Chapter 15
Grady
“She’s never stood me up before.”
“It’s no big deal. We aren’t stranded.”
“It feels like a big deal.”
“It will be okay,” I say softly, and then, for some stupid reason, I put my hand on top of his on the seat between us in the back of the Uber.
He doesn’t flinch or even blink. I quickly squeeze his hand supportively, but move mine back to my lap.
I’m glad things are good between us again, but I should still rein myself in.
Especially because my crush on Landon has grown insatiable.
I’m like a teenager. I think about him all the time.
My heart swells when I see him and flutters when we touch.
If I had a notebook, I would probably doodle his name on it. It’s bad.
And he’s got a lot going on right now, so I don’t need to add my unrealistic, ridiculous feelings.
Landon and Angie have been fighting the entire time we’ve been away.
After that first phone call about the interior designer, it only got worse.
We hung out a lot this trip. We went to dinner with a bunch of our teammates, and I sneakily paid the entire bill so the guys couldn’t dump it on us and expect Landon to pay it with me.
I wanted to save him from that extra financial ding.
After that, he was much more chill on the ice during practice.
We continued our unspoken rituals on and off the ice with stick taps and nods during games and sitting together on the buses to and from the arenas, watching Netflix together, and eating meals together.
But every time Angie called, and I was around, they fought.
I always tried to give them privacy, after a quick hello to Angie, but Landon and I talked about it afterward.
Angie was miserable in Maine. But Landon, despite his issues at home, seemed to be finding his footing with the team.
He spent all of two shifts on the third line in Boston and the rest of the game on the second line.
In the first official game of the season in Toronto, which sadly we lost, he was on the second line.
I didn’t suck the entire time, but I wasn’t on my game either.
Coach started Michaels in Boston, but put me in halfway through the second, claiming it was standard practice to play both goalies in a pre-season game.
Maybe it was, but Michaels let in one goal—another softie over his shoulder—and I let in two. But the team scored four, so we won.
That first official game of the season, in Toronto, sucked all the balls.
First of all, he started Michaels, which felt like a decision.
Like he’d chosen him as the official starter even if he didn’t actually say that.
But Michaels played like he was made of Swiss cheese.
The first goal happened at one minute and forty-two seconds into the game, and they just kept coming.
I was put in at the start of the second period, but I couldn’t stop the bleeding.
The score was an ego-crushing 7-4. After the game, the coach told me it wasn’t my fault.
The team melted down as a whole. But… if I’ve spent one second on the ice, I always carry the loss on my shoulders.
It was a shitty way to start the season.
Could be worse, though. I could have been ghosted by my lift home from the airport. Well, I guess technically I was because Angela was supposed to be picking up both of us.
The Uber pulls to a stop in front of the cottage, which, other than a light on the porch, is in complete darkness.
Maybe she’s next door at Holden and Winnie’s?
I glance through the back window of the car and see they have lights on.
We both thank the driver, climb out, and grab our suitcases from the trunk.
Landon stares up at the house, his mouth pulled down in a deep frown. “There is no way she’s already in bed.”
“Hey!” The low voice comes from the porch next door, and we look over and find Holden standing up. He’s in a hoodie and jeans. He must have been sitting on the porch swing. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks,” Landon answers for us. “Have you seen Angie? She was supposed to pick us up at the airport.”
Holden’s brow furrows so deeply I can see it in the moonlight from here. “Yeah, Larry drove her to the airport.”
“What?”
“Who is Larry?” I ask even though that’s irrelevant.
“It’s his nickname for me. Don’t ask,” Winnie says, rolling her eyes but smiling as she steps onto the porch. “She said she told you she was heading back to California to tie up some loose ends.”
“She didn’t tell me,” Landon says quietly, and my stomach drops.
“Are you sure?” Winnie asks as Landon stomps up the steps to the cottage, his suitcase clipping each one as he goes. “Did you miss a text while in flight or something? Are you still on airplane mode?”
She wants desperately for this not to be a problem for her nephew. But sadly, it’s just one of many. I follow Landon up the steps. “I’m sure it was just a miscommunication.”
She nods, but she looks as confident as Landon sounds, which is not one bit.
Angie and Landon are in what I would call a death spiral.
I mean, not that I have any experience with long-term relationships.
I’ve had exactly two in my life, one that ended after a threesome that made me realize I was gay and one that was fake from the get-go.
Both of us gay, sick of being asked why we were single or being set up by friends, and both of us unable or unwilling to come out.
So we decided to ‘date’ each other. That lasted sixteen months, four years ago, and my family still asks about Jill.
She’s moved to Rochester, has a wife and two dogs now. She came out.
Landon leaves his suitcase on the porch as he steps into the dark, silent house. I step in behind him, bringing both our suitcases with me, and flip on the overhead light in the living room. He is marching through the dining room and toward the stairs. “Angie!”
There’s desperation in his call, like he’s trying to will her into existence in the house.
Like Winnie is wrong, and he’s desperate to prove it.
I turn, take his keys out of the lock, and when I place them on the hook by the door, that’s when I notice the note on the little desk under the window.
She didn’t put it in an envelope or even fold it so I read it without thinking.
Headed back to L.A. I need some time alone to think. I think we both do. Will call. xx Angie
“Hey, Landon! There’s a note!”
He’s in front of the desk, holding the note two seconds later.
I shove my hands into my pockets and debate what to do.
I can’t tell what he’s thinking from his face.
He seems to be reading it over and over.
Does he need me here, or should I leave?
Slink off to my room and give him some space.
Finally, before I can decide what to do, he folds the note and puts it back on the desk. “This isn’t like her.”
“So call her. Figure it out.”
He mulls over the idea but then shakes his head. “No. She can call,” he says as he storms into the kitchen. “I’m making popcorn and gonna finish that show on Netflix we started.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Can you join, or are you busy?” It’s a casual question, but it makes me happy.
“I’ll join. Just gonna change first and bring my suitcase upstairs.”
“Cool.”
I head upstairs and peel out of my business casual wear, because we don’t have to wear suits on the plane ride home, and throw on a pair of workout shorts and a hoodie.
The weather is crisp in Maine right now.
Not cold enough for pants but cold enough for a hoodie.
When I get back downstairs, I hear the first pops of the popcorn on the stove.
“Can you shake that so it doesn’t burn?” Landon calls from his room.
I head into the kitchen and tend to the popcorn, noticing there’s another small sauce pot with half a stick of butter melting in it.
I guess this is the dude’s version of stress-eating.
The popcorn begins to pop fast and furious, and he’s behind me a minute later, looking over my shoulder.
He reaches around and turns the burner off.
I can feel his shirt brush against my hoodie and instantly wish it was his skin against mine.
“Pops are basically done. Bring it over here.”
He walks over to the counter and reaches up to open a cupboard. “Your favorite chip flavor is salt-n-vinegar, right?”
“Yeah.”
He pulls down a big red plastic bowl from the top shelf.
The movement lifts the bottom hem of the soft gray Quake fleece sweatshirt that he’s changed into.
My eyes zone in on the smooth, tight strip of skin across his lower back.
I would love to touch it. I would have loved to touch it when we were all naked.
I would love to press my palm there and bend him over and…
“You okay?” Landon’s question makes me realize he’s put the bowl on the counter and has turned around, waiting for me to dump the popcorn in it. I fight the urge to blush as he takes the pot from me, our fingers brushing. “Please don’t take her antics as a sign to leave sooner.”
“What? Angie? No. I won’t.” I turn to the fridge as he carefully pours some popcorn from the pot to the bowl, pauses to pour a little bit of butter, then salt, and then repeats the process. “What do you want to drink?”
“Since this is a lot of fat and crap, I will contain my urge to say a root beer and just have water.” He sounds depressed, but that’s probably more about Angie than his diet. “I’m eating my feelings. I can’t afford to drink them too.”
“If you were going to drink them, I recommend tequila, not root beer.”
He chuffs out a laugh. “I don’t drink anymore.”
He puts the butter saucepan in the sink and carries the popcorn into the living room. I carry the drinks. “But you drank the other night.”