. Yeah, I’m definitely hungry.
“You should actually try drinking some before bed every night. It’s supposed to help with insomnia too.”
“Hey now, I called you as my friend, not as my AT.”
He makes a small noise, almost pleased. “Friend, huh?”
“I mean, you’re a little older than most of my other ones, but you’ll do, I guess.”
“I’m going to make you take so many ice baths for that.”
“But I said it to my friend!”
“I suppose you did. I’ll settle for a warning, then. You’re on thin ice, Pope.”
I grin as I maneuver my carriage toward the self-checkout machines. “Good thing I’m an excellent skater.”
“Yeah, should have seen that one coming,” he grumbles.
“I should let you go anyway. I’ll need both hands to check out.”
“Did you look at all the expiration dates?” he asks.
Shit .
“No. One sec. Milk is good. Eggs. Yogurt. Yeah, good.”
“Bread? Did you check your bread?”
I force a laugh as I pick up the bread, pretending like I hadn’t forgotten that bread could expire. “Of course I checked the bread.”
There’s a brief pause. Then, “You’re checking it now, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I sigh. “What would I do without you?”
He laughs softly, but his voice is surprisingly earnest when he says, “You won’t ever have to find out.”
It should scare me, the thought of that. The thought of never escaping this man who sees me better than anyone in my life so far. It should make me want to run, to push him out of my life, to end this friendship before it gets a chance to truly start.
But it doesn’t. It doesn’t scare me at all.
And that?
That fucking terrifies me.
Enough for me to buy a loaf of bread that Jules informs me upon inspection expired yesterday.