Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Remy
It would probably be overly dramatic to say that the first few weeks following Grayson’s departure are the worst of my life, but while I’m living them, it becomes hard to think of a time when I was more miserable. I feel worse than I did after my divorce. Hell, I feel like Grayson and I are going through a damn divorce.
Practice has become a lesson in biting my tongue, as Calgary morphs into a completely different team post-Grayson. It’s painfully evident that Zolkov, Gordon, and I are the only people who miss him—the rest seem to be happier with him gone. The locker room has become a veritable parade of men strolling around naked, apparently far more comfortable showing off skin now that the gay man is no longer in their midst. Jokes are tossed about more carelessly, as well—each one creeping closer to homophobic as though they’re testing the waters.
It’s sickening, and walking into the locker room never fails to make my stomach churn with discomfort. I know it’s not the case, but it feels like every jackass in the league plays for this fucking team and I’m stuck with them. They’ve already started making noise about wanting to offer me a contract extension, but I’m leaning toward turning it down. I’ll take the uncertainty of free agency before I agree to another year playing with Calgary.
The best part of my day is when I talk to Grayson. By some miraculous, unspoken agreement, we’ve called each other every single day since he left. Sometimes we video-chat for hours, while other times we’ve only got a couple of minutes to spare. No matter what though, I hear his voice and it’s enough.
The last time we video-called, Grayson had tentatively asked if I’d met someone. I’d nearly laughed. When I told him no, he wasn’t quick enough to hide the naked relief on his face or the happiness in his voice. Me either , he’d said, and that was the last we’d spoken about it.
But I can’t get the conversation out of my head, nor stop picturing the wariness in Grayson’s blue eyes when he’d asked. He’d told me it wouldn’t be fair for us to keep to our agreement and that I should see other people, but I keep coming back to the expression on his face when we were on the video call. No matter what he told me before he left, it’s clear he doesn’t actually want me to be dating someone new.
Unfortunately, this leaves me in something of a panic spiral. I told Grayson I wasn’t ready for anything beyond a casual relationship and he’s respected that, but that means it’s up to me to make a move if that changes and this is where I’m getting stuck. Am I ready to be in yet another committed relationship so soon after my divorce? Or am I confusing lust with love and getting attached to Grayson simply because he’s new and exciting and different?
Fuck if I know.
My phone buzzes, and speak of the devil, it’s Grayson. My stomach flutters with nervous energy, like a teenager getting a text message from their crush. Not wanting to keep my crush waiting, I open the message.
Grayson
Late practice tonight, can I call you in a couple of hours?
Remy
Sure. We finished early here, so I’m already home. I’m here whenever you’re free. Video call?
Grayson
Definitely.
I leave it at that, knowing he’s too busy for chitchat, but missing him more after that simple exchange. He’s happier in Colorado than he was in Calgary—I could tell days after he’d moved. He’d had nothing but good things to say about management and the team, an excited lilt to his voice as he talked about his first few days of practice.
I’m happy for him and I miss him desperately.
Filled with a nervous energy, I pace my living room and consider going down to the apartment complex gym to burn off some steam on the treadmill. Having just come from practice, though, I don’t think sweat therapy is going to do the job today. I need real therapy, which, in my case, means Alex.
“Remembered me, have you?” He answers the phone with a terse rejoinder, making me smile. I’m already glad I called him. Alex may love giving me a hard time and complaining about my tendency to word vomit on him, but he always has my back and gives good advice. He doesn’t let me get away with any shit, and that’s exactly what I need right now.
“Missed me?” I ask cheerfully, and am treated to a heavy sigh.
“To what do I owe this lovely and unexpected pleasure?”
“I’m fucking lonely,” I tell him, lying down on the floor and stretching my legs up the wall. The sight of my feet has me thinking of the way Grayson fucked me during our all-night sexcapade. Which is not something we need to be thinking of when we’re talking to Alex.
“Well, what are you doing talking to me, then? Go out to a bar or something. Picking people up works the same in Canada as it did in California, Remy.”
“I don’t want to pick anyone up.” I rub my heel against the top of the opposite foot, idly giving myself a few seconds to compose my thoughts. “I just want Grayson.”
Alex is so silent I have to bring the phone away from my ear and check that the call is still connected.
“What ended up happening with you guys? You’ve been pretty radio silent. I’d kind of assumed things burned out.”
I laugh. The idea of things burning out between Grayson and me is absurd. If anything, each time we’re together gets hotter—better than anything before. I want him more now than I did at the beginning.
“Definitely not.”
“So…you’re together?”
“No. We agreed to just keep things casual while we were living and working so closely together, and now Grayson is gone, obviously, and he told me I can see other people. We had an agreement to only be fucking each other before, but now that deal is off after he got traded.”
“Ah, I see. But you’re wanting to continue the exclusivity clause and lock him down, correct?”
“I didn’t say that,” I protest, frowning.
“No, but you did say I want Grayson and then proceeded to whine about your deal being off, so—reading between the lines here—I’d say it’s pretty obvious what you want.”
“Is it?” Maybe for Alex, but it sure as hell isn’t for me. “I don’t want to get married again, Alex. Ever. And I don’t think I’m ready for another serious relationship. I just got divorced. Shouldn’t I wait a year, or something? You told me not to make any crazy life decisions.”
“Right, like buying a Ferrari or getting married to a dancer in Vegas. There’s no timeframe on when you’re allowed to move on after a divorce, Remy, that depends on you. And just because your marriage officially ended on the day you signed the papers, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t over long before that. I think you’re well beyond that year, my friend.”
“I’ve never been this confused in my life. That’s why I’m calling—tell me what to do.”
“Tell Grayson you want to be together. Don’t date other people.”
“I literally just said I don’t want to be in another serious relationship,” I respond hotly.
“Okay, well, then you can’t complain when he eventually moves on to someone who will commit,” Alex says, but is stopped by the aggrieved noise that comes out of me. He laughs. “And, there it is. Aw, look at you getting defensive over your fuck buddy moving on.”
“This was your idea!” I remind him petulantly. “You’re the one who told me to try something new and now look what you’ve done.”
“Right. You were in a weird place—sleeping around because you thought you should and not because you were enjoying it. You needed someone to shove you off track.”
“Well, congratulations, pretty sure you shoved me right back into a relationship.”
Alex laughs. “Remy, buddy, come on. What’s the actual problem here? Are you worried that you’re catching feelings only because he’s a guy and the first you’ve been with? Because that would easily be remedied.”
“I’ve watched so much gay porn since he left. Like, all the gay porn. And the only ones that do anything for me are the ones that feature guys who look a bit like Gray. And then I switch over to hetero porn and nothing. I could be watching a Disney movie for all the action that happens downstairs. Something is seriously wrong with me.”
“Identity crisis.”
“What?”
“You’re having an identity crisis because you fell in love with a guy, but you identify as straight. Which, by the way, I don’t think you ever were, but I digress.”
I feel like he just hit me in the stomach with a baseball bat. My breath whooshes out and I feel a little lightheaded, even though I’ve got my feet elevated above my head.
“I’m not in love with him,” I breathe, voice coming out shaky and not anywhere near as confident as I’d like. Where the fuck did he get love from?
“Okay,” he replies, not sounding like he believes me. “I still don’t see a problem. You like him, he obviously likes you, and both of you are single. Ask him to remain exclusive, and congratulations, Grayson Brody is all yours. ”
“Yeah, maybe.” Starting to feel a little sick, I move my feet to the floor and sit up, turning my back to the wall and tipping my head back against it. “We’ve been talking every day on the phone since he left.”
“Look at that, you’re already boyfriends!”
“Shut up.” I laugh, shaking my head. Alex chuckles softly, but doesn’t say anything else. I let the silence spool out comfortably before adding: “It’s better with Gray. Life, sex, everything. I feel like I’ve been walking around half-blind and he gave me perfect vision. Now I’m wondering how I could have gone so long without noticing what I was missing.”
“Look at you, defying the odds and finding more than an orgasm on a dating app. They should put you in the advertisements.”
“ Download now—you might find out your soulmate is only a bedroom away ,” I joke, still a little floored that the universe converged in a way that made my dating app hookup my roommate and coworker. What are the odds?
“Soulmate, huh?” Alex repeats, a sly undercurrent to his voice.
“Figure of speech.”
“Mm.”
“I told Gray I’m Grayson-sexual, since I don’t feel like I can identify as gay or bi.”
Alex laughs. “I like it. You know there are other choices, though, right? And anyway, don’t stress too much about labels, buddy. You don’t have to force yourself to conform to anything in order to belong.”
“Wow,” I muse. I value his opinions, but he’s not usually so gentle about it. “Thank you. That’s actually exactly what I needed to hear. ”
“Well, that’s why I make the big bucks. Keep your eye on your email—I’ll send you an invoice for today’s session later tonight.”
“Fuck off.” I snort, getting to my feet and walking to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. I check the time on the stove, wanting to give myself ample time to shower before Grayson calls. “I’d better go, though. Gray and I are video-chatting later and I’ve got to shower and set up my mood lighting.”
“Good lord. Better do some pushups right before he calls, too. Make sure all your muscles are popped out. Smear some oil on your chest.”
“Okay, bye, Alex. You’ve been a delight, as always.”
As I usually do after talking to my best friend, I feel a mixture of relief and annoyance. I know I’ve still got quite a bit to think about in regard to Grayson and I, but I also feel like maybe I’m getting closer to figuring myself out. Excitement bubbles in my stomach as I think about the possibility of a more stable future with Grayson. Maybe it’s not something I should be afraid of. Maybe, just maybe, things that seem too good to be true are actually as good as they are meant to be.
I can hear Petterson laughing as we dress. He’s across the locker room from me, joking around with his linemates. I can’t hear what he said that they all find so funny, but I have a sinking feeling in my stomach that I know what it was about. It’s our first regular season game against South Carolina—against Troy Nichols, whom they all seem to hold in especially low regard .
For the millionth time, I think: fuck these assholes .
South Carolina isn’t the most physical of teams, choosing to rely more heavily on skill and raw talent. They’ve got dangerous forward lines and they know how to put pressure on the opposition. During the first ten minutes of play, they put nine shots on net while we’ve only managed one. As expected, instead of rising to their level, my teammates sink to their own.
The game becomes dirtier, and although the officiants catch most of it, they can’t see it all. Troy Nichols is afforded a penalty shot when he’s slashed so violently across the wrist, his stick snaps in half. He scores on the penalty shot, and I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from cursing my teammates. The fucking idiots need to work on playing better and not injuring the opposing team. That’s not the way we should want to win.
The blatant penalties continue, and while South Carolina does their best to play the game their way, by the third period, it’s getting to them. The score is tied at 3–3, and the thought of going into OT has both of us fighting like rabid dogs to put another point on the board.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I complain, popping my mouthguard out and looking up at the Jumbotron to watch the replay of South Carolina’s baby goaltender stopping my shot. It was going to be a perfect backdoor goal—there’s no way that kid stopped it.
Except, he did.
I look over at him and can’t help but laugh at the way he tosses the puck out of his glove with a jaunty little flick of the wrist, eyes on mine behind the cage of his mask. Cocky little fucker .
When the clock has ticked down to only four minutes of play left, we face off in South Carolina’s defensive zone, to the left of Carter Morgan in net. Sanhover wins the draw but Petterson picks the pocket of Monroe and sends Zolkov the puck. He shoots and Morgan saves it, gloving it down. The referees can’t see through the mass of bodies, though, so no whistle is blown and play continues. Petterson, either not seeing or not caring that the goaltender has the puck out of play, charges the net. South Carolina’s defense shoves back, defending their netminder.
Both teams converge in a scrum, heedless of the whistles now being trumpeted. Not having an interest in getting into a fight, I skate over to try and separate some of the guys. Corwin Sanhover appears to be doing the same, trying his level best to get Petterson off of his defensemen. With an arm around my line mate, I watch as Stevenson skates up behind Sanhover and puts an arm across his throat, yanking his head backward violently.
The scrum is getting out of hand now, with gloves and helmets littering the ice and two guys down and wrestling. Out of the corner of my eye I see the South Carolina goaltender skating up, sans helmet. The officiants are all too busy to pay him any mind, and probably weren’t expecting the tenders to get involved anyway. Distracted, I loosen my grip on the pair I’m trying to separate, and watch as Morgan skates up to Stevenson, drops his gloves onto the ice, and throws a punch.
Immediately, Stevenson goes after him, red-faced and pissed. He spits something at Morgan I don’t hear, but it doesn’t matter. A referee puts himself between them and, apparently deciding that Carter Morgan is the more dangerous of the two, pushes him backward and away.
Both teams are awarded penalties for fighting, as well as a pair of 10-minute misconducts. We play three-on-three for half of the final four minutes in the period. I do my best to put a puck in the back of South Carolina’s net, but am stopped at every turn by that damn rookie. I’m almost certain I see him wink at me at one point.
It takes until the last twenty seconds of the game for someone to score—Corwin Sanhover slides the puck between Gordon’s pads and the post in the smoothest wraparound I’ve ever seen. I’d hate him if I wasn’t so impressed. On his way to the bench, Petterson angrily slams his stick against the boards, shattering it.
Zolkov stands silently by my side in the locker room, as he usually does. We’re some of the few people in here who aren’t throwing a fit about the loss. It always sucks to lose, but it was a good game and South Carolina played better. They deserved to win. I nudge Zolkov with my elbow.
“That fucking rookie,” I say, and he shakes his head.
“Lawson will not shut up about him.” Zolkov sighs, picking up his cell phone and scowling down at his text messages. He shows me the screen, which has three notifications from Anthony Lawson. “I am hearing all about him, and will be worse since we lost.”
“Yeah.” I grin. “Good luck with that.”
Z and I stick together until we get to the lobby of our hotel. He stops in front of the elevator bank while I peel off toward the stairwell, like usual. He stops me with a hand on the door, and takes a step away from the elevator.
“You are taking stairs?” he asks, brow furrowed.
“I always take the stairs,” I point out.
“We are on floor twelve,” he replies in the tone of one pointing out the obvious to an idiot.
“Right, but I can’t take the elevator. I’m a little claustrophobic and I just can’t do”—I gesture toward the metal doors—“that.”
Zolkov stares at me, surprised. I wait him out for a few seconds before opening the stairwell door. Instead of turning back to the elevator, he joins me.
“You can take the elevator,” I tell him as he begins to follow me up the first flight of stairs.
“I did not know that you were scared of small things.” I laugh, but don’t bother to correct him. Small things, small spaces—close enough. “I thought you were just fitness man, like Nichols.”
That gets another laugh. Fitness man . I’m going to have to tell Grayson about that one.
“I’m not crazy claustrophobic or anything. It’s just certain things like elevators and even stairwells aren’t super great.” I gesture to the cement walls. “But since I’m able to move in here, it’s mostly okay. Some people get claustrophobic on airplanes, but I do fine with those. I don’t know, I can’t explain it. Just one of those things that sneaks up on you.”
“Interesting,” is all he says back, before we simply climb in silence.
When we get to the twelfth floor, I gesture down the right side of the hallway toward my room. “You want to chill for a bit? Or are you going out with the guys?”
Zolkov makes a disgusted face and says something in Russian that was probably as rude as it sounded. In English, he replies: “No, I am sick of this team tonight. Bed, I think.”
“Me too.” After I talk to Grayson, of course, but Z probably doesn’t need to know that. “Talk to you tomorrow, Z.”
The moment I get into my room, I stretch out on my bed and call Grayson. I don’t quite have it in me to do a video call tonight, but I desperately need to hear his deep, soothing voice. Putting the phone on speaker, I rest it on my chest and wait for him to answer. It rings all the way to the end before he picks up, slightly out of breath.
“Remy? Hey.”
“You good?”
“Yeah, sorry, just getting back home,” he tells me, drawing my attention to the background noises. Closing my eyes, I picture him walking inside, flipping a couple lights on, and kicking off his shoes. He’ll probably go get a glass of water from the kitchen and drink it standing next to the sink, weight on his left hip, like I’ve seen him do dozens of times. It’s possible I watched him a little closely while we were living together.
“From practice?” Colorado is two hours behind South Carolina, but even so—that would be a pretty late practice.
“No, I went out to dinner with Corey and Jake.”
I’m not proud of the way my immediate reaction to this sentence is white-hot, molten jealously. I hate the way he says Corey and Jake—familiar and easy. Fuck off, Corey and Jake.
“Oh, cool,” I say, even though I sort of hope Corey and Jake get salmonella poisoning from the restaurant.
“Remy.” Grayson laughs. “Those are my teammates. We’re just friends. You know Corey Major and Jake Lancaster, right?”
“Not personally, but yeah, I’ve heard of them.” Everyone has heard of them. They’re two of the players who came out as queer on the heels of Troy Nichols’ announcement.
“Well, Corey is in a long-term relationship, and Jake has a girlfriend, so there’s no need to be jealous. ”
“I’m not jealous,” I protest, even though I am 100% fucking jealous.
“Okay.”
“I’m not.”
“So, when I tell you that I was asked out by our bartender at the restaurant, you’re not going to be jealous? You’re going to tell me to go out with him?”
He’s teasing me—there is an unmistakable smile in his voice and a playful tone to the words. Even so, I can’t help the way my throat feels tight and my eyes burn at the thought of him going out with that bartender. Would the bartender touch him? Kiss him goodnight? Would he take him to a steakhouse even though Grayson doesn’t like most red meat? I sort of hope the bartender gets salmonella as well. Maybe E. coli for good measure.
“Of course, you should go. If you want to go out with him, don’t let me hold you back.”
I curse the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. But what the hell else can I say? No, Gray, I want you to not date anyone until I figure out how I want to move forward with our relationship. Maybe I’ll figure it out in a month, maybe in a year, but who knows—that’s okay, right? You don’t mind waiting?
Grayson lets out a small exhalation, like he’s disappointed in me. I’m disappointed in me too, still unsure of where those words even came from and panicked now because I can’t un-say them. I open my mouth to call the words back, but he talks before I get the chance.
“How was the game tonight? Looks like it was close.”
“Yeah. That baby tender is pretty good. Carter Morgan? Kid was on fire tonight. If he plays like that all season, he won’t have any trouble earning the top spot. ”
“Troy thinks so, too,” Grayson agrees. His voice is so soft, I can barely hear him. I want to bring the conversation back to him being asked out by that bartender. I want to tell him not to go out with anyone else, because I think I want to have him to myself. I want to tell him that the thought of him being with another man makes me feel like my chest cavity is too small to contain my heart and lungs.
“Gray, do you think?—”
“I’d better go?—”
Both of us stop and wait for the other to continue. This entire conversation feels…wrong. Like we got off on the wrong foot and haven’t found our way back. A sliver of fear lodges itself in my gut.
“We’ve got an early skate tomorrow morning, so I’d better call it a night,” he continues apologetically. I can’t tell if his tone speaks of exhaustion or sadness, but something tells me it’s the latter. Why the fuck did you tell him you didn’t care if he went out with that bartender, you damn fool?
“All right. Talk tomorrow, though, right?” I ask a little desperately.
“Sure. Talk tomorrow, Remy.”
I feel a little sick to my stomach after we hang up, gut churning uncomfortably. Maybe I should stop thinking about whether or not I’m ready for a relationship and start thinking about how it would feel if Grayson found somebody else. Would it be worth it to me, to have this time as a single man, if at the end of it, Grayson wasn’t there? My head is confused, but my heart is not.
My heart wants Grayson Brody.